Today’s Music: Lionize – Surrender
Days Til Spring: 44
I’ve danced naked on bars, I’ve made naked snow angels outside them. Here is the final installment of my “naked in bars” opus.
Above my right nipple is a small scar that has long since healed. But my memories of it are vivid, and I still rub at it absentmindedly from time to time.
Not every story ends here.
But the ones that do are great.
Maybe a year or two after the first naked bar dance, my dart partner, The Terror, had gotten engaged to a wonderful woman from the bar we hung out in. He and the boys were out for his bachelor party, getting all sorts of drunk in all sorts of places. I was at the bar, drinking lightly, with a completely different group of friends from college.
And then worlds collided.
The Terror and the boys came back. Even though the bar (unlike last time) was full, space was made for them at the corner. Greetings were exchanged, backs were slapped, drinks were ordered.
“Gimme a Jameson”, shouted the Terror. “I can drink that smoother than anything!” six sets of eyes turned to me, all of us having been there the last time someone said that.
I smiled, and considered it a wedding gift.
“I can drink that smoother than you.” I said. Bigger grins all around.
The shots get set up, the shots get knocked down.
And I yell “Clear the bar!!!”
Now, I have no doubt that this time around, I drank it smoother than him. I’m not saying he dribbled all over himself, because that would be rude. But he was getting married, so give him a memorable send off.
“CLEAR THE BAR!!!”
The regulars started laughing and moved away towards the back wall. The new folk were looking on in disbelief as the story was explained to them, and they moved against the wall.
“Hey Otto!” I called to the bartender as I slipped out of my shirt and started undoing my belt (with a little wiggle. You know, for the crowd). “How about a slide this time around?”
Otto laughed and sprayed down the bar below the taps with seltzer. *Remember that the taps are the demarcation point. It’ll come up again.*
While Otto finished hosing down the bar, I got out of the rest of my clothes, making it as sexy as only a 170lb six-footer in need of a shave and a haircut can.
At this point, the people who’ve figured out what’s going on are laughing and clapping, while the rest are looking very very puzzled, and perhaps a bit aghast.
So naked me goes back by the dartboard, and, clad only in a worn pair of boat shoes, bellows “CLEAR THE BAR!!!” one last time before sprinting towards the rounded corner of the bar. I time my launch perfectly, feet leaving the ground as my fingers curl around the top of the bullnose edge of the bar and my arms drag me over it, adding to my momentum.
My stomach hits the bar in a splash of seltzer, and, with a slightly arched back to reduce drag, I zip down the bar, a carbonated rooster tail of spray marking my passage, as Otto sprays me in more seltzer (or possibly Diet Coke) as I slid by.
I’m in the zone! Only three other people have done the naked bar slide in this particular place, and I’ve already gone further than any of them! Why, I’ve almost made it as far as- Crap!
The taps!
(Remember those?)
They’re set at the middle of the bar, and jut out over halfway into the bar. I suddenly realize that maybe I had a tad too much momentum. And the bar is soaked, so no traction there.
So, like a latter day Indiana Jones avoiding a sword laden trap, I roll onto my side and watch as the taps near. I begin to slow down, my body contorted (and soaked) as speed bleeds off, decelerating to the point where, when I reach the tap, I’m going just fast enough…to scratch my chest…from below (???) to the center…of my nipple.
And the place goes wild!
I’ve seen plenty of stupid bar stunts, and been involved in plenty myself, but truly, this was an appreciative crowd.
So finally, I get off the bar and dry myself off. Several bar napkins staunch the flow of nipple blood. I make my way back to the end of the bar, past the smiling faces, the shocked faces, and the faces that have no idea what they’ve just seen, and lean against the bar near The Terror. We order another round (tequila this time for me) and toast. he leans over.
“I think you drank the Jameson smoother than me this time.”
“Nah. Congratulations, John. Have a happy marriage.”
Guapola 