The Great Proposition

I was propositioned by a prostitute last night while waiting in line for drinks at the Metallica concert.

Its alright, I can see that you’re going to need a few moments to yourself - so give it some time to sink in; and try not to think about too many things at once. When you’ve collected yourself, please, do read on...

When I say “propositioned” – we didn’t talk specifics or pricing, but the offer was out there. And I do mean – RIGHT THERE. Apparently leather tube tops have reached some level of popularity in this young woman’s neighborhood, so the vast majority of her transactional assets were in plain sight.

Once I realized what was going on my initial response was to get very sweaty and stare – both of which I did in short order. She must have taken my glazed gape for genuine interest, because she immediately followed her initial introduction with:

“I’m a model. Do you like models? I just saw a beautiful blonde in the restroom. I do model searches for my boss in Florida. This girl was hot. I mean super hot. Dumb though. Really dumb. Do you like hot girls like me? The last time I saw Metallica was 11 years ago in Irvine, Ca.”

This was entirely more information than I was prepared to process, but having never been engaged in conversation by a buxom special-friend-for-pay, I automatically reverted to my default setting - extreme politeness.

“Wow. That’s a long way off.” I said, brilliantly.

A tense frown shadowed her features as she said:
“What?? What do you mean?

“Errrr. Ahhhh. Ahem. I mean – California. You know. It ain’t real close.”

“Oh!” She said, visibly relaxing.
“I thought you meant I’m old. I’m a bit sensitive about my age.”

“Ah.” I said, wittily.

Then, remarkably, and without so much as a by-your-leave; she pressed her buns up against my left leg and, with a sort of shake-shimmy maneuver I could never hope to duplicate, turned and smooshed her rather large bosom against my arm - fairly vacuuming my elbow deep into the recess of her ample cleavage.

Ladies and gentlemen: I was well and truly stuck, but let us draw the curtain of decency around this scene for a moment and step back, together, for a look at the situation as a whole.

I’m at a METALLICA concert. The line for the men’s urinals is 10 minutes long. There is no line for the women’s bathroom. Do you know why? Because women mostly do not go to Metallica concerts.

Having never been to a Metallica concert before it didn’t begin to dawn on me exactly how different this experience would be until, upon arrival, Matt took one look at me, said “Nice pink shirt” and snickered derisively into his cheap beer.

My first reaction was a defensive “Hey! I wore this to church this morning! What’s wrong with it?” but, having been subjected to clothing ridicule by the arrogantly shabby Matt Dunn before, I smiled sweetly and made a mental note to break a knob off his car stereo later rather than engage in debate.

We walked along for a bit; then, just before we turned the corner to Phillips, I got an email from Matt’s wife, Leslie, on my blackberry as follows:

“Hey. You wore a salmon-colored polo to a Metallica concert? What’s wrong with you!?”

Apparently news travels fast.

Just then, we turned the last corner; Phillips Arena spread out before us, and we were greeted by a unique spectacle - a seething horde of humanity clad in nothing but solid black; man, woman, and child.

I looked like a big stupid bag of cotton candy.

So, back to our tube-topped friend of dubious virtue: there I am – salmon-clad and standing in a very crowded bar during a Metallica concert, and I’m being aggressively rubbed-up-on by a gratuitously-endowed, attractive young woman in a leather skirt.

I glance about me, briefly, and realize: she is literally the only woman in here, and every black-clad knight of Satan’s army is staring directly at us, or rather: her.

Oblivious to my discomfort, she began to absentmindedly rub her bosoms on me and continued: “Yeah. Really. I’m sensitive about my age lately for some reason.” I heard her say from somewhere off in the distance.

“Err. Well, how old are you exactly” I heard myself respond, nervously shuffling my feet.

“Well I’m in my thirties” She said.

“WOW!” I said at this new revelation, not knowing what to else to say, but wanting to at least appear cheerful.

A frown once again shadowed her brow and she returned with: “Hey. I said I was sensitive about my age.”

At that she abruptly turned and stalked off to the other end of the bar, hams swaying luxuriously in her wake. The last I saw of her she was cutting through the sea of humanity like a voluptuous, fleshy barge; buxom prow parting the all-male crowd which receded reverently about her in undulating waves of unchecked lust.

I stood there dumbfounded, as the realization washed over me: I, James G. Ewing Jr., homeschooler, just offended a prostitute.