Yesterday after work I entered the third ring of DC social scene hell otherwise known as the Cinco de Mayo eve party at the sounds-like-a-gay-bar-but-surprisingly-isn't Rumors on the corner of 19th/M.
I should preface this by saying my presence at this establishment was not of my own volition but rather borne out of guilt for saying "Sorry, I think I'm just gonna watch MSNBC and order Thai tonight" for 50 consecutive Fridays to my painstakingly perseverant friends.
Before I even reached the intersection, even without my glasses, I could already see the $4 straw sombreros and the sea of red Dixie cups. I could also already hear the frat-talk and smell the cocktail of cheap tequila, jalapeno poppers and the need-to-find-a-spouse-before-I'm-30 desperation wafting above and into rush hour traffic.
"Jesus, P, why this place? Why today?" I whispered aloud to myself, clicking quickly away from "Pieces Don't Fit Here Anymore" to "Love Today" in an attempt to invent inside me a happy swell that might translate into an I'm-not-completely-grossed-out-to-be-here look.
I wasn't successful.
"What's with the sourpuss, pretty pussycat?" a curiously sweaty (it was in the low 60s), buzzcutted oaf in an ill-fitted pinstriped suit threw my way while playfully but not really playfully blocking my path with his used-to-play-football-but-now-just-talks-about-how-he-used-to-play-football 40-inch circumference from the restaurant to the shipdeck-like balcony where I could see P and R were already sitting, double-fisting tequila shots and wearing show-me-your-boobs! beads atop their professional knits.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm just not gonna answer that, okay? Not really in the mood tonight." I whipped back a little more curtly that I'd intended.
"Whoah, okay, I get it, you're that kind of girl. You don't wanna talk to anybody because you're just sooo..."
"Walking away now..." I said, sucking in my tummy and slipping through the two-inch crevice between his fat ass and another similarly shaped gentleman wearing a "Be Cinco de Mine-o!" muscle tee.
"You came! Yay!" P and R cheered in unison, their joyousness genuine but likely enhanced by whatever had been in the empty half-dozen plastic cups now lying tipped-over on the dark green waterproofed table.
So there we sat for a good long while, until the sun set, they drinking the spirits of the occasion and I nursing my one Miller Lite.
As we were in full catching-up swing, the same guy from before - the "you're that kind of girl" guy - barrels up to our table, trips right before reaching me and actually falls into my shoulder with his simian paws. Without apologizing for his behavior (why would he, after all?), still leaning painfully hard into my size 2 upper body with all his XXL-ness, he opened his mouth and slurred, "Hey, um, my buddy over there (points to said buddy sitting across the deck) wanted to know, um, if maybe you needed someone to give you anal, so you're not so fucking stuck-up."
"Yeah, we thought maybe, um, you should let one of us try and, you know, get..."
"I heard you, and you really need to get your hand off my favorite shirt (using a napkin as a buffer, I helped him rather forcefully do just that) and to take all two tons of your ass and walk away from our table."
Without looking behind me to see him lumber off, I could hear he and his buddy say something that included "dude" "bitch" and "no shit," followed by a high five slap and a celebratory stein clink.
"I'm gonna go," I announced, interrupting the stunned minute or so of hovering silence, "It's been fun, really, but I'm gonna go."
"Are you sure?" R sheepishly asked, knowing full-well my mind was made up.
"Guys, I love you to death, but honestly, I would rather be at mile 19 without an anti-inflammatory than stay here any longer. I tried, I did, but..."
"We know, it's not your scene."
"Yeah, it's not my scene."
And with that, I made my first and final exit from Rumors.