Tales From The Back Door: Boyfriends

April 2, 2005 at 9:15 pm (Back Door Tales)

Bartending was fun most of the time. I got to party with the customers, play Mad Scientist whipping up new drinks, and made enough in wages to pay my bar tab and enough in tips to pay expenses during the week. During the time I worked at The Back Door (now known as Scooters and under new management), though, my boyfriend was confused about appropriate behavior. I nearly had to draw the guy a picture: If he threw a punch at all in a bar fight in that bar, his ass was out the door right behind anyone else throwing punches. It didn’t matter who swung first or that either might have a good reason for starting a brawl–policy was that ANYONE throwing punches was OUT. I was in favor of that–fights just fuck over a good night for everyone, especially for someone who is trying to make a living in the battle zone. He finally got the message–he could come visit me at work, but if he couldn’t play nice then I’d be the first one asking him to find a door.

I got to work about half an hour early on the night I’m about to describe. The bar was already packed, but E-Cup poured me a Coke and told me to take it easy a little longer–didn’t bother me, I wasn’t working my other job that day so a little social time suited me fine. I found the only empty bar stool was next to this 6’3″ dipshit I’d been seeing around for years. Most of the time he was lisping some sort of insipid bullshit, so I wasn’t motivated to get to know him at all. He must have started drinking early–he was in bitch mode even before the DJ started playing. After listening to snide comments about fat chicks, bitches, bartenders and other ignorance, I finally got my cue to go to work. Of course, Bitchface just had to open his mouth about that too. I looked at him and said, “Get it out of your system now bitch–once I’m on the other side of the bar I have the right to refuse service to nasty little gutter whores” Pleased with myself, I sauntered off to work.

Just as I ducked under the swinging door to start work, Fifi, my boyfriend, walked in from the parking lot thru the back door. That’s where the “main” entrance was–our back door was off the municipal parking lot, while the front door was on a side street with no parking,.hence the bar’s name. As I set my tip jar out, I heard, “Where the hell’s my Heineken Dark?” Yeah, Fifi in da HIZZOUZE. Whee. I think the only reason he came in at all was because we were the only bar in downtown Eau Claire that served it. It’s not likely he just had a major jones for watching drunks blow me shit. That was too bad–looked like he was going to get a healthy dose of exactly that.

I got his Heineken, cooed over the $5 tip he left me, grinned at the scowl on Bitchface’s pinched-looking mug (yep, Fifi took the only open barstool–the one I’d just gotten off), blew Fifi a kiss and set to work. We were packed already–that meant we were either going to have a very good night, or a very annoying night. Considering the shit started even before I touched a beer bottle, I was betting on number two. Once I started, the owner quit for the night and headed home. As soon as the owner’s back was turned, I heard the bar fridge open and a big bottle clink against the shelf. I loved E-Cup in some ways–that woman knew how Dr. McGillicuddy’s was served–ice fucking cold and on the house, once every half hour as needed for dildo-brain tolerance.

As I breezed by the middle of the bar with a double armload of beer bottles and both hands full of shots, I heard the weirdest thing I’d ever heard said by a male voice in that bar, before that moment or in the many years since:

“The aroma of a woman arouses me.”

The phrase itself, and variations thereof, were not uncommon at all. The Back Door welcomed the rainbow of alternative lifestyle advocates and the friends who loved them. Eau Claire was simply too small a town to support a bar dedicated to only one gender, lifestyle, or subset of the gay community. The same bar whose ladies’ softball team played Tuesday nights hosted the Packer game on Sundays and Monday nights during the season, and once a month set up the stage for the area’s best female and male impersonators. The weird part was the “male voice” thing. Straights did frequent The Back Door for one reason or another, but nearly none of them were male.

I looked for Fifi–sure as shit, that was his voice…and that’s his face right there, licking his lips and leering at me. I was about to get displeased, but I knew there had to be a good reason for the proclamation. I finished the serve I was working on, took the money from the customers and headed for the cash register, ears perked for more of what the hell he’s up to.

All I heard was a big GAGGGGG! I made change and turned casually, just in time to catch Bitchface looking like someone had shoved that nasty mug into a nice juicy pussy. Fifi’s voice continued, “Women just taste SO much better than men do, don’t you agree? And I adore listening to them…” More gagging, and I nearly cheered as I watched Bitchface turn away from the bar, muttering about finding “better people to sit by.” Apparently he didn’t find any–he set his drink down on the pool table and nearly wound up wearing it as the man trying to line up his shot grabbed it and cocked it back to throw it after him. I took the change to my customer, unable to stop giggling. She took her change and left a $10 on the bar for me. “Your boyfriend couldn’t have found a better way to get Bitchface to quit hitting on him. Buy him a shot and you have one too.” She turned and headed back to her friends near the dance floor.

Yep, I’d missed it, but got the story after bar when Fifi and I caught some breakfast at Perkins. Apparently as soon as my cute (at the time) nice (when it suited him or he wanted nookie) boyfriend sat down in my vacated seat, Bitchface nudged him and said, “Watch out for that bartender–she’s a real bitch!” Naturally Fifi still wanted sexual congress with my ass in spite of the extra padding on it, so he told Bitchface that he was my boyfriend. Of course that prompted Bitchface into the best way he could think of to piss me off–get my Fifi in the sack.

Fifi remembered the talk we’d had about bar fights. He specifically remembered that having a man hit on him in that particular bar was NOT a GOOD reason to throw down, especially if I was in the position of having to bounce his ass out The Back Door. I was proud of him–he even remembered that slugging some juvenile-minded moronic bitch-man was not acceptable, no matter what the provocation might be, up to and including said bitch-man NOT taking “I’m not interested” for an answer.

Apparently the snatches of conversation I’d overheard were prompted by sheer luck and Bitchface’s question, “What’s she got that I haven’t got, cutie pie?” Bitchface wanted to know exactly why Fifi wouldn’t let him make hot monkey passion in the nearest semi-private locale–so Fifi told him. In earnest, honest, exquisite, graphic detail. With hand gestures, licking of lips, leers at my ample ass, and specific details on why some men really enjoy sex with women. Even after all these years and all the garbage Fifi’s put me thru, I still have to hand it to him. He couldn’t have come up with a better way to defuse a guy with a grudge and too much ego.


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