Night of the Pilots

I am changing names to protect the guilty.

Sally hasn't been out in years and damned if she didn't decide hanging out with me at Fort Myers Beach bars could be fun that particular Saturday night.

She was sipping wine in a low cut sundress telling me about her ex when a drunk guy crawled into the Cottage Bar on hands and knees.

Noting designer sandals and painted toenails at 10 o clock, he lifted his head to find his nose nearly in her cleavage.

Apparently it was lust at first sight. The night was young and so was he.

Drunk ... bright blue eyes, sort of short with big muscles, bigger ego and close cropped blondish hair. Said he was from Minnesota. I asked if he was Finnish and he was like "how'd you know that?" Like I was psychic or something.

In Minnesota or northern Michigan, you just KNOW that with anyone who crawls into a bar.

He was babbling on ad nauseam about being a pilot and wanting us to go to Jimmie B's with him and I was getting really bored. Sally was starting to look irritated, despite the fact that it had been years since she had experienced bad attention. Which is always better than no attention at all.

I was wondering if our pilot had any supervision when the movie star walked in. Holy crap, tall with dark hair, sweet cheeks and kind blue eyes. Yes, they were pilots, yes, they flew a private jet, I won't say which executives they fly for.

Cash and American Express cards were at the ready ... and no, thank God, they weren't scheduled to fly out anytime soon.

He liked me, but that's just ridiculous. The words of rough, grizzled Uncle Buck from VSI ring in my ears ... "I like screwing older women. They're grateful." UB carried photos of nieces and nephews so he could hit on vulerable women at Parents without Partners meetings.

Uncle Buck was a truck expert at the automotive marketing company we worked for. A total piece of work; and a hoot to work with.

So I excused myself from the movie star, tore Sally away from Short Pilot and we headed off to Lani Kai. Deb and the Dynamics were there. So was ... I'll call her Marie.

Marie hasn't had sex in ten years. Every weekend she dances her libido into the sandy floors of the beach bars, where she knows every band and every band member by name. Every bartender, waitress, bouncer ... you name it.

She has a thing for a local guy who's about 10 years younger. He is GORGEOUS. Cougar jokes have been flying, but he has been oblivious to her advances; if you remain silent, you can hear her confidence grinding down the tubes.

Sally sat in a corner and drank at Lani Kai ... Marie danced and I hung between the dance floor and the bar trying to avoid eye contact with two HOTTTTT younger guys. I am not even attracted.

Despite the fact that they were straight out of True Blood ... dark and a little dangerous looking. Like Hungarian gypsies with long hair and brooding eyes.

We shall call them Ponytail and The Lurker.

The Lurker walked up and asked me "who do you worship?" It was a creepy venue for a spiritual question so I ignored him, thinking he must be high.

Ponytail - like Tall Pilot - was ALSO movie star handsome. He had beautiful eyes and a kind face, but he kept violating my space. I got vibes ... sure enough, pony tail is Buddhist. I said "you're light and he's dark" (talking about his brother) and he nodded. The Lurker just stared from the shadows.

I didn't want to get into anything spiritual or talk about psychic phenomenon since that's clearly what they were about; I kept fantasizing about going home to watch Psychic Kids with my dogs. I asked Marie and Sally if they were ready for Jimmy B's and they said YEAH.

So we were off again.

Jimmy B's was humbling after the adventure we had just left. There were maybe two available men - one was our age - tall with giant schnoz and a baseball cap. The other was older and kept touching our arms for attention, like Bodhi when she wants a scrap.

Like Grandma's buddies in the Dementia Ward.

Old Guy was getting on our nerves when I spotted the pilots. I waved them in - and hilarity ensued. Holy crap - drinking and dancing and laughter.

So many times guys our age will blow off women our age in favor of young babes. It was VERY WEIRD to be on the other end of that scenario.

Short Pilot was a wildman, so danced by himself when no one would dance with him. Tall Pilot was still hitting on me but I made it clear I was going home; alone.

Marie was happy to take over. Sally was having a great time ... my friends were safe and happy so I left.

I heard from Marie late the next morning. She told me how many bars Tall Pilot had on his uniform. She said she was afraid to get room service for fear it would be delivered by someone she knew and was terrified driving past her church for fear someone would recognize her car.

It's two weeks later and she still has that smile on her face.

Sally claims nothing happened ... except for having the most fun she's had in many years.

I'm not sure this means my friends have shape-shifted into real-live cougars, but I think it's quite possible. They're out for more this coming Saturday ... and hammering me into compliance.

I prefer vicarious thrills, so expect an update Sunday or Monday.

Never Wear Spangles to a Biker Bar.

It was Saturday. I run a big singles meetup and we had plans ... I actually went to some trouble because we have a new guy who's pretty cute. I wore a long brown skirt and a brown top with spangles.

This was entirely appropriate for a Saturday night at Leapin' Lizard in Cape Coral. I felt girly, which is rare for me.

It was Deb and the Dynamics (photo above) playing in the inside room. At Lani Kai last weekend they were awesome - the music ROCKED the whole hotel right down to the beach and everyone danced, from little kids to old folks.

At Lizards, the inside room sucked. It is claustrophobic, it has too many doors and too narrow doorways, you can't mingle and if you dance it gets hot as hell. It was suffocating.

A small group of us finally gave it up and went outside with our cocktails. We are more than Sexless in the City - we are the GPBP ... "Good People, Bad Places" type. We swear and enjoy rough bars. You'd never know it to look at us. We look "proper".

Looks can be deceiving.

One of the guys misplaced his keys. I won't get into how. But he misplaced them and we had to try to track them down or someone was going to have to help him find a place to stay. I'm never falling for that trick again.

We thought the keys had been left in another member's car, so we walked through Cape Coral around midnight headed for where we thought the guy with the car was - the Deck Bar, a biker bar.

Three females (one Canadian) and two guys.

I can always measure the crowd at a glance. Our Canadian disappeared into the crowd for her first lap round the bar and emerged rosy cheeked and exhilarated ... she had been hit on immediately.

In a situation like that, it's not so much that you got hit on - but who by. I had seen the crowd, there was nobody I wanted to be hit on BY.

She slurringly insisted I had to come in for "at least one." She was one cocktail short of "I love you man."

I flashed back on that morning after yoga. The muscled masseur had asked if I wanted a massage and I said "I'm Finnish - nobody touches me unless they buy me drinks." Which was a joke, but it felt creepy in hindsight.

If a masseur writes children's books, does that make him Dr. Masseuse? :-)

So there at the Deck I made it a Diet Coke and promptly got hit on by a drunk my son's age. He was fascinated by my top. It was a little like that recurring nightmare where you're in class in your underwear.

"What do you call those ..." he waved his meaty forefinger in little circles too close to my cleavage ... "spangles!?"

Yeah, spangles. Close enough. So sorry I wore that top.

The Canadian was making nice with the owner, who reminded me of the state senator I used to date. I'm going to have a little chat with her later ... or supervise her the next time she drinks.

Anyhoo, it totally sucked from that point on. The Spangles guy kept repeating himself ... that circle talking just wears me out. Being from Michigan, I must be polite at all times.

I especially hate being the only totally sober one. I gave everyone a hug goodbye and split ... those effin spangles bouncing and glittering through the darkness all the way back to my car - which was still at Lizards.

I decided to close off the weekend with a gentler day on Sunday.

I went to Tim's Place on Hurricane Bay. It had been a while. It started off ok ... nice day. Dolphins were out in the bay hunting ... I thought I saw a shark fin. Sharks gotta eat too.

Two women sat down next to me. One was adorable, red hair, perky nose, cute figure, a little younger than me. Her hair was up and there were flakes the size of Special K at the nape of her neck.

I moved my wine as far away as I could and tried not to gack.

Two girlfriends showed up and we sat at the other end of the bar. A big pasty red haired Irishman came over and invited "us" to his side of the bar. He had an eye on me. I said maybe in a bit. I love foreigners; even if they're drinking.

Apparently he was on the cusp of hammered when he braved the trip across the room, because in a short time he was TOTALLY blottoed and he had found a similarly blottoed pleasantly plump young brunette to dance with him.

He was dancing dramatic as a rock legend with a full stadium, dropping to one knee with arms outstretched as the rock (this was the Gecko Band) reached a fever pitch. The brunette mimicked him and they missed each other by four beats on every move.

He reminded me of my ex BF. Remembering many similarly steamy, humiliating afternoons with him being stupid drunk, I turned and told my friends "at least I'm not going with that one."

At one point he picked the brunette up and ... sure enough, they toppled over into the edge of the bar and empty barstools fell like dominoes. Another patron helped her back to her feet because the Irishman could barely right himself.

I was laughing so hard I nearly peed.

The bruised knees, asses and egos weren't enough to make them stop - they picked themselves up and continued. A few more missed swirls and the Irishman nearly took out the band's surly sound guy.

Then he dropped to his knees and planted his lips on her round belly - again, with arms grandly to his sides. Like he was blowing on her belly button under her white t-shirt. I was half expecting her to inflate.

What the ... ?? They held the position for a good (that's a stretch) sixty seconds.

My own belly cramping from laughter, I turned to my friend Kayla and said - "I have come to a conclusion ...

Florida is a freak show!!!"