I'm notoriously bad about reading signals from guys.  This disability manifests itself on both ends of the spectrum; I have often misconstrued friendly conversation as romantic overture (oftentimes to my embarrassment), and I have also been oblivious to overt passes (probably missing out on some sweet opportunities for action).  I can't say WHY I'm such a poor translator of the male homo sapien mating ritual, I just know that I AM ig'nernt.  

Anyway, a recent example of this dulled perception arose last Saturday.  My companions and I had just left the closing night of Jaumus, the best Tiki bar that you've never been to (you may have missed the venue, but if you want some world class tiki gear for yourself, check this shit out.  After a pit stop at Sassy's, we settled in at Union Jack's.  Upon arrival, Billiam and I indulged in a little "scotch and sofa" (I know, I know - it's gross to make out in public . . . it won't happen again), and some guy appeared out of nowhere and perched on the couch arm right next to me.  Billiam, thanks to his keen observational skills, whispered a speculation to me: when he got up to fetch us drinks, the fellow would swoop in for a pick-up.  I scoffed thusly: "Nuh-uh . . . he just wants a place to sit and has a poor sense of personal space!"  However, being wrong about something for the 8,237,001st time, the second Billiam departed, the stranger leaned in and queried, "Do you have any cocaine?"  Great ice-breaker.  I'm getting wet just reliving the moment.  

Unfortunately, coke wasn't all he wanted from me - that was just his opening line.  His thick accent immediately revealed his French heritage, and shortly thereafter, his words revealed his membership in the douche club (in fact, he turned out to be the French Oleg, who inspired The Ukrainian Handshake . . . but that's a whole nother story).  After I assured him that I had no blow on my person, he launched into a monologue which I believe, god bless 'im, was intended to impress any pussy-holding member of "The Ladies."  He proclaimed himself "a provocateur!" with the amount of pride and verve that might rightfully be afforded to, say, Truffaut exclaiming, "I am an auteur!"  He could've meant that he was an undercover agent, working to undermine the delicate social order of local titty bars, or perhaps he was posing as a lingerie mogul, but I came to realize that the proper English translation is "I am un asshole."  He followed up this proclamation by calling me une "beech," for which I commended his fine grasp of the sensiblities of American women, and assured him that that was a terrific way to intrigue and challenge us.  Oblivious to my conspicuous sarcasm, he leaned in close, invading my airspace, and took it to the next level:

Le Provacateur: "Will your boyfriend mind that I am talking to you?" 

Moi: "I don't have one, but if you mean that guy that's getting me a drink, then no, he doesn't give a crap." 

What I'm glad I didn't add, because they are indeed the words of "une beech":  

". . . In fact, he deliberately left me alone here because he knew you would pounce on me and then we'd laugh at you later."

That is of course, exactly what happened, but the frog didn't need to know that.  Remember the cocky Frenchman, Henri, from "Cheers"?  He would always provoke Woody by saying of Kelly, "I'm going to steal your girlfriend!" This guy was like a cross between Henri and Mickey Rourke.  Over the course of our exchange, I saw Billiam hanging back with our drinks, giggling at my predicament . . . but I must admit, I was enjoying myself a bit.  Mind you, I don't pick fights, but if I find myself trapped in a conversation with a jerk-off, I'm not averse to holding my own by indulging in some well-deserved mockery.

At any rate, I was there to look at beautiful nekkids, not to succumb to the Ennui-inator, so I abruptly left and joined my chums.  I will soon return to the scene of the crime, as Union Jack's is a pitstop after hole #3 of Saturday's urban golf game, to which you are all invited.  Any questions?  Contact Scotty of NW Urban Sports.  

I would've put in links for Quizzy & Dr. Oritz, but they don't have websites.  I've got a trivia question for THEM: "What is the cheapest and easiest way to advertise to countless potential patrons?" . . . think about it, fellas!