Who Wants to Get Laid?
by guest columnist Scott Johnston
HAVE YA HAD CASUAL SEX LATELY? If you’re in the market, you should really head down to the Fenix in historic Pioneer Square. It offers an unbeatable combination of just-turned-21-year-olds, alcohol, and dim lighting guaranteed to make the night a sure thing.
I’d been to the Fenix plenty of times as a single 20-something, but this time I was newly thirty and actually brought a girl instead of trying to just leave with one.
The reason? We wanted to see our favorite local band, a great lounge act called The Dudley Manlove Quartet. Covers of one-hit wonders from the ’70s and ’80s are a Dudley specialty; and if you know another place I can hear “Copacabana” (the hottest spot north of Havana), a Neil Diamond medley, and the theme to Shaft in the same night, let me know right away.
Not many people admit to liking the Dudley Manlove Quartet, but their shows are always packed and they now play regular gigs as far as San Francisco. They’re not trying to change the music world; they’ve just got a steady flashback of great songs you had long since forgotten. It’s the kind of fun you want to have on a Saturday night with your girl and a few friends.
What I realized on this particular Saturday night soon after our group arrived is that the Fenix is now the official frat boy headquarters of Seattle. My friends and I have a serious aversion to the frat-boy mentality, avoiding them at all costs. When I am forced to talk with one, in line for drinks or the bathroom, the conversations enviably go like this:
Frat boy: “Hey.”
Me: “Hey.”
Frat boy: “I WANT SOME PUSSY!”
Me: “Good luck with that.”
The Fenix is the kind of place wherehalf the crowd is trying to get laid–and I don’t mean just the male half.
The last time I tried to see a band there on a Saturday night (back in my 20-something days), my buddy and I had a fascinating conversation with a woman who introduced herself by walking over and running her finger up and down my friend’s chest.
Woman: “Hi handsome, what’s your name?”
Buddy (feebly pointing to his wedding band): “Uhh…I’m married.” (My friend has been with the same woman for 10 years and has very little experience fending off such aggressive advances.)
Woman: “Oh that’s okay, so am I.”
Buddy (squirming): “Uhh…talk to him, he’s not married.”
Woman (turning to me): “Hi handsome, what’s your name?”
You get the idea.
Our party made it past the ex-Marine bouncer who checks ID and table-hopped our way to a spot with a view as Dudley got underway.
I attempted to purchase drinks from our heroin-chic cocktail waitress, but apparently the bleach job had affected more than just her hair because she kept forgetting to bring our beverages. After she brought someone in our party a margarita with sugar around the rim instead of salt, we just started going to the bar ourselves.
However, the music was good, we all had comfortable seating and there had already been one small fight.
As Dudley ended their first set, it was time for the big contest sponsored by everybody’s favorite local alternative radio station that is owned by a huge nameless, faceless cooperation: The End (now featuring acoustic versions of the songs you’ve been hearing every hour for the last six months).
Up on stage was DJ Brian Beck to give away a brand new snowboard. Not into snowboarding? No problem; according to Mr. Beck, you can “sell the shit and make some extra bank.” These alternative DJs are so cool. “WHAT DOES ‘EXTRA BANK’ MEAN?” I yelled out.
Now that the place was packed, people had surrounded our table and kept invading our personal space. Since we had a couple of all-girl groups around us, the frat-boys kept trying to muscle their way closer and closer.
“What’s the difference between a frat boy and a gay man?” queried a female member of our party loudly “About six beers” was the punch line.
Suddenly all the guys gasped and pointed to the crowd below. Another fight? Someone puking on Brian Beck?
No. It was two beautiful women making out!
Would you believe me if I told you this happens to me all the time? Well it does. Whenever I go to parties or out clubs, women make out in front of me.
I’m not saying I approach them and make any of the moronic comments a straight guy could say to women kissing, or that after getting really hot they slither over and invite me back to their secret make-out headquarters or anything. “Did you get a good look?” chimed my girlfriend as my glance turned to a look and then a stare.
While the guys may have all looked like frat boys, the women were a different matter. As I made my way to and from the bathrooms (complete with DWI legal defense advertisements above the urinals) I spotted enough leather minis, fishnets, and bright red lipstick to give me flashbacks of my high-school heavy metal concert days.
Here’s a tip for the girls at the Fenix: Try selling the sizzle, not the steak.
We finally left just after midnight; and, despite the minor annoyances, had a great time. Of course, pretty much everyone in our party knew who they were going to bed with later, which no doubt accounted for our relaxed attitude during the festivities.
Watching everybody at the Fenix get wasted and try to hook-up was fun for a while, but I’ve got more important things to do.
Like make some extra bank.
TOMORROW: Memories of misogyny past.
ELSEWHERE:
