Love At First Squeeze

We met in a bar. There, I said it. We met in the one place that my mother, my girlfriends, and Dr. Phil agree is not the most suitable venue for finding a mate. You can certainly find someone to mate with, but a long term pairing? I’ll even admit that the locale of our meeting was not a trendy oak-paneled gathering place of up and coming young professionals, but an oak-floored boot-stompin’ country western bar. Out in the middle of the woods. And I’m fairly certain I was wearing pointy-toed cowboy boots. And drinking Jack Daniel's. I’ll even be a bit more honest and admit that this wasn’t my first visit to this infamous establishment.

Every southern town worth its salt has at least one “juke joint”. They always have a shady reputation (whether deserved or not), and are tucked away in the less traveled part of the county. In its heyday, the juke joint in question was best known for its house band (they played a great mix of southern rock and old country standards), cheap drinks, and girl-to-guy ratio, the girls definitely being the lower number in the equation. When you add up the loud music, free-flowing booze, and three cowboys to every cowgirl, you can see how its reputation as rough and rowdy might have evolved. I’m sure some of the stories I’ve heard over the years have been true, but I was there to have fun. Who has time to watch the guys prove their manliness over a game of eight ball? I was busy two-stepping and giving ol’ Jack a run for his money.

On the night in question, my girlfriend and I happened to take a break from the action on the dance floor and had made our way over to the bar and ordered refills. As I mentioned, this wasn’t my first visit. My girlfriend Claire, her significant other, and myself had made a Friday night ritual of coming here to the dance hall in the woods. However, earlier in the evening, Claire had received a call from her boyfriend (let’s just call him “Jerk”), explaining that he was on his deathbed with the flu and wouldn’t be going out that night - or any other night. He was dying. I’m sure he thought we’d forego the scheduled festivities and see a movie instead.

Back to the bar. As Claire and I stood sipping our drinks and checking out potential dance partners, we were quite surprised to see the “Jerk” walk right through the door. Yes, walked. Upright. He wasn’t in a wheelchair, or even using a walker! In fact, he appeared the picture of health from head to toe - from his freshly washed hair, to his starched button-down shirt and nicely pressed Levi’s, all the way down to his spit-polished Tony Lamas. But wait! He had someone with him. Was this his nurse, accompanying the Jerk on one last outing before he checked into the hospital to undergo risky flu surgery? Whoever this tall dark stranger was (yep, the cliché had come to life), we were about to find out. The Jerk had spotted us through the smoky haze and they were pushing their way through the crowd to our perches at the bar.

Of course, the next few minutes should come as no surprise. Claire was busy giving the Jerk a piece of her mind, the Jerk was busy trying to explain his miraculous recovery, and I was busy checking out the new guy. Six foot, dark brown hair and eyes, tall, lean and cute! Turns out he wasn’t a nurse at all, but a friend from out of town visiting for the weekend. I guess the Jerk had wanted a guy's night out and thought that lying, scheming, weasel-like behavior was the way to accomplish this. Jerk.

The new guy and I traded bios. He was passing through town on a business trip and had stopped to spend the weekend before heading up to the Panhandle on Monday morning. He bought me a drink, we talked some more, and he even spun me around the dance floor a few times. He seemed like a nice guy. I even went so far as to not hold him responsible for the Jerk’s behavior. That is, until he excused himself and asked another girl to dance. Didn’t he know about the “equation”? Didn’t he understand that there were two more future boyfriends lined up behind him, ready to take his place? Jerk.

I turned back to the bartender and ordered up another Jack, commiserating with the dusty Jackalope mounted behind the bar. Claire and the Jerk were off somewhere, most likely trading spit and making up. Left to my own devices, I was soon back on the dance floor cuttin’ a rug to a Lynyrd Skynyrd song. The night was wearing on and I spotted the new guy a few times, ordering a beer, playing pool...circling the dance floor. Hah! I guess he was finally becoming acquainted with how the girl-to-guy equation worked. What? He was headed my way. He was actually asking me to dance - to a slow song! The nerve. I hurriedly shook off my other two boyfriends-in-waiting and grabbed his arm before he could change his mind. Boy, was I going to teach him a lesson! One dance and I’d blow him off and be back in the arms of, uh, whatever their names are.

But something happened as we slowly made our way around that old oak dance floor, my arms around his waist, his belt buckle biting into my breasts. We fit. I can’t explain it any better than that. Our bodies fit together (in a peculiar way, I know), my cheek resting against his chest, his lips brushing my ear as he softly sang along to the old Hank William's tune. And was that his hands I felt slowly slide down my back, brush my waist, and then move down and squeeze my butt? Did he have the freakishly long arms of a circus sideshow attraction?

The lights finally came up and the bouncers began their nightly ritual of herding the tired sweaty dancers towards the exit. The plug was pulled on the juke box and another Friday night was over, Saturday morning right on its heels. As we made our way to the door, I felt an arm slide around my waist and pull me close. We passed Bubba and Bobby (or was it Jimmy and Jason?), standing near the bar looking like two lost hunting dogs. Sorry boys, the math didn’t work in your favor tonight.

We watched the southern sun come up over fried eggs and grits, side by side in a cracked vinyl booth. And we’ve seen twenty-four more year’s worth of sunrises together, side by side, a perfect fit.

Fate had finally made an appearance in my life that night and introduced me to my other half. The half that was outgoing and gregarious and complimented my reserved and introverted nature. The half that had never met a stranger and would take me on the journey of my life. And no matter what the so-called experts warn about the perils of meeting someone in a bar, when you find that person whose lifeline mirrors your own, whose hand fits perfectly into yours, don’t stop and think about the abnormally long arm attached to it. Gently take his hand in yours, place it on your butt, and squeeze.