Freakville, Population 1

What makes these people talk to me? I was really putting out "Eau de Gah!" this past week at a 4th of July party. Some intrepid party-goers were departing on their Harleys and two friends and I were admiring their bikes. The one man, in particular, had a beautiful classic Hog redux.

As we were talking about the Hogs, I commented to my friends that I used to date a guy who owned a Low Rider. This complete stranger steps right in front of me and says, "So, was he a good fuck? The guy who owned the Low Rider? I imagine that guys who own motorcycles are good fucks. How did yours rate? I've always wanted to own a Harley. You know, you have amazing eyes."

I turn to give my friends the, "Can-you-believe-this-freak?" look and they DESERT ME! Holy Crap. No they did not just leave me wallowing in Freakville, population 1. They are  now and forever more crossed off the “wingman” list!

This man just keeps talking to me as I stare at him like an alien with two heads. Told me how he wants to start traveling once he dumps his inconvenient wife and then tells me how hot he thinks it is that I'm a belly dancer. OK. Who the Hell told him that? Someone I know needs a-killin'.

I’d seen this man earlier around the fire, but he seemed relatively innocuous. My friends and I had been playing some Middle Eastern drums and he’d come over to join us with his little egg-shaped shaker. He was running around us shaking the thing like the person that you give the maraca to because they have no rhythm. He seemed a little hippy, dippy, trippy but otherwise harmless.

“Maybe we could go out sometime once I get rid of that bitch I’m married to,” he says to me. What? Is he STILL speaking to me? I zoned out for a minute there.

“You know, it’s kismet that I got to jam with you tonight. My egg has been missing for several years now but today, I just open the drawer and find it in like five minutes. It was obviously meant to be,” he says and winks at me. I hope that he is not making a pathetic allusion to the imaginary future “us” there, because I may have to join a cloistered nunnery if this is what my dating options have come to.

“You’re drumming was pretty good, by the way. I mean, I’ve played with better, but it wasn’t a complete abortion. You guys weren’t half bad,” he said.

Yeah, right. I’m playing a Turkish 10 and you’re running around me shaking an egg and we’re not “half bad”? Flattery like that will get you ... nowhere .... This exchange seems to be going on forever, yet I am still standing there basically mute. I don’t even know how to respond to the freak show going on in front of me. I feel like an observer at the zoo. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, watch as the hyena moves in on his prey.”

I was just beginning to think that he was the person that needed a-killin’ when my friend's daughter walked over to tell me about her birthday cake that they'd be cutting soon. With very little encouragement from me, we went to look at the cake and changed the cutting time to "now".

“Well, it was nice talking to you*, but I need to go see about a cake. If you’ll please excuse me.” With that said, I left my Find-A-Freak behind at the fire. So much for that "future ex-husband" material.

(*No. It was not a pleasure talking to him. But I just can’t seem to drop the social pleasantries even in these situations. Maybe I need Dr. Phil to help me. Perhaps he’ll tell me that I need attention from men positive or negative and that’s why I keep talking to these people, even when the conversation has turned inappropriate. Personally, I think it’s because I love a good story. When I am having these horrid conversations with the Freak du Jour, I keep thinking, “Man, this is going to make a great story for my friends!” And, truly, they do appreciate my stories. I call it free marriage counseling. After I tell them about my latest dating fiasco, they look at the partner they were just irritated with five minutes ago for not putting a dish in the dishwasher and say, “I love you, honey. I’m so glad that I don’t have to date anymore.”)