If you have to ask who the sucker is...

Last night I decided to go “slumming it” with a couple of friends. Evidently our definition of slumming it was to walk up and down 6th street and enter the first bar advertised by a 20 year old male yelling, “$1 shots and $2 pints!” 6th street is great when you’re 20. When you're 31 it’s a bit like getting wasted at your 5 year old nephew’s Power Ranger party. Trust me.

“I’m not above it, it could be fun,” yells my alcohol mushy brain. Why should I pay $5 bucks for a shot and $5 for a pint, when I can have them for a dollar or two? I’m no sucker!

Then the street reminded me, “Ya, ya you are. You’re my sucker now.” Before I know it I’m at Coyote Uglies, and I don’t mind. This is a flashy indicator that I must be drunk. But I am drunk and who cares? These girls are so cute, and they look they’re having fun. Stupid men, they get what they deserve.

And then things go from bad to worse. “Hey, my friend works at Gatsby’s – the new strip bar on 6th, let’s go!” comes lurching out of my mouth. Oh ya, that’s right - MY mouth. Off we go, in search of boobies and my friend. Steve’s outside on his cell phone, screaming at someone on the other end who could probably hear him just fine. “Want to come in?” “ Sure!” What the hell am I thinking?

Every time I go it’s the same blender mix of emotions. I love to see the pretty girls, I hate to see the not so attractive girls, I worry about their self esteem, I wonder who is controlling who (stupid man? Stupid girl?), I think about ethics, I think about hedonism and how I like it. Well, the idea of it I like a lot.

The factor I forgot that almost always comes into play is that, I am a jealous being. I lie about it all the time, and cover it up. Not so well, but I try. Oh not me, I’m above that. I find her attractive, you find her attractive – what’s the problem? I know this is the heady logical response. This is the response that I would use to cover up the dark green burning fire in my stomach. All the while a meek little insecure girl waits in the corner drinking her $5 coke. Who am I some days? What am I even doing at a place like this?

The other problem I have is with my ego. Is this a big ball of insecurity or what? I don’t want a dance from a girl that’s not as pretty as I think I am. Wow! Who’s the bitch here? If I have a better body than you, then why would I want you all over me? This from a woman who happily dated a 300-pound man, when she was all of a buck o’five.

I think a dance sounds like a beautiful idea, if the girl is pretty and has a great body. Half way through the gyrating, I am wondering how much speed she’s on and if she needs psychiatric help. Should I slip her a number to a hotline with my dollar bill? Maybe Miss Suzanna’s card would be just the thing to pull her out of this despair. Then I go back the other way, and think about women I know who use to or do bare their treasures for a living. Some of them are completely happy well-adjusted people. I would dare say one girl I know is happier with her career choices and lifestyle than I am. So what’s my problem?

Why can’t I just go and relax and have fun? Why do I make it into some huge conflict? Why do I make it about me?

Little Diablo sits on one side sneering, “you see the way he looked at her? He’s staring at her without any shame”. Little angel on the other side gaily states, “you’re looking at her too, damn she’s a piece of work”. Little shrink of mine says, “Don’t go back you fool!”

Then the street laughs at me, and reminds me who the sucker is. It’s me.

And so, I have sworn them off again like another bad habit.