He began circling like a vulture. His eyes were wide open and his mind alert; looking, waiting, praying and preying like only the religious can. And he needed a miracle in this crowd. These dames were way out of his league, what with the degrees, the money, the jobs, and the morals. But maybe, just maybe, he had god on his side or, in his pocket. No one needed to know he kept a small bible next to his condom, unless of course he thought he could score one of these Christian broads with such factoids. Cleanliness is next to godliness he could hear himself saying to some religious chick with a small streak of irreverence with a dash of verisimilitude. He knew many were phonies but that wasn’t the point at all. The point was to get some…by hook or crook or god or jesus or buddah or booze, or weed or feigning whatever needed feigned.
His head on a swivel, he scanned the room looking for the right combination of nice enough body and drink-in-hand posture to suggest scorability. He remembered Eddie Muprhy in 48 Hours when he said “look, if I don’t get some trim, I’m gon’ bust,” and how it worked…in the movie. He didn’t think he could be that forward but some reasonable facsimile thereof might work on the right one. “Do something, even if it is wrong” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Hi, how are you doing…(glance at namecard)…Meghan?” He noticed before she even got a word out that her eyes darted away for a millisecond, as if looking for help. She said something very polite but he knew before she ended the sentence that she was a no go. So he meandered through another minute and created a sultry escape hatch near the shrimp, where another candidate was standing in red heels and red dress and probably a glass of chardonnay.
Different broad, different tact. He hoisted some shrimp and cocktail sauce to his mouth and smiled at the lady in red and just in the act of biting said crustacean, promptly spilled some of the tasty treat right into her cleavage. This created quite a scene. “Oh my gosh I’m sorry,” he said as bodies backed away from the activity while eyes closed in. “I guess the lord works in mysterious ways…(glance at namecard)…Woody. Wait, is Woody your name?” “It’s not Bathsheeba sugar. Would you mind getting me a napkin…(glance at namecard)… Lance?” Lance, what a terrible fake name he thought, phallic though it may be. He hustled and felt glorious to hand this bombshell in red what she needed. He snickered as he thought to himself that he knows exactly what she needs. “Yes, the lord does work in mysterious Lance, how else can we explain cocktail sauce between my 34 c’s?” Those words, those intoxicating words: “cock” and “34 c’s”…might as well have been the ten commandments. “Woody, allow me to make it up to you, allow me to rectify the cocktail sauce between your 34’cs, allow me to atone for the sin of sauce between the sheets if you will, and I know you will Woody.” By this time the crowd had dispersed and he had free reign to feign whatever needed feigning. “I was thinking tang in the tarps there Lance but pre tell, how might you atone for such a diabolical act of soiling my pretty dress and boobs with horseradish and ketchup?” He was in. He knew it like he knew 2+2=4.
But where did the half-bitten shrimp go?