Jamie Reidy confesses how he messed up his one opportunity to fulfill a life-long sexual fantasy.
My three buddies led the way into the raucous bar, like a line of fullbacks clearing a path for me to the end zone. And that metaphor was appropriate, as we’d just finished a long day of watching college football and drinking beer. I was ready to “switch to guns”—bourbon—and continue the fun.
Before my ears had registered her voice, my peripheral vision had already detected the brunette to my right, standing just inside the bar’s doorway.
I am a sucker for dark eyes and dark hair. This can be problematic in the Los Angeles area, where most of the brunettes are blonde. My friends claim that my head will snap at the briefest glimpse of dark hair even if said locks end up belonging to a Samoan grandmother.
These were the long, flowing tresses of which George Costanza dreamt. And they framed a gorgeous face. This woman, no older than thirty, was my dream girl.
Except for the USC baseball hat and T-shirt. But the latter did complement a tight, yet curvy figure. Y’know, maybe the Trojan fan thing isn’t that big of a deal after all.
But who was this mystery woman and why did she know my name? More importantly, why didn’t I recognize her?
My friends—like any veteran group of bar hoppers—know that my failing to introduce them to someone means I have brain cramped on her name. Accordingly, they will chastise me with a punch to the arm before extending a hand to the woman. “Excuse my impolite friend. I’m Chris. What’s your name?” From that point, I can make a self-deprecating joke about my mama raising me poorly and everything’s OK.
But on this occasion, my pals had already fought their way through the crowd and snagged spots in the rear of the bar. They couldn’t see that I required help. I was on my own.
I flashed a big smile. “Hey, you!” She hugged me warmly and introduced her friend Ashley, also annoyingly clad in USC garb.
As we discussed the Trojan victory that day, Dream Girl (DG) alluded to an earlier conversation between us. My brain kicked into overdrive. Where and when the fuck did I meet this girl? (Million dollar invention idea: a “wire” that records all conversations after the user’s blood alcohol content reaches .1%.)
Speaking of alcohol, the bartender can help! I got the three of us drinks and asked him if he knew DG’s name. He shook his head. “But you were talking to her a few weeks ago late-night.” Those final two words explained everything, yet didn’t get me any closer to my grail.
Back with the girls, I kept waiting for Ashley to use DG’s name in a sentence. Never happened. So I tried to prompt it with questions. “How did you two ladies meet?” Of course, DG answered, “Ashley and I met…” Not helpful. This would require questions directed specifically to Ashley. I nudged her and then nodded toward DG. “So, what was this one like in college?” They both giggled. Oh yeah, here we go…
“She was an angel!” They clinked glasses. I nearly wept from frustration.
Amazingly, in spite of my cluelessness, palpable heat simmered between DG and me. She laughed easily and exuded a subtle confidence. I dug her.
But the not knowing her name was killing me. I couldn’t take it anymore. So, in a personally unprecedented move, I decided to admit to a gorgeous woman that I could not remember her name. Hoping to ease the awkwardness, I waited until I had them both laughing.
“So, uh, I have totally brain cramped, here, and I can’t remember your name.”
Huge guffaws from the two women. DG playfully smacked me on the arm and then turned to Ashley, “Did I tell you Jamie was hilarious, or what?” Her friend nodded. “Totally.”
Like Poe’s character in the Tell Tale Heart, I could no longer contain my guilt. I needed to expel it from my body like chicken tartare.
“Seriously. What’s your name?”
Even more laughter. “Jamie, you’re too much!”
Mirth vanished from my face. I grasped DG’s shoulder.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not kidding. I really don’t know your name.”
DG stopped laughing. Ashley had the “OMG! What a dick!” face going big time.
DG cocked her hip. Well, Jamie, my name is… Jamie.”
I should have doubled over from mortification-induced stomach pain, or rammed my head through the jukebox glass. Instead, I broke into a huge grin as clarity flashed-flooded through my cavernous cranium.
“You’re ‘Jamie Girl!’”
Two weekends before, I’d emerged from my coma on Sunday afternoon. Using credit card receipts, I pieced together the previous night. Then, I reached for my cell phone with overwhelming dread at how many drunk dials I may have made. Zero! But I did call a certain “Jamie Girl” before closing time. I remembered gleefully typing it in: a longtime goal was within reach.
I know I’m not alone in this. Guys with less-than-macho names like Kelly and Terry can relate: I’ve always wanted to have sex with a woman named Jamie.
This quest has proven more difficult than I had imagined. From a purely numbers standpoint, there aren’t a ton of Jamie’s running around. More problematic has been my set of standards, which are a lot higher than a pale, bald guy should keep.
Of course, when I’d finally found a young, brunette, gorgeous, funny college football fan who shares my name, I’d been too drunk to remember what she looked like.
And on that follow up Saturday night, she looked like she no longer liked me very much.
I started to try and explain myself, but I stopped, well aware I’d not only burned that bridge but the entire town, too. Jamie and Ashley stomped out of the bar.
With a big sigh, I turned to join my friends in the back. Only, they were approaching me with extra drinks in their hands.
“Where’d the chicks go? We were coming over to meet them!”
My wingmen no longer felt like fullbacks blocking for me. No, now they seemed like fullbacks cock-blocking me. But I can’t blame my buddies for the fact that I forgot my dream girl’s name. Not their fault.
I blame my parents. Who the heck names a boy Jamie, anyway?
photo: jemingway / flickr