True story | Nightclubs | San Francisco | Dancing

Invitation to a Threesome

Should you wish to read this story, it is NOT clickbait. But a true story

The nightclub, upon entering, had that sleazy feel to it, literally; the beer mats were stuck to the bar. On the small, dimly lit stage, a comedian wearing a tacky suit with long sideburns and ridiculous sunglasses told jokes that choked in front of the patrons.

I thought I was having a drink in Purgatory — that’s a drinking establishment mid-way between Heaven and Hell. I swear, there should have been a neon sign on the outside wall proclaiming this to be the In-between Lounge, where the good and bad guys come to drink and forget their troubles.

Looking around, it’s a mixed bunch: salesmen, bankers, alter-boys, old and young, and angels that don’t look anything close to being angelic. There were ruffians and several other scary characters, all drinking, smoking, and cavorting with hot, non-angelic women who wore nothing more than what looked like a curtain of beads.

The comedian, I hesitate to call him that, tapped the microphone and introduced a group of young men. These weirdos comprised a band consisting of a drummer, a man with a guitar, and a pianist. Pete, the guitar guy and vocalist, most caught my attention. He was wearing a small pair of fluffy wings on his back and a halo attached to his baseball cap.

The name on the front of his T-shirt reads Pete. Lest I assume, he should forget who he is after a few more snorts of coke. Dressed like he is, he’d be better suited to the name Gabriel. All that being said, the band was called The Demons. Go figure.

Surprisingly, the woman behind the bar was modestly dressed, with just her breasts bared. She’d probably be in her mid-fifties, not unattractive. I think I could make a case for assuming she had all the qualities of a socialite.

Pete performed a drum roll and then smacked the cymbals. The Demon fans cheered and clapped. Tony, the pianist, puffed away on his cigarette.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” the busty woman behind the bar said, pulling my second pint.

“Does that mean you know everyone in here?” I said.

My eyes felt like they were aching to drop away from keeping eye contact, wanting to gaze upon her sumptuous, if implanted, breasts.

Then, my discipline was shot.

“Sorry,” I said. Admitting I had no self-control over what my eyes preferred to stare upon.

“That’s why these puppies are out; don’t be shy,” she said. And shrugged her shoulders in a manner that had those globes bouncing.

“So,” I said, looking around, “you know everyone here?” Returning to the question

“It’s always the regulars. Quite rare these days to have a new face at the bar,” she answered.

I don’t recall how or why I chose a nightclub called Little Darlings. I think it just looked dirty enough to fit my mood.

The barmaid moved down the bar to a guy, obviously a biker, complete with a wiry full beard and tattoos, who, like me, couldn’t find the discipline to look at anything above her neck.

After the Demons finished their second number, the comedian reappeared, tapped his mic, and introduced the next act.

“Now, for your undiluted pleasure, please welcome Misty.” He stepped back from the mic, holding his arm out toward the side of the stage.

There was an awakening in the seedy dark, even applause. The girl, who appeared on stage under a spotlight, looked in her twenties.

“Another for you?” The barmaid asked.

I was caught gawking at the spectacularly naked girl on the stage.

“Well, why not? I’m not driving, and my hotel is close by.

She pulled another pint.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“What makes such a beautiful girl take up that occupation?” I said, slanting my head toward the stage.

“She followed in her mother’s footsteps. It pays well. It’s an honest business. Not for everyone,” she said and slipped away to serve a guy who looked, in every aspect, homeless but was probably downplaying his wealth. This is San Francisco, after all.

The biker had already moved from his spot at the bar to a better vantage point. I stayed on my barstool.

I was the only guy sitting at the bar for the next fifteen minutes.

“You didn’t come in to enjoy Misty?” The barmaid said.

“I don’t know why I came. My wife left today, heading back to Europe. I was meeting with a friend early the next morning if the weather was good. I just needed something, and that something was a drink. I took a walk from the hotel, and well, here is where I stopped.”

“That’s a Ted Baker shirt you’re wearing, right?” She asked.

My eyes were making the most extraordinary effort to keep eye contact.

“It is,” I said. Her remark surprised me. What else does she know?

A gallon of beer into the night, I didn’t care how bloated I felt. At this point, I was missing my Jenny.

I assumed the woman behind the bar had years of experience, knowing something about all kinds of men. There was no doubt that her face must have been quite beautiful when she was young. Today, her long hair hides the scars of a facelift that show when she holds it back and then lets it go.

“I imagine there’s not much you don’t know about men,” I said.

“There are only two types of men, honey,” she answered.

I wasn’t drunk enough to chase which category I would fit into. A shout saved me.

“Mom, get me a Diet Coke, please.”

It was the girl from the stage, wrapped in a robe. I assumed she was naked underneath. Hell, I’ve been talking to her mother all this time.

The daughter looked spectacularly beautiful. A moment later, she tied an apron over her robe and went to the other side of the bar. I smiled and looked at the barmaid. She smiled back. We both understood what the other was thinking.

The comedian was failing badly. It takes a specific type of person to want to get on stage or camera and be the center of attention. I have met many entertainers, from the obscure to the known to the world-famous. I believe the desire to get on stage and be worshiped by a crowd comes from an unhealthy place. Perhaps they came from a broken home. Or were brutally bullied while in school.

The young barmaid stood directly across from me as I emptied my glass.

My discipline and good manners came to the fore.

“You don’t like them?” She asked, looking down at her cleavage.

I wasn’t going there, either.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“My professional name or my real name.”

Just then, the comedian introduced the band for their second appearance, no better than the first. It was too loud to converse for the next fifteen minutes.

“…and now for the star of the show. Please welcome back, Misty.”

There was applause, some whistling, and impolite calling. When I turned back, the girl was gone.

Misty stepped out onto the stage. For some reason, I didn’t want to see everything of her nakedness. I turned back to the bar and sipped at my beer. I didn’t look back to the stage for another fifteen minutes. After the show, a few guys returned to the bar, most drunk.

“You can sit on my face any day of the week,” a guy called out.

Misty’s mother was busy pouring beers farther along the bar. She didn’t hesitate to answer the guy.

“I’ll be sure to let you know next time I want to take a shit,” she called back.

I wondered if each day this mother and daughter act comes to work, they have dreams of plans to escape the hospitality industry. Ironically, while these people were constantly hatching plans to leave this place. In contrast, I sought refuge in this little community of sordid dreamers.

The young girl returned to the bar, fully clothed, still with cleavage on display. When she came to refill my glass, she said.

“I don’t have a body worthy of your glances,” she said, pulling my beer.

Beer has always enabled me to shed embarrassment.

“Not at all; I think you’re stunningly attractive.”

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Real name or my professional one?”

“Touché!” She said, placing my beer on the bar.

“I’m Harry.”

She reached across the bar, offering her hand. “Louise,” she said.

The vulnerable moments make me uncomfortable. I like banter; I can hide behind that. Maybe that’s why I have always avoided eye contact.

“Whatever you do, it’s hard,” she said.

I wondered why she would assume such a thing, but she went on… “It always puts me off when a guy’s hands are softer than mine.”

My version of flirting probably came off as a little sloppy.

“I cannot imagine rough hands over your body,” I said. Then tried to choke those words back.

“Most men have deal breakers when it comes to the opposite sex: conflict of religion, bad breath, or black hair. For me, if they don’t drink, they’re outta here!” She said. “You live for adventure. You’re one with too much curiosity, and I must admit, you probably have a lot of charm,” she said.

Louise looked at the clock behind her, then rang a bell. “Let’s have everyone out of here, please.”

Thank heavens, I only have a quarter mile to walk, stumble, or fall asleep in a doorway.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Louise,” and pulled out my wallet to pay my tab.

“Thanks, Harry, she said; then, “is that a golf membership for the Olympic Club I saw in your wallet?”

“Yes. My mate Steve and I are playing tomorrow morning. Do you want to join us for a threesome?”

And that was it, that was the invitation.

“What time?” she asked.

“7:00 am; the light is just coming up.”

“I’ll be there,” Louise said.

Note for Gentlemen: The message in this story is always to keep your clubs in the car and your penis in your pants.

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