Full-contact bar hopping? Not with my ass.

March 22, 2009

There is no need to visit a zoo to see the animals.

Viking Woman discovered that fact on the weekend when, in the company of her niece, Jenn, and a comely neighbor I’ll call Miss Libby, she dropped in on the platoon of bars that stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the West Quay in Ahuriri, one of Napier’s historic communities.

The idea was to have a girls’ night out, to have fun, a few drinks, a few laughs, maybe dance with a stranger, before summoning me to come pick them up, good non-drinking, well-trained husband that I am.

It was Jenn’s first experience with the Kiwi nightlife and she was not impressed. She was, in fact, horrified-slash-appalled by the hand-to-ass contact she witnessed. Comely Miss Libby was the subject of much of that manhandling and, though she confided later to Jenn that she appreciated neither the touchy nor the feely, she seemed to accept it as part of the price you pay for venturing into the wilds of a New Zealand bar.

Jenn, a good ole Canadian gal from the Prairies, assured me later she would not have tolerated a hands-on approach from any larrikan looking to cop a feel as she passed through the crowd. I had the distinct feeling she would have ripped off any offending hoon’s arm and slapped him across the head with the wet end. He’d spend the rest of his life learning to tie his shoes with his teeth.

While Viking Woman was subjected to her own share of groping, it was a verbal exchange that left her rolling her eyes over the uncouthness of those who inhabit Planet Man.

I’m going to call the fellow in question Mr. BJ (for reasons that will soon become painfully obvious). He is, according to the friends in his company that night, a former All Blacks player who now owns some kind of garage door company. Apparently his years of training as a professional rugby player taught him some interesting moves.

This is a (roughly) verbatim exchange of his conversation with Viking Woman, after he managed to break through a scrum of male admirers clustered around the hot babe my wife..

Mr. BJ: “Do you do blowjobs?”

Viking Woman: “Yes I do. In fact, I give very good ones, to the right guy. But you’ll never find out.”

Mr. BJ: “Do you swallow when you suck cock?”

Viking Woman: “Pardon me?”

Mr. BJ: “Who’s boning you?”

Viking Woman: “Well, certainly not you.”

Jenn, ever the good wingman, stepped in at this point and Mr. BJ, clearly deflated at being unable to put his ball through these particular uprights, staggered off to impress other patrons of the female persuasion with tales of his sporting prowess.

It was a close encounter of the rude kind and we all laughed about it later but I was still left shaking my head at how this fellow had opted to be so direct. Did he really think that approach was going to impress a lady, or was it the alcohol that made him cut to the chase?

I was also fascinated about how he played the “former All-Blacks” card. Maybe I should try that myself. After all, claiming to be the fifth Baldwin brother has proved to be a spectacular failure, as has purporting to be the father of the Jonas brothers. The problem with that latter ploy is that no one over 12 has heard of the Jonas brothers, and no one over eight cares about them.

There are too many reasons to list here why Mr. BJ did not make much of an impression on Viking Woman. But part of the problem could lie in the fact that he was a rugby player. Rugby is a religion in New Zealand. Women like it because the players wear snug jerseys and snugger shorts. Men like it because, well, let’s face it, it’s another reason to drink.

But we’re Canadians, with an affinity for North American sports. We find rugby all a bit ā€” how can I put this politely? ā€” gay silly. Unless five opposition players are using your body for a couch, you are allowed to get right back up and keep running. And you need only touch the ball with a fingernail in what passes for the end zone to be credited with a try. I mean, come on, how hard can that be?

Now, if Mr. BJ had been, say, a hockey player, there might have been a different ending to his quest. He was never going to score, of course, but he might have been asked for an autograph.

The only thing being stroked would be his ego but he might have enjoyed that. I’m guessing it’s the only large thing Mr. BJ possesses.


One Response to “Full-contact bar hopping? Not with my ass.”

  1. Megan said

    Ah, makes me s proud that Viking Woman got approached that way!! Admit it, you love the fact that he wanted your wife. Good thing she didn’t give him the “what for”, or else you’d be bailing her from jail.

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