Rummaging through the armoire, I decide on a pair of well worn jeans that hug my hips and ass, and are actually comfortable to wear. They are basically a staple for nights out. I pair them with a small, olive green tank top that accentuates my eyes. Oh, who am I kidding? The top exposes a copious amount of cleavage, so we know no one will be looking at my eyes. But I do like the color, and it does match my eyes. Not one for torturing myself, I pull out a pair of black flats. Between my height, my weight, and my natural disposition to be comfortable, I've never been a heels girl. I can admire them for their beauty, and I'll marvel at a woman's ability to walk, or even run, in them, but I'm a wobbly mess in anything higher than two inches. Flats it is.
After a final check in the mirror, I shove my driver's license, credit card, lipstick and phone into a clutch. My first night out in Santa Monica. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I lock my door and head out. Let the good times roll.
I walk a few blocks until I hit Main Street. It's a little after 9pm, but the area feels safe. It is a quaint little section of town with sidewalk cafes, hip gastropubs, and a few bars. The crowd here is more mixed than in other parts of L.A. You have beach hippies, working professionals, young families, older established people, and a smattering of college students. I like the eclectic nature of the population, it makes me feel as if we all belong.
I walk slowly down the sidewalk. It being L.A., there are very few pedestrians out with me. I loved the walking culture in D.C. I enjoy walking; it gives me time to think. But L.A. is all about the car, something I'll have to get used to.
About a block up, I can see a group of people smoking out on the sidewalk and hear live music and laughter. As I approach, I see a super cute Irish pub - McGregors. I'm not entirely sure of my ethnic background (never met my father's side of the family) but my mom loves to claim we are Irish (and English, and French and Native American(?)) and I decided long ago to go ahead and embrace that. I have a small, green Celtic love knot tattooed on my left shoulder and have an affinity for redheads, shepherd's pie and wool sweaters.
As I near, I slow even further. Butterflies erupt in my stomach and I'm not sure if I can do it. Even though I'm outwardly pretty friendly, inside I'm really a big scardy cat. I realized early on that I was painfully shy and forced myself to work through it. So although I have the skills to network my way through a crowded room, I absolutely hate it. Then why am I forcing myself to head into a bar all by myself? West Wing episode 7, season 3 is looking mighty appealing right about now.
My eyes dart back and forth from the people smoking in front of the pub to the entrance. Indecision crippling me, I pause in front of the door. One of the smokers catches my eye, gives a friendly smile and a nod of his head. I smile back reflexively but it's what I needed. I turn and enter.
The pub is crowded, but not packed. The room is long and rectangular, with the bar running along the backside of the space. To the right, at the far end, is a stage currently being used by Paddy's Pig according to the flyer on the door. Adjacent to that is a small patio. Booths line the walls immediately to my left and right, and there are a number of belly bars scattered throughout the open space.
I head straight, making a beeline for the bar. I need a drink as fast as possible. Why didn't I have a couple shots before I left? Damn, I should have thought of that sooner!
Behind the bar is your stereotypical southern California guy. He's tall, blonde, and lean, sporting a magnificent tan and bright blue eyes. Not my type at all. Why did I pick L.A.? I notice there's another bartender working the other half of the bar. His back is to me but he looks delicious. Tall, dark, broad shouldered, and very buff. Yep, simply looking at his back has me a little riled up. Hmm, maybe I should try and get laid tonight. It's been a while. Alright, well, I'll need plenty of liquid courage if that's going to be my plan. I order a double shot of tequila and a cider. Shooting my tequila, I grab the cider and find a spot near the stage to watch the band.
Paddy's Pig is great and has a wonderful Irish feel. The tequila is moving through me, and with each passing minute, I get a little more into the music. I love to dance, and add a little alcohol to the mix, and you couldn't stop me if you tried.
I'm in my groove, singing along at the top of my lungs as they cover a Neil Diamond song (random, but I love Neil), when a guy sidles up beside me. I glance over and he's smiling earnestly at me. He isn't the type to knock a woman off her feet, but he has a very nice smile and kind eyes. He's taller than me (a must), is dressed well, and is clearly quite fit.
"Sorry," I say, covering my mouth with my hand. "I didn't mean to subject you to my singing." For as good as I am at dancing, I'm that bad at singing. I rarely do it in public; very few have had the displeasure of hearing me sing unabashedly. Rachel, my mom, and maybe a sister. That's about it. But like the dancing, add a little alcohol, and off I go.
"Hey, no worries. I was enjoying it," he says.
This is greeted with a very skeptical look on my part.
"It was very … " he pauses, casting about for the right word, "...um, enthusiastic!"
I bust out laughing. Yes, enthusiastic is the perfect way to describe my singing if you are searching for something nice to say.
Smiling, I reach out my hand, "I'm Kelli."
"Jake," he says, grinning and grabbing my hand. His hand is warm and I enjoy the feeling, realizing I haven't touched anyone since I hugged Rachel goodbye at the airport three weeks ago. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure. I'm drinking cider," I say, holding up my nearly empty pint.
We head back to the bar and Jake tries to flag down the blonde bartender. I take the opportunity to examine him a little more closely. He's about 6' tall, and looks like he runs a lot. He's wearing dark jeans and a blue henley which matches his eyes perfectly. He's a little skinny for my taste, but his ass is nice and after three drinks, and about four months without sex (Victor and I never got that far), I'm thinking he'll do just fine.
"Do you come here often?" he asks, handing me my cider.
Again, I laugh, "Do you always use cheesy lines to start a conversation?" The words slip out and I realize they are a little harsh. But I've got a goofy smile plastered on my face, so I hope he can tell I'm teasing.
Shaking his head in mock embarrassment, he says, "Normally, no, not so much. I'm feeling a little off my game tonight."
"Oh, why is that?" I ask flirtatiously, leaning towards him.
"Because you're sorta gorgeous and I'm a little intimidated right now."
Maybe it is the alcohol, or my hormones, or most likely the combination of the two, but I fall for it hook, line and sinker.
"Uh oh," I say. "You're clearly a charmer. I'm in trouble!"
He smiles and leads me to a booth which just opened up, and we get to know each other. He's a wannabe screenwriter trying to break into the business. I comment on Aaron Sorkin's brilliance and I feel my credibility rise a notch. He moved here from Oregon a year and a half ago, and tries to be encouraging, saying the transition isn't too horrible, and that I'll soon feel at home. I don't believe him in the least, but I appreciate the gesture. We talk sports; I love baseball but refuse to become a Dodgers fan. He loves hockey, and when I say I've never been to a game, he insists that he'll take me. Conversation flows well and before I know it, it's midnight. I get up to go to the bathroom.
I take time in the bathroom to primp and give myself a pep talk. I'd only picked up a random guy one other time in my life and that didn't work out so well for me. He too was tall, and funny, and rather hot, so when he suggested we head to his place, I was happy to oblige. Once there, we watched the remake of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with his roommate before heading back to his room. That's when things went downhill fast. He took off his shirt which was hiding a surprising amount of flabby pale skin. Alright, I prefer my guys toned, but hey, I'm no supermodel so who am I to complain? After quickly undressing me, he spent all of ten seconds going down on me. Yeah, that was definitely a strike. Next, he sheds the remainder of his clothes to reveal the smallest penis I've ever seen. Seriously, I didn't know they could be that small when erect. It was maybe three inches? That's strike two. The final strike, the pièce de résistance, was that he came in literally three thrusts. I am not exaggerating; I counted. It was three. He popped up, pulled his underwear back on, asked if I want anything from the fridge, and ambled out to the kitchen.