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6 min

Hurts so good

Injured in the line of booty

TANGIBLE TROPHIES. On the road to love a few injuries are to be expected. It's how you work them that counts. Credit: Suzy Malik

A renewed interest in cruising is an inevitable consequence of the summer heat, now that cool-weather clothing has yielded to the sway of stylish skirts and those mouthwatering little fishnet stockings girls wear to the bar sometimes. You know, the ones with trashy little holes in them that make you want to put your finger where the flesh is naked and smooth and bend down and put your tongue against the rough net to taste the flesh….

Whoa. Focus. What was I saying? Right. It’s summer. I’m sure you’re thinking about getting laid and, believe me, I’m here to help.

Picking up girls in bars

Bars are a primal cruising environment. I find it a welcome relief from the harsh spotlight of the on-line world. Forget about pet peeves and wacky testimonials. Bars have dim lighting and loud music to blur your feeble attempts to communicate and push you into the unknown.

The key to meeting women in bars is eye contact. No matter how awkward it might seem to you, her and casual observers, just keep looking at her. Pretend your eyes are magnets that will eventually pull her to you; it’s just a matter of time. Don’t blink. Wait it out.

Aha, she’s noticed you and — yes! — she’s coming over. Wait for her to break the ice and talk to you. Soon, your persistence will be rewarded with those all-important first words.

“What the hell are you looking at?” she demands.

As if it isn’t perfectly obvious that I’m looking at her. I love it when women act coy.

The next part I’ll skip over. I mean, I can’t give away all my secrets, but let’s just say it involves massive quantities of alcohol and, voilĂ , I’ve got a date in the second-floor washroom.

We crash into the bathroom stall about as discreetly as you can when it involves pushing past a long lineup of annoyed women waiting to use one of just two toilets. We lock the door and ignore the pounding and cursing.

She pushes me passionately against the wall and straight into the toilet-roll holder, which scrapes my hip hard enough to draw blood.

“Oh, sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay, just push me against the other wall. There’s nothing on that one. Well, except that gum and those odd stains, but nothing sharp and that’s what counts.”

We mince around each other, angling for the right position. “Youch!” “Was that your foot?” “Um, yeah.”

Then she asks me to kneel down and fuck her under her skirt.

“Have you seen what that floor looks like?” I ask. “Couldn’t you stand on the toilet?”

“Have you seen what that toilet seat looks like?” she counters. “You think I want to crouch over that thing?

“Okay, why don’t you lean against the wall? I could fuck you standing up.”

“I should really be horizontal for this. I need to relax my legs if I’m going to come.”

“Well, I don’t think a nice comfy bed is going to materialize. We’re in a fucking toilet stall here.”

“You know,” she says, “now that the music is gone and I can actually hear what you’re saying, I’m not sure I like your tone.”

“Fine. I give up. Let’s get out of here.”

“No, wait. I have to pee and I’m not getting in that lineup.”

I look at the ceiling as she pulls down her underwear. “This isn’t quite how I imagined this working out.”

“Why? Are you new to bars?” she asks.

“No. But somehow the alcohol blocks the learning process.”

As I limp home with my broken foot and bruised thigh, I try to stay positive. Sure, it didn’t quite work out, but a few injuries are to be expected; tangible trophies from the thrill of the chase.

At least now I know why there are so few women’s dance nights in this city. It takes time for everyone to get patched up in emergency rooms and sent home to recover.

Meeting girls at the gym

The next day my limp is so bad that I head to the gym to sit in the whirlpool. I’m hobbling back to my bike after a soak — it’s easier to coast along than it is to walk — and as I’m unlocking it a girl starts talking to me. Pretty soon she’s asking me out for a bike ride. This sounds like an ideal date to me. Not only does cycling smooth over awkward silences, it also allows for a quick getaway if things go horribly wrong.

We meet the next day at the foot of the Don Valley trail.

“Here’s our route,” she tells me. “I do my triathlon training along this bike path, so I know it fairly well.”

“Wow, how far are we going? I’m, uh, not actually in very good shape right now.”

“That’s funny,” she says. “You’re always at the gym and you look so athletic.”

“Exactly. I look athletic. Actually being athletic is a distant second.”

“Now that I think about, I only ever saw you in the whirlpool and showers, never on the actual equipment.”

“I’m a dirty, dirty girl.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got some endurance. How are you going to chase me around the bedroom if you’re all worn out?”

Okay, so the thought of bedrooms is invigorating, but by the time we hit North York I’m convinced that if I don’t get off this bike right now I will never feel my labia again.

She’s interested in me; I can tell by the way she’s looking at me. I have to cut this short, bypass the mating/endurance ritual we’re on and get her stationary. We need some physical contact here, something to make the spark. I reach over to put a friendly yet warm hand on her back. It’ll be just the thing to make her notice me instead of watching the trail.

It works like a charm. She looks over and we trade one of those sexy, wicked, mutual smiles of recognition.

Unfortunately, we’re also riding at top speed.

“Look out!” she says as my front wheel tangles with hers. We both lift off our seats and fly over the handlebars. Airborne, I have a split-second to pray that I’m not going to break both my arms when I land, because it’s still early in the season and that kind of injury can put you out for the duration of it.

Meeting girls in chat rooms

Back at work on Monday, my progress is as slow as a one-handed typist, what with my left arm in a brace. Of course, I can’t think of that term without thinking about on-line chat rooms.

I tried it once with a girlfriend who lived out of town. My passionate encouragement — “I am so close to coming the tension is killing me!” — was much more effective when it came out in complete sentences. Of course, if I had actually been anywhere close to coming it would’ve read something like “I,mo rprkj aperi ncotlkillingme.” Let’s face it, if I’m typing something coherent it’s the other woman who’s doing the coming here. I’m politely pulling her along, wondering how it’s possible to still be a stone butch in cyberspace.

So now I use chat strictly for keeping in touch with my friends while I’m at work and making plans for the weekend. Hey, slidegirl just signed on. I try to remember who that is.

Me: how’s it going?
Her: good. you?
Me: fine. at work. u?
Her: horny.

For a moment I wonder if slidegirl is a 56-year-old weird guy from Kentucky or something. No wait, I remember. We exchanged pics; she’s a manager of a call centre and she’s pretty cute.

Me: horny? not much action lately?
Her: No. I’m stuck at work all week with major overtime. I’m bored. It’s too bad you’re not here.
Me: ha ha. if I was there I’d probably be bored too.
Her: No. You. Wouldn’t. I’d stick you right here under my desk.

From that moment on my computer turns like a kaleidoscope with lust and memos mixed together through the morning. I slide down into the cup of my leatherette chair and wish I had the nerve to stick my hand down my pants. I want her to take me away from deadlines and charts and all this wordy blah blah nothing. Wherever we’re heading, I’m already there.

I keep looking around nervously before turning back to the screen. I feel totally ridiculous, completely vulnerable. But if you’re doing this right you really don’t care. It’s so perfectly in the moment that you really want her to come and you know that she wants the same from you.

So I let it ride, words marching across my screen like horny little black ants scrolling lust, scrolling sit back, let me take it from here, fuck it, just let me fuck you, you know you want to let go.

That’s when I finally come so hard that my legs spasm, kick over my chair and knock over the light next to my desk as I crash to the floor.

I’m lying there in a puddle when my coworkers poke their heads over the cubicle.

“I fell off the chair,” I gasp at the ring of curious faces. “I was leaning back and, uh, it fell over and….” Is anyone believing this? Why is my back sending shooting pains down my leg? It seems I can’t get up, even just enough to close the damn chat window so nobody finds it. Does Workers’ Comp cover this kind of injury? I hope the cute nurse from the emergency room is still on shift when I get in there. Maybe this time I’ll get her phone number.