Is being choosy such a self-dug pit really? I wondered as someone rained down on me for turning down a joke of a man. My senior citizen friend attests to having sabotaged himself with fabulous women in his heyday. He said to get out of the rut and get myself a man of good stead.
"Get yourself a strong, honest man who is going to settle down with you and possibly marry your miserable ass," he still bullies and swears a lot even though he should be praying for his sins.
"Get someone like . err . someone like . it's coming to me now ."
Who, Khaphela? Although he doesn't take kindly to people finishing his sentences, he beamed with light at my suggestion. Yes, he thinks even a butler is a good breed if he is willing to make me a happy woman. But does he know what makes me happy? Bless him, but sometimes he sounds senile. He is 76 and surrounded by old, tired books with teachings from the past.
What makes a woman happy? For some it's knowing they'll find him where they left him. And others like a man who can bring food to the table. For my friend, it's knowing that he can lift her up the stairs without stumbling with her fat ass. For me, things are slightly different. I want far too many things and so far the guys have not been able to measure up. And don't shoot me for being picky, you have the same right. To the misery of my mother, so far I've dated three guys who were jobless at the time. Two were very short and there was one who needed to be reminded to check his nose at all times. Surely I'm strange, but I want what I want.
So my rockerfella friend from college who thinks we ought to be rocking TKZee when we pull down a club, said to go paint the town red. And she showed up in red stilettos and an outfit that should be illegal. She still had a swing to her step, to finish off the image. Some people are unforgiving. And off we finally went.
The bouncers look stupid with their rippling muscles and cornrows. (Is there a law that says to combine the muscle with the hairstyle?) Inside, it was too dark and I don't do dark places well. But before we could figure out who was screaming in the stereo (I also can't stand bad music) a Randal Abrams look-alike sent the waiter to our table for an order. Wow, who could have thought? I wondered.
He later confessed to have found it incredible that my friend would wear such a tight cat suit. He said so while playing with his wedding band. So clothes, or rather lack of such, can earn you a free ride, huh?
This other guy in a pink shirt carrying a warm drink because the recession is no one's friend, also tried to get my attention. Not another broke ass. I looked away and that's when he came closer because Xhosa guys hate being ignored. The closer he got, the older he looked. He couldn't have been younger than 50. Now say with me, eeuuww!
I ducked to the dance floor before he could pounce on me. And since the music sucked totally and I hate smelling strangers I danced by myself and the night looked really hopeless. Until eventually some unfortunate looking soul thought he'd come to my rescue and still struggled to see me even with his glasses on. And why is it that bespectacled people look over their glasses and not through them when curiosity gets the better of them? It truly is a horrifying thing.
Meanwhile the cat woman was fending them off like flies. But to go back to that table was going to be a mission, not with the pink shirt still trying to break in. Clearly, guys like more what they can't have. We had to change venues and get a new market.
At this club everyone wore a scarf in the middle of summer. And to my total dismay, most still wear the Amakipkip T-shirt with pride. It was a students' den and we should have known better.
Why do they even bother going out? And sometimes I understand why most fleece others for a living because night life is for a chosen few. R200 can only get you four six packs if you don't have a cat or madam with an expensive taste in your midst. Two moved in with us on our little table and although they really looked hot, it was clear we would have to reach down our purses with each song. Not another broke ass, we said as we moved out to some posh hotel, where hopefully our phuza faces would still not be so evident.
The mood there was encouraging with a live band on the stage and decent faces who had seen the likes of us come and go. Only one taxi owner came to offer us a drink and we were already drinking, so we figured we'd rather have our drinks without his sausage fingers touching our limbs. He wanted to buy us dessert at 1.30am.
The only guys who seemed to have them eating out of their hands were three very beautiful boys whom we learnt later, were there looking for men themselves. By the looks of things, we were too far behind in the game. What does it take to get a man in Gauteng?
Granted, my bar keeps getting higher but my friend is not choosy. And even though she looked mahala in her skimpy outfit, she knows better not to take rubbish home.
Should we have accepted a drink offer from the guy whose body was with us on the table, but had his eyes on the gay brigade the whole time? Or should we have bought the students drinks just for the fun of it and get them a meter taxi the following day? There really has got to be one or two soldiers without issues out there. Please show them to me.