The Electric Blue Raver School Girls, Scaring My Friends, and Strangers 1


The Electric Blue Raver School Girls, Scaring My Friends, and Strangers

 

It is a sunny late spring day in sin city and one of my friends asks if i want to sneak out to join in a group a run down the strip.  In an attempt to avoid the treadmill it sounded like a great idea. I’m the last one to show up in the lobby to meet the group of them.  

 

What does one wear on a run? Well running shoes, shorts, and in my case a sleeveless black shirt with very dark wrap around sunglasses.

 

It becomes clear the instant they see me that no one in this group is use to seeing me out of a suit and the occasional pair of Jeans. Most have never seen more than my hands and face.

 

They are use to the wing tip version with the sweaters. The preppy and banker looks. Not a hair out of place, aggression and ambition cloaked in diplomacy and social graces. In fairness that is the armor I wear and a well cultivated public image.

 

A sleeveless black shirt showing my tat and arms and shorts showing the quads of a man who think doing squats counts as an actual religion they were not prepared for.

 

One commented as soon as i walked  up “I had no idea you had arms LIKE that.” Laughing it off we headed out.

 

Now a quick review. It is clear my friends are not sure about the tatted up muscular version of me.  I do not look like a distance runner, and am more akin to a horror movie psycho stalking his next victim when on a run. At best a rugby player with murderous intent. The upside of this is no one has ever tried to mug me.

 

At stop lights i would chat with rough looking fuckers, biker types, women dressed like rocker chicks. i would call out to strangers wearing my hometown sports teams jerseys instantly bonding with “Nah i’m from X neighborhood.” etc.  

 

7 miles later you could find me back at the casino feeding my addictions with a huge cup of coffee and most of the group. A little down time just hanging and being social.

 

A young woman dressed up as a mix of raver baby and Japanese school girl comes up and starts a conversation about my shoulder piece. She has a water color half sleeve herself. So you know tat people sometimes love to talk about and show off their ink.  Mine does not say “peaceful, well adjusted member of proper society.”

 

She is hot as fuck and 3 her friends have appeared. They are in the same style get ups and in her league looks wise. Are morning raves still a thing? Who knows maybe it was the end of a very long night.  Good for them!

 

My button down friends are not use to the rough aging metal head version of me.  Aggressive yes, but not the no fucks are given I may really in league with the devil hellion image.

 

After all it’s one thing to see me talk to or even slip away with a woman in a party dress or the J Crew spring collection. It is another to see me talking to 4 party girls with wild hair colors in funky outfits.  

 

A little while later In walks a guy who is maybe 5’6” and maybe 115 pounds. He too is in a sleeveless shirt but his arms look like if he had to hold an average sized dick to piss they might break off. His tattoos looked like they were done by a drunken clown at a county fair with a bic pen and rusty needle.

 

Apparently his girlfriend is the one who started the conversation. So he goes into possessive asshole mode and demands I stop talking to her.  At this point she is tracing the line work where my delt meets my triceps.  Granted probably not something a guy wants to see his female companion doing.

 

“No worries man we were just talking” I offer. After all we were. His body language tells me he’s getting ready to unleash his Napoleon complex.

 

“Look brother it wasn’t me and 3 friends dressed like a raver babies caressing your girlfriend’s Tat. It was the other way around so step off.”

 

He puffs out his chest, squares to me sizing me up. My friends seem to be longing for the wing tip version of me to reappear. The one where I seem dangerous in much less tangible sense. In the moment that guy doesn’t exist.

 

“Look you little fucking tweaker. Get the fuck away from me before I break you into pieces. Go do some X and mellow the fuck out.”

 

My friends have shit their Nike shorts and LuLu Lemon pants. Me, I forgot my facade and was seriously going to fuck him up if he got any closer.  I am after all a lousy pacifist, was on a post workout testosterone rush, and under caffeinated.

 

The little tweaker wandered away, I introduced my new friends to my old friends. They invited us to a “party” later and I did my best to set up one of the guys with girl with electric blue pigtails.

 

After all you haven’t really lived until you have hooked up with a woman way too young for you that has a crazy hair color pulled into pigtails dressed like a Japanese school girl.  Right?


About Malflic

Minor Demon, life long hedonist, sadist and general nerd. Women are my weakness and greatest addiction of choice followed by torrid love affair with coffee and caffeine. When not committing sins of the flesh I'm an unrepentant capitalist, avid reader, Star Wars, and B rate comedy movie geek.


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