Thirteen days ago, I marked my thirtysomethingth birthday. To celebrate, Hubby took me to dinner at this amazing new Latin restaurant in town, where I had the best flan I think I have ever eaten. After we got home from dinner, he gave me my presents and a few other things a girl generally wants on her birthday (or any other day for that matter, but that's a whole other story).
Anyway -- since one night of fun is never enough and to get to my original point -- my girlfriends and I planned a little soiree to continue the celebrating a couple of night later. And since there is nothing like a little eye candy to get a party started . . . about 7 of my friends and I went out to a local club for some drinks, some dancing, and some old fashioned flirting (I may have been married for - like - ever, but I like to look as much as the next girl and I like to dance more than most, and a little harmless flirting never did anything but get me free drinks). We chose this particular club based on past experience - it usually has good music and an even better scene. While I could do without the bimbette bartenders dancing on the bars with their asses hanging out of their excuses for pants, the place is usually filled with a pretty mixed bunch of folks, including some who are obviously older than me (which, let's be honest, is why I like the joint -- who wants to be the old bitch in the club?). And, more importantly, always present have been massive quantities of well groomed, and equally well dressed male hotties who are generally decent dancers and not afraid to buy a girl a drink (and who are generally too young for me, even if I weren't married, but that's besides the point).
So there I was, dressed to impress and looking hot as shit if I do say so myself (I had just dropped another pants size so my ego was at its apex). I pay my cover charge, saunter over to what we like to call "the starter bar" and order a Stoli Vanilla and Diet Coke from the first bartender whose attention I can get, which is never easy cause they are ALL girls, who could give a fuck about what other girls might want to drink, yours truly included, even though it would be worth their while to pay fucking attention because I have a problem with over-tipping. But I digress...
The eight of us climb the 20 or so stairs to the main club area, flickers of expectation dancing in our eyes. Will it be as good as the last time? Better? Surely the birthday gods will shine on me. . .
We enter the main room...
And what to my wondering eyes did appear?
Not a single piece of eye candy in the joint. Not one. You'd have thought ugly and out of shape was the new in thing to be. Hell -- the dude begging money in the parking lot looked better than most of the guys we saw in the horror show that was before our eyes.
But it was relatively early yet so we figured we'd do a birthday shot and keep our fingers crossed for the latecomers. But, two hours and
It was a really depressing and sad state of affairs. And a waste of some really hot jeans. I might as well have been at a gay club. At least there I would have been guaranteed something good to look at. I hope. If the gays clubs ever become a haven for unattractive and out of shape guys, I will know a true crisis is upon us. For now, I can't help but think that either (1) all the hotties are serving in Iraq or Afghanistan (which is a crisis on a whole other level) or (2) all the hotties, who, let's face it, spend just as much time on their appearance as girls do these day, finally said the hell with metrosexuality and took the plunge into full on homosexuality. No? Then maybe you can tell me where have all the hotties gone. I'd love to know.