One-Night Stan Redux

So I ran into this guy over the weekend – as you may recall, I had made the fatal error of spending the night and had had about the same warm reception the next morning as when one finds an errant poo in the can. No business cards, phone numbers or warm wishes were exchanged – just a GTFO. Which I did.

Running into One Night Stan again isn’t that extraordinary, considering I’m the ding-dong who found a guy right in my own backyard (note to self: don’t shit where you eat. Yes, more scatalogical humor.) And I was at the same dive bar I’m usually at, and where I had met him (again, Ariel, this time with feeling: DON’T SHIT WHERE YOU EAT.) He saw me first; I believe I was doing my rendition of the Running Man when he walked over, arms outstretched: “Ariel!” Like we were old college buddies at a reunion. Flummoxed, I did the same. I mean, what else do you do? Dude’s seen you naked. No point in formal reintroductions. It was…him. I think? Yeah, it was him. Pretty sure. And he was loaded.

I’ll cut to the chase: One-Night Stan did not morph into Fuck-Buddy Frank. He could’ve, I guess, if I had been more intoxicated and less discriminating. And I had no designs on revenge or punishment, either – what’s the bloody point? That would mean I actually cared. And that’s way too much psychic energy that I’d rather put towards mental hexes on all things Kardashian.

Like I said, homeboy was LOAD-ED. He was like a pinball, bouncing off of various buddies, patrons and a couple of possibly underage girls before he would come to rest somewhere between my chin and my boobs and exclaim, “when we gonna see each other again?!? We’re NEIGHBORS! For ChrisSAKES. Lemme get your number.” His bloodshot eyes would register soulful longing for an instant, and then he was off again, slapping a random ass and toasting the pool cue rack. Circle back, stare intently into my eyes, “I. Have. To. See. You. Again.” then stumble off to the can.

He eventually vanished in a haze of cigarette smoke and Yager bombs. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, just like Groundhog Day, the alcoholic version.
(Oh yeah, forgot to mention: he did buy me a PBR. S’good guy.)

Leave a Reply