I gotta be honest: things have been better. I guess you could say I've hit a bit of a rough patch. I've had a few late night rendezvous-es, but in the long run, you can't consider a quick-n-dry T.J. in the bushes at Cheesman Park "the real deal." O, and as the years fall through our fingers like fine, fine sand, I feel my mortality creepin' up to me, slowly, but with the potential force of ten souped-up GTOs. My biological clock is bangin' around in my belly like a construction worker trying to jackhammer the pavement with one hand while he struggles to put the other hand in his mouth to whistle at a beautiful woman.
Long story short, I'm getting older, and park 'jobs aren't satiating the beast within anymore. And let's make no bones about it, I've put it in -- a LOT. My bat knows its way around the ol' cavern, if you can decipher my euphemism. But I have been out of "the game" for a while. I can sweet-talk the ladies down at the Gapin' Crevasse on E. Colfax, after you get a couple of Jager & tomato juices in my gut. But at my age, you need a classy companion, someone with whom you can weather the vicissitudes of this modern life with the confidence necessary to wake up each morning, put on your slippers, groan as your ankles and knees pop, shuffle over to the mirror on the back of your door, extract an eye booger, and say, "I am a man. I am a man."
So I got online, and went to a website I had seen advertised on a bus shelter that day I got my dick checked out by Dr. Shit-For-Brains down on Bannock St. -- ebeaver.com. It sounded like a playful name, so I wrote it down on the back of my hand. Apparently, all the kids are interdating, so I figured I'd leapfrog into the 21st century and give 'er a whirl. My neighbor's wireless internet's been fuckin' up lately, so it took forever to load, but when she did, I tell ya, I was about to load myself. A bevy of beauties lay before me, their provocative photos partioned into individual rectangles of hot titillation. Their names, written in my favorite font, Amigo, were listed beneath their photos in small captions, along with short descriptors. The heading on the home page, beneath a highly (and quite professionally) stylized drawing of a beaver holding a shotgun in one hand and what I could only assume was his penis in his other hand, read, "The Number One Adult Dating Site in Denver, Colorado." What luck! And to think, if I hadn't developed those painful boils on my glans of penis, I would have been robbed of this potentially fortuitous resource. I, an adult, who wanted a date, had found a site for adults to date. I went to the kitchen to grab a Fresca and a stack of Hormel bologna and prepared to sail the sexy seas of ebeaver.
I filled out the requesite information on the registration page - Name, Address, Phone number, Social Security Number, and a short (but bawdy!) questionnaire, listing my favorite activities (Air Hockey, Watching The Beach on VHS, cruisin' for trim down at Park Meadows Mall) and what attributes I most sought in the opposite sex. I was as honest as possible. I said I liked a woman who was a good listener and who owned at least three ZZ Top records. I said I was looking for companionship, I said I was looking for the Isolde to my Tristan, and I required the occasional 'tug, just to feel human again, to remind myself that every day is a gift. For my personal tag line, I quoted a stanza from my favorite poet, Kip Winger:
"I know, that you know, that I've seen your face before
A bad dream, so mean, rockin' me down like a slot machine
So many years, I don't know when, my dear how have you been
The way you looked the night we met, gets me hot breathin', ooh, cold sweat"
Then I clicked "Submit" and, as my membership confirmation processed, cruised for e-tail. As I browsed, I got an email response saying I was a confirmed member, and was encouraged to "Enjoy ebeaver." I kept browsing, and didn't see much of any interest, until I stumbled upon the one. Her name was Deminstrixia (might have been a nom de plum), and right there on her interests, "ZZ Top" and "Air Hockey." Her profile photo featured her, all feathered coif and Brazilian wax, straddling a nude man and holding a short whip in her left hand, her right hand resting upon her out-thrust, ample hip. I clicked "Send a Message" and poured my heart out. I said we undoubtedly had much in common, that I was the lead guitarist of a notable regional metal band, and that she should call me. Two days later, I got the call. It was her. Turns out her real name is Jonieey, and she works at Fantastic Sam's over in Longmont. We set a date to meet at the Red Robin over there by Clover Basin Dr. and maybe go out for a drink afterward. I got all dressed up in my favorite sweatervest ($12 at Marshalls - what a steal!) and Dockers, but wore my Red Wings boots so she would know I'm no pansy-ass. I got on the bus and headed Longmont way.
Two and a half hours later, I had arrived. I walked about 4 blocks to Red Robin, where my siren awaited. She was smoking a Virginia Slim and chewing gum. Her flaxen hair, teased to perfection, glistened with the penultimate rays of the setting sun. Her Generra hypercolor t-shirt was a kaleidoscope of hot pinks and hot greens, and her acid-washed, tapered parachute pants seemed to say, "Come on over here, big boy, let me show you a thing or two." I introduced myself, she introduced herself, and I ushered her through the door. After waiting 20 minutes for a table, passing the time with a friendly 1-on-1 game of NBA Hoops 2000, we were seated at our table and our date formally commenced.
An hour, a plate of cheese fries, two hickory burgers, a Coke and a Coke later, we were getting along famously, laughing, talking shit about Sammy Hagar's stint in Van Halen, making obscene gestures at the baby in the booth behind us, you name it. I paid the tab and we two lovebirds made our exeunt. As we stood at the doorway, Jonieey said, "I have to go to that bus stop over there," and pointed at the bus stop in the exact opposite direction of the bus stop I had to go to. "Where are you going?" she asked, with the look of passionate longing I had hoped to glimpse before the night's passing. I grasped her hand, looked down at it, looked back up at Jonieey, and with the slightest hint of a tear welling up in my good eye, whispered, "Wherever you're going.Wherever you're going."
Love is like a box of nails. When it falls in your lap, it might bust open and cause a mess or it might hurt your balls a little. You never know. Sometimes you have to go out and get it, grabbing it by the handles and holding on for dear life while it tries to buck you off. Either way, there is nothing quite as romantic as a passionate but rough-n-tumble kiss in a Red Robin parking lot, 'neath the warm glow of streetlights, as the taste of hickory and Virginia Slims intermingle in an ethereal foxtrot and you cop a feel, nay, cop a feel consentually.
Marcus “Jojo” Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. “The Ranch” is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah’s, and high school dances.
Come on, Eldrick.