Hungry like the wolf

Z was calling me the wolfman at work last week. It might have had something to do with the unkempt bed head hair (somehow matted and fluffy at once) and the beard. And some rumor of an insane gleam in my eye that, to me, really isn’t there, but to most others is uncomfortably omnipresent.

So I got a haircut.

It’s always interesting when I go to see A, the girl who “styles my hair”, for a haircut.

This time, she decided to tell me she was taking a second job. At a go-go bar.

She broke the good news while shampooing me. Her hands running through my hair and her right breast resting on my chin. (Don’t ask me how she does it, she’s a boob-contortionist. Boobtortionist. New word. Call Websters.)

She asked me to visit her that night. Actually, she also told me that I was her last appointment of the day and that she was going out to buy an outfit or two for her debut and wouldn’t it be nice if I came along to help her shop for clothes that would make her look like a porno star.

I demurred.

HA. Me demurring!

But I did.

I’m starving for J, the woman at work.

I played out the scenario with A in my head—I go to go-go bar with the hot shot nearly nude boob girl, take a vaunted place at the bar while she struts, get to know her new girlfriends, get to know them better, get buzzed, hang out with them post-shift, do substances, do more substances, get satiated, blur out, wake up in a strange room, bleed regret and remorse, get my shit together, find my way home, and try to hide my eyes from testifying to any evidence of an illicit weekend the next time I see J.

No way. Been there, done that.

Got my haircut, shed the wolf, stayed hungry.