Tuesday, August 9, 2011
He's on a cougar hunt and he's found one...
I should have known when he danced up to our table and announced he was a progressive house DJ who hoped he would get the part-time gig as a sandwich master at Subway for which he had interviewed last week.
It was our first full day in Charlottetown and Anasatan and I had secured a table on the patio, listening to the band du jour at Peake's Quay down by the Charlottetown waterfront. We were tying on a few rum and Diet Cokes and were just thankful and excited to be back at Peake's, the scene for many a fun night during our last visit five years ago. We knew there would be young'uns but there had been a good mix of people in the past and we were looking forward to letting loose.
Mr. DJ looked about 19 though he swore he was 25, hip-hopping his way over to our table with an Alpine beer (swill) and Rev in hand. Besides his very stylish and exhuberant dancing, what stood out the most was his inability to look away, taking in what he thought was our predator pheramones.
We may have just entered the 40-club, but neither myself or Anasatan are ready to enter Cougar-dom just yet. Besides our need for mid-day naps, we did not look nor feel any of our 40 years. And, I certainly wasn't into the young meat Mr. DJ was showcasing. He was impressed that we hailed from just around Toronto, thinking we had the inside scoop of the latest raves, lounges and clubs. What he didn't realize was we were both more Jesus of Surburbia than downtown hipster. He also didn't realize that the conversation would turn from friendly to downright strange. He should have known. We, on the other hand, had no idea how the conversation (and our stomachs) would turn.
Just one of the things I love about Anasatan is her awesome sense of humour (and also her great taste in best friends), so I wasn't surprised when she quipped in with one of her zingers. After inviting Mr. DJ to join us at the table for some stimulating conversation and finding that he clammed up instantly when in the presence of our awesomeness, I was trying to make conversation and had asked him what brought him out on that particular windy night. I had grown tired of his adoration and non-blinking stare and needed to fill in the air space in with something other than his deep breathing and drooling (Yes, it goes without saying that we were hawt).
"Well, Scribe, he's out on a cougar hunt and he's found one," joked Anasatan in her usual devilish attitude, laughing at Mr. DJ's shocked expression. I wasn't sure how he was going to answer or if he'd manage a retort at all. He wasn't exactly rating high on the wit scale. What we got was even more shocking (and a whole load more disturbing).
"I can't do anything," he confessed. "I've got genital warts."
Yes, genital warts. Not "well, really, you're not my type and while I'm enjoying this conversation I think I'm going to drink up some lemonade and dance with the hipsters in the corner." Genital warts. Herpes. An STD broadcast.
And, while I appreciated his blatant honesty, the fact that I had not even expressed an iota of interest had me second guessing as to what phrase had actually left his lips. So, I asked him to repeat it. My ears had heard correctly. Genital warts. I did not know what to say, and it's a rare occasion that I'm left speechless and automatically feeling the need to wash my hands, my eyes, my ears and generally any part of my body that may or may not have come into contact with DJ Penil Warts.
Copious amounts of alcohol followed more to kill any germs that may have congregated on his chair during his thankfully brief time with us but also to be able to process what had just occurred. And process we did, telling everyone from the young ladies waiting for a taxi out in front of the patio bar to the waitress and the cab drivers we would hire throughout the week.
It also became our phrase of the entire holiday: "Oh, I can't do the dishes - I've got genital warts," "Oh, I think I need to take a third shower today to ward off those genital warts," "Oh, Mr. Cab Driver, we can't possibly consider inviting you in for a drink - we've become afflicted with genital warts." You get the picture.
What a picture it is... having never seen or come into contact with anyone with genital warts I was curious. Rule to live by: never Google images of genital warts after ingesting a meal... or ever. In this case, it's better to remain curious than to be in the know. Unless you've got itching and your member looks like a roll of braille. Then it's time to go see a doctor and put that penis or vagina into hiatus, hiding or just chop it off.