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Went to the dirt track this past weekend, and boy did I get my money’s worth. For the uneducated, the “dirt track” is a quarter-mile banked oval track on which highly tuned race cars hurtle around in semi-controlled slides for thirty laps. I went with my friend Greg, who, apparently, is a big fan of the track. Upon walking through the gate he steered me directly to the best seats in the house. We were perched up high, with optimal viewing of almost the entire track (even the back stretch). Next to us was a mother and three young children. She asked us if we minded her standing next to us to video tape. Having no objections, we nodded and visciously attacked our fried dough as the races began.

About half way through the night is when things got interesting. The woman next to us stood up and began unpacking her camera. I sidled over to her, “Who we rootin’ for?” I said.

“Uh, #96,” she said, “that’s my husband.”

“Will do.” Greg said with a grin.

“He needs it,” she said under her breath. Greg and I glanced at each other.

Down on the track #96 was about halfway back in the pack as it slowly rounded the back stretch on its way for the rolling start. By the time the cars hit the starting line they were all running full-bore, tightly packed, two abreast. Suddenly #96 started to fish-tail, he was being bumped from behind by #250! #250 rammed one final time and sent #96 almost sideways. Tires chewing up the hard-packed clay, the engine roared, flames shot from the exhaust, and #96 roared ahead, straightening out and narrowly averting a first lap disaster.

“Aww crap,” said the woman next to me, “#250 really pissed him off.”

By the end of the second lap #250 had easily passed #96. (A little too easily.) The entered the first turn of lap three. #250 slid into the high banked turn with flawless efficiency, perfectly balancing the throttle with the clutch, the back end swinging out just enough to keep the wheels putting power to the ground. Next to me I heard a yelp of alarm and shifted my focus just fast enough to watch #96 come screaming into the turn. The car swerved and was suddenly sideways, sliding up the bank of the turn, and missed the rear-end of #250 by mere inches. I heard another yelp as the car almost slid into the wall. At the last second flames again erupted from the exhaust and the car lept forward, surging away from the wall and back down the banked turn.

“He’s not even tryin’ to race anymore,” I heard the women next to me say. I don’t know if she was talking to me specifically, or to anyone who would listen.

At the other end of the track the situation persisted. Again #250 entered the turn and again #96 sailed by, brushed the wall, and was off in hot pursuit down the front stretch.

I turned to the woman. She’d given the camera to her son and was crumpled against the bleachers, a lit Newport hanging from her mouth.
Back to the race: VROOOOM, slide, gasp, wall, throttle. This was getting amusing.

“Mom, what’s dad doing?” said the son holding the video camera, “I don’t think he’s trying to win anymore.”

“You’re right, honey,” said the mother, her head buried in her hands, “Daddy’s just contentrating on something else now, that’s all.”

I just stumbled back from my friend’s birthday party. I went with her and her lady friends to a lesbian dance club. That’s right, a lesbian dance club (in case you don’t know me, I do like the ladies, but, sadly, am also a dude).

We rolled up to the club around one o’clock. There was a crowd of women outside smoking and half-heartedly trying to keep dry under the awnings over the clubs shuttered windows. I thought I saw a few guys in there with them, but upon closer inspection, I learned that they were the “diesel” ones. (I’m not sure if I’ve got the correct terminology there). And speaking of surprises, I was astonished to learn that men had to be on “the list” just to get in! According to my friend, it’s because most lesbian couples don’t like to be propositioned for threesomes by drunken guys (Who knew!)

Luckily, I was looking particularly trust-worthy and with just a quick inspection from the bouncer was allowed to pay my ten bucks and stroll into the club unmolested. Once inside, however, I was greeted by a surreal world of gyrating women, drinks with umbrellas, and stripper poles in odd corners of the room, and not a single guy in sight. Knowing that I was “on probation” from the bouncer-lady outside (and also knowing that nine out of ten women in the bar could probably kick my ass anyway) I spent most of my first minutes there with my hands pressed up against my sides, awkwardly rocking back and forth to the music, trying to keep as far away from the heaving bosoms and booty shaking as I possibly could. Women were knocking into me from all directions. As one would brush up aganst me, in mid-grind with her partner, another would spin around, whipping a head of deliciously scented hair against my face. Lights flashed, arms waved, a woman in black lingerie was up on the bar, coyly shaking her thang. And in the middle of all this there was me, eyes unsuccessfully averting contact, nearly yelping in alarm every time someone touched me, the words “Don’t. Touch. Anything.” shouting in my brain, even over the volume of the pounding jungle rhythm.

Maybe it was that my eyes were shut tight. Maybe it was my robot-like, herky-jerky, DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!! dance style, but my friend saw what was going on and pulled me into the middle of her circle of compatriots. I opened my eyes, friendly faces. I relaxed a little. The jungle track morphed into a more metal-ish song and I started to mix a little headbang action into my dancing. I looked around at the sea of women around me. Nobody was looking at me, nobody even cared I was here. From behind I felt a hand lasciviously slide across my bum. I turned to see who it was and a strange woman was looking right at me. Upon seeing the beard she gave me a sheepish grin and disappeared into the pulsating crowd. I grinned as well, more to myself then to anyone around me, and settled back into a nice night of getting my dance on.

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