Where’s My Wingman?

Then jump to spring 2003, when I style naturally in New Orleans with Yana, a woman who partied so hard that many of her stories sounded like the start of a police report; “So, I’m walking up 16th Street ’round 2 am, heels in my hand, drunk off my ass, and then…”, and the dastardly duo becomes a terrible threesome.

Soon after, Terri joined the fray. Terri who would pick up the slack in a spectacular way. After say, the second beer at the bar, she would say, “I’m bored, lets get you laid,” and head out into the crowd, sending hotties my way.

Terri never failed in her quest to find me loving, not that I always got more than a hello or maybe a number, but its her effort that I loved. She’d work her fine ass off for me. In return, I’d entertain her with stories of success and failure.

The four of us made many fine memories then, memories that I’m not about to tell here, in this too-public forum. Let’s just say that we truly enjoyed ourselves in 2003 and 2004. Think Halloween, Patio Party Time, and Grilling with Mom. Or well we did till the team started to break up.

Yana was first, moving to Mozambique to follow a dream. She found mainly dreamboats, or YDF’s in Yana speak. YDF’s = Young, dumb, and fine, or boys who were very hot and spoke with a foreign accent, though you’d rather they kept their mouth shut and their hips moving. She moved around Southern Africa enjoying its pleasures, but forgot about us here in DC.

Then Matt P, in a brazen dis to all wingmen everywhere, pulled a classic walkout and left the team without even a ‘bye d’bye.” I still have no clue what happened to him, but I suspect it was the work of a woman. Matt P was always really looking for the next Mrs. P, and he’s probably happily ensconced with her and her kids out past 495 somewhere.

Now, the last of the team to depart, Terri is getting hitched. Her man is great, perfect for her and all, and yet I am still sad. Now they have all gone their separate ways, the 2003-4 Party Crew, off to new lands or new lives, and I feel like I am still here, unchanged since I was thrown a curve ball.

Yes, I know, I’ve been in Glamour Magazine, gone ’round West Africa, been sold for charity, and even become an Olympian, so I should not fret. But somedays, like today, I do. Hell, I’m still mistaken for Ben M Gautheir!