A New Bar, A New Girl

Part 27A

I like bars. To anybody who knows me this probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. It’s also no secret that my favorite bar in Simi Valley was the Treehouse. Soon, though, even before it closed, we decided to find a new bar as the Treehouse was starting to lose its luster. I had to find a new bar. Luckily, there’s a small hole-in-the-wall bar on Los Angeles and Tapo called PC’s. So, one Thursday, after a brief warm-up round at Chuy’s, we stopped by. Inside I felt at home immediately. Old drunks were littered about the place, there was a smoking patio where you can take your drink, and the bartender is a well-dressed older gentleman who freely hands out life advice.
On that first visit, we sat down at a table in the front row. The young, good-looking karaoke host looked over at me and smiled excitedly and ran over to me to give me a welcoming hug.
“Hey, stranger, it’s been a long time!” She said to me. Now here’s a moment of perfect honesty: I didn’t’ actually know for sure who she was at this time. I knew she was either Hillary, a girl whom I shared several mutual friends with in high school but never really got to know, or a girl named Julia, who of course we used to refer to as “Julia Gulia.” Being the drunken moron that I am I have developed quite the skill at dragging along a conversation with someone I can’t remember until they give me sufficient clues as to who they are. So I soon figured out she was indeed Hillary. She was quite impressed, though admittedly factiously, by the fact that I got medical benefits from my place of employment. We had a nice conversation that night and I resolved to continue it at a later date.
PC’s soon became our regular hangout on Thursday and Saturday nights (not surprisingly those were the nights that Hillary worked). Hillary and I would always engage in conversation and, I believe, flirt. One evening, after learning that she had recently returned from college in Berkeley, I learned that she had not experienced the same Simi Valley I had growing up. We made a date (though possibly just a play-date) for me to show her around town. On the day in question, she called me and informed me that she was not feeling well and had to bail on our day together. Later that night in a drunken stupor I bitched to my roommate Victoria that I would in all likelihood never get laid again. She smiled politely as I bored her with the details of my sad depressing life.
Soon, Hillary and I rescheduled our date and, according to her I gave the first hint that this was more than just two friends hanging out. I told her that she “better pretty herself up for me.” Though to be fair, I’ve said the same thing to Jefferson McCool on many occasions.
On our date we went to the batting cage, the driving range, got ourselves some root beer floats at the A&W and had dinner at Palermo. We then shot pool at a local pool hall until it was time for me to pick up Jefferson from work (that’s right, it needed to be said that you interrupted my date) and then the three of us enjoyed a few beers at the Treehouse. Our second date, among other things, we hiked along a golf course where she relieved herself into the hole on the 13th green.
Still, I was having trouble taking it to the next level. Over a few beers I tried to explain the complications to Jefferson.
“So what’s the story on Hillary?” Jefferson asked me.
“Here’s the problem. She’s great, and we get along and have a lot of fun together. But I just can’t close the deal.”
“You’re just pussying out or what?”
“Well, she doesn’t drink.”
“Oh fuck. Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s a tough one.”

Over the next couple weeks I had essentially come to grips with the fact that, once again, I was to become the mayor of friendville. Then, finally I caught a break. One night at the bar she worked at, for some inexplicable reason (at least according to my shitty memory) she was drinking on the job. She didn’t drink often, so after a few girly drinks she became quite suggestible. (Side note: I need to point out here that she was dating another dude, though not anything completely serious). Jefferson and I offered up the idea to keep the party rolling at his apartment and she agreed. On the ride home, Jefferson (like always) rode shotgun and Hillary rode in the backseat. He questioned her as to why she had never made out with me and why she was into this other dude when Danny Cerullo here was the nicest man in the world. He may not be the most subtle man in the world, but I challenge you to find a better wingman. She didn’t seem to have an answer.
Back at the apartment, Hillary and I were frantically making out on the couch, much to the disgust of Jefferson and his lady, who was visiting for the weekend. Soon we moved into Richard’s bedroom, who was never there because he was out with his lady in Hollywood (Another side note: Richard ended up marrying that wonderful lady so I feel we both won in this situation.). We fooled around in his bed for quite some time and by the time the sex commenced it was around 4:30 in the AM. She was on top and it was a lot of fun, though after about 10 minutes or so I noticed the gyration had slowed and then came to a complete stop. I looked up at her face: she was fast asleep. I wasn’t offended in the least and, being the wonderful man I am, allowed her to sleep though it became increasingly uncomfortable for me throughout the night. I didn’t get a second of sleep that night, but I felt it was well worth it. The next day at work I bored Maria with the intricate details of my sexcapades to the point where she asked me to please stop and go home early.