A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – Ch 2

Chapter 2 – The Racetrack – Horse Racing and Hookers

First stop on the “night of my life” was the racetrack.  No I am NOT joking.  Barry parks the car, says “let’s go” and promptly exits the car.  Apparently, he thinks that I know the “secret plan” or that I am a pet, because he looks back at me with the “aren’t you coming” expression before heading straight for the betting counter.  I debate for a minute about whether or not the parking lot of the racetrack is safer than the racetrack itself and opt to reluctantly follow Barry.  I walk in and catch up to Barry as all eyes turn to look at me.  Normally, bringing the room to a halt and having everyone stare at you might be a good thing, in this case it’s just super creepy.  It’s not just because I am truly overdressed for the racetrack, or that I am the youngest person by decades (next to Barry) but simply because I definitely do not belong here.  I look like a kindergartener in a crack den.  Do you know who is at the racetrack on a Saturday night?  Compulsive gamblers, degenerates and hookers.  After our date was over I realized that Barry fit into the first two categories and possibly the third (I can’t be sure).

After Barry places a bet, he then proceeds to get a drink.  He wants to buy me a drink but the bartender asks for my ID and I remind Barry that I am 19.  A fact which will escape him many times before this date is over.  He looks at me with a mix of disgust and irritation and walks over to the track to watch the race.  I follow behind him, because I am too scared to be alone in this place which is one step above hell.  When I catch up to him my Latin temper has finally emerged and I say, “What in the hell are we doing at the racetrack?”  To which Barry replies, “watching the races, what are you stupid?”

God was rolling his eyes at me at that moment.  God – “Hello!  Can I make it any more obvious to you that this guy is a complete putz?  Run, don’t walk to the nearest exit!”

Now, I am fully aware that when God speaks to you, you should listen but given that I had no way to get a hold of someone, no money, and am far away from home, it looked like I was stuck with Barry and all the other degenerates at the race track.  After the race, in which Barry loses the money that he bet, he decides that he needs to go to the bathroom.  Which leaves me standing there waiting for him and being propositioned for a different kind of “date” by at least 5 men.  I finally shout, ” I am not a hooker!” and they leave me alone.  We end up watching two races, Barry loses more money and buys two more drinks.  Actually he tries to get me to buy him drinks but as I remind him AGAIN, I am only 19 and can’t buy him drinks.  He is pissed.

So now I’ve gone from irritated and scared to panicked because Barry is angry, semi-tipsy and behind the wheel.   He tells me that he has to make a stop before we head to San Francisco, so we get back into the car and he takes off again.  I am sitting next to him wondering  if:  a) I am going to live through this experience, b) if the next stop is robbing a bank,  c) if I will ever be able to wash the stench of human despair off of my cute summer dress.

tune in tomorrow for – An Orgy

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist

 

Chapter 1  – A Guy Named Barry

The Batty Broad no longer has to date (THANK GOD) as I am married to the wonderful TM (The Man).  Actually I was really not much of a casual “dater” but for a very brief and not so shining moment, I thought I would give the whole dating scene the old college try.  The idea of casual dating just seems too impartial to me.  Either we like each other and want to see where this is headed or  we don’t.  I would probably be a lonely old hag in today’s dating world as “dating”, aka “hooking up” is basically like the fast food of relationships.  Um, yeah I will take a blow job, with a side of that  cute semi-drunk girl, and can I get that to go?  

My actual aversion to dating can be directly linked back to a moment when I decided to go on a date with a guy named Barry.  My date with Barry was, well epic. 

It all started at a restaurant called “Fat Fanny’s”.  Which was probably an omen unto itself.  I worked there as a waitress/cocktail waitress while I was putting myself through college.  It was the mid -80′s and one of the restaurant crazes at the time was to dress up in costumes.  Just chalk that up to all the other bad fashion decisions of the 80′s – stirrup pants (shudder).  In this particular restaurant we were allowed to make up our own costumes so most of us dressed like some incarnation of Madonna on a regular basis.  While I was working at Fat Fanny’s I happened to meet Barry.  Barry and his group of friends came in about once a week to eat and drink and harass me.  Barry was a good looking guy (he looked like 70′s icon Andy Gibb) but he also knew he was a good looking guy and not really my type.  He would insist on sitting in my section and then flirt/harass me and always ask me out.  I really wasn’t interested and I was tired of him asking, so I thought I would go out with him and then maybe he would leave me alone  – yes, I was 19 and didn’t know anything about men.  We arranged for him to pick me up on Saturday night and he would “show me a good time”.  Just for the record – when someone says that to you, ask them for specifics - preferably in writing.

Saturday night rolled around and not knowing where the “good time” was going to take me, I put on my favorite summer dress and red pumps and then waited for Barry.  Barry was late.  Which is a big no-no with the Batty Broad.  My ex-boyfriends can attest to the fact that I wait around for no one.  But since I didn’t have his phone number and this was waaaay before cell phones, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  He showed up 20 minutes late.  I should have told him to go home and try again another day but no, I broke my next rule and got in the car with him anyway.  

Barry rolled up in this black T-top Trans Am, wearing jeans and a white leather jacket.  I think God himself was actually trying to warn me at this point.  As we are pulling away from the curb, Barry looks over at me and says, “Are you ready for the night of your life”?  I should have jumped out of the moving car right then.  I’m fairly certain it would have been less painful then the next 14 hours.  

tune in tomorrow for – The Racetrack