By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
I was nervous and excited, but the crowd could produce only two legitimate contestants and one partially Sasquatch nightlife columnist.
I stepped past the slightly overweight blond who was bombed off her ass and the cute long-haired brunet to take my spot at the end of the bar. The booty music began and, being tall, I put my hands up on the ceiling and rocked my ass down to the ground. I turned around to let the spotlights land on the lush pockets beneath my arms for all the club to see.
Rufus claims there was an audible boo from a few haters in the crowd.
It didn't take but two seconds to recognize that my competition was disrobing. Blondie had her big ol' tits out, and brunie was pulling her jeans halfway down her ass to show some cheek and G-string. Not that my ass doesn't hang about that far out of my blue jeans on a daily basis (they're just cut that way), but there's only two reasons you're going to see Night Court's ass: You're a guest at the Hambright family Christmas at egg nog time or we're fucking.
Anyway, the music stopped, and Grease Slick took his mic and initiated the arbitrary cheer-o-meter elimination process on the blond girl who shook her cellulite before dropping down into a split. The crowd's response was unenthusiastic. The second chick got some claps and hollas.
The announcer oozed over to me, and I knew I had the not-stripping and the armpits working against me, but I couldn't be the first contestant in this half-ass booty contest to go down. So I pulled out the card that no crowd of sentient beings can resist.
I flipped double birds and yelled, "Fuck you, motherfuckers!"
Silence. How awkward.
Broken by the announcer singing an off-key "Na, na, na, na" in my ear, which I gathered would be followed by an equally unmelodic "hey, hey, hey, goodbye."
So I got down and turned to the crowd to find out what crack-induced delirium kept the fellas from cheering for me.
I approached a tall Libyan man, showed him my pits, and said, "Is this why you didn't cheer for me?"
He recoiled. His friend groaned.
I asked him, "You don't like that?"
He said, "No, but I like your hot body."
"You wanna see them again, don't you?"
"Yes," he said.
"Beg me," I challenged.
"Please," he replied.
Oh all right. I lifted again, and this time, he hugged me and said, "Come with us to E Bar."
Can't. Gotta check in with my girl Lola on the dance floor.
It took about ten seconds for me to get tapped by a monstrous, built, cute-in-the-face Nigerian man in a crisp white shirt. From head to toe, he was as neat and clean as a little boy with a meticulous mommy.
Good dancer too. We shook booty-style front ways and sideways, he backed his booty up into me, and when I put my arms around his massive chest, I motioned to Lola like "holy shit."
She nodded over her beer and gave me her "for real" eyes.
Then he backed me up against the big column on the dance floor, and I shot him the smile, the eyes, and the pits all at once. An all-out natural woman charm attack.
His response was "I want to eat you," which sent me running around the column, and he chased me in one direction, then the other, peeking his head around.
Lola let me cool off with a sip of her beer, and after my head cleared, I made a difficult decision: Two months as a natural woman is enough.