Rose’s Cantina

The Rose’s Cantina Ape Head Incident (excerpt from the The Beauregarde Affair):

Okay, so on to Rose’s. It was either a Friday or Saturday night, who knows when, and Perkie and I were ready for some action. At the time neither of us had steady girlfriends. Perkie rarely does. There is something about him that scares them all away (Neil has virtually never had a bona fide girlfriend, except for Candy, and that’s a story in itself.). Anyway, off we went, out on the prowl. It must have been a full moon or something, because I was in The Weird Mood.

“Let’s put on some costumes and blow some minds,” I suggest to Perkie as he sits on the toilet reading a Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic.

“Let’s not and say we did. What is it with you and this cross-dressing shit?” Perkie has never been big on my costume collection. To this I say that it takes real guts to get dressed up in a crimson and black wizard outfit—complete with bat-like wings and a long, flowing star-spangled cape—pull a latex Planet of the Apes mask over your head, and then hit the streets. I mean, this is Atlanta, Georgia, and you can definitely get your ass kicked up and down Peachtree for a lot less than walking into a bar on a Friday night looking like that. In fact, I have more than once encountered the receiving end of some red-neck’s flying fists just by being my normal long-haired, cool, hippie self. So I figure that if I’m going to get beaten up, there might as well be a reason for it, right? Anyhow, Perkie and I hop into to his Ghia and we’re heading out to Rose’s Cantina, our favorite watering hole after Little Five Points. When we get there I stash my gear in the back seat, and we cruise into Rose’s—sneaking past the drunken fool taking cover charges, if I remember correctly—and grab some beers. The place is packed, as usual, and after an hour or so I just can’t wait anymore. There are Babes galore, but they all have that typical air of complete inapproachability that ultimately makes going out a depressing sort of venture. I guess Perkie and I aren’t exactly what you’d call God’s gift to the women of Atlanta, although I get my share. Like with Janne. When it comes to females I’m often forced to rely on my inner values, whereas I suspect that Perkie relies mostly on his right hand—or other things, as the case may be. In any event, I figure that Rose’s is now ripe for a visit from Commander Chimp, intergalactic lounge ape. Some people will do anything for attention. I sure will. So Perkie and I take a trip out to the parking lot, and then scoot up the ladder that leads to the roof of the deserted garage, where we ritually partake of the peace pipe. I’ve always wondered who put that ladder up there, since in all the years we’ve been going to Rose’s I’ve never met another soul, other than my own friends, on top of that garage. That ladder and roof have served us well; our private cannabis oasis.

When we’re finished Perkie says, “Give me a five minute lead so that no one equates your demented entrance with mine,” as he hands me the car keys. Right, that’s what friends are for, I think to myself as I look down at Perkie’s departing butt crossing the lot. I also notice that the parking lot includes a cluster of majorly chopped Harleys and I wonder if it will be their owners who perhaps will be pummeling me shortly. Motorcycle dudes are pretty hard-core, and generally not to be reasoned with. They are known for being pretty unpredictable. One minute they’re all buddy-buddy, calling you Bro, the next they’re shoving a fucking pool cue down your throat. But there’s nothing for it, I’ve got to follow through. Follow-through is everything when you’re as spaced out as I am, because otherwise I would be even more lost than I already am. I can only thank God that in his infinite wisdom he has made breathing and the beating of the heart autonomous functions.

I climb down the ladder, don the ape wizard outfit in the shadow of the garage and no one is even thinking of asking for a cover charge as I cruise through the front door. These people are spooked by the appearance of Commander Chimp, and so am I, so I head for the bar. Fuck a bunch of beer, I need a real drink, preferably several, and pronto. The bartender is apparently spooked, too.

“I’m not serving you until you take off that goddamned monkey mask,” he says. This is of course not an option, so I trot out my first line of defense.

“I’m with the band, man,” I explain to him with this world-weary sigh, and somehow get away with it. It’s not the first time, either. Attitude will get you everywhere. I don’t even know who’s playing tonight, or if anyone is, for that matter. The next problem that presents itself after finally getting my double whiskey is that when I try to take a drink I end up pouring half of it into the mask and another third down the front of my costume. I have discovered that it is not physically possible to drink from a glass while wearing a set of bulbous latex chimp lips. Brilliant. I ask for a straw, which amazingly enough I get. I think the bartender is so relieved that I didn’t pull out one of those outer-space swords and part him in two that he is willing to to give me some extra service. I mean, this is Rose’s Cantina; even The Law steers clear of this place. Anyhow, I’m slouched over the bar, sucking away at my spirits and smelling like a mobile distillery when the most, and I kid myself not, out-of-sight chick that I’ve ever encountered in such a hippie slum type of bar comes up to me and says; “Wow, bitchin’ outfit.”

I am taken completely off guard, and not particularly prepared for this. Here is my wet dream come true, and like, what do I do now? The only thing possible. I emit an unintelligible grunt, turn and walk away. Cool as can be, and almost peeing in my pants. Stumbling aimlessly, stunned, I find myself an empty chair near the back wall. My over-taxed, under-fed brain cells need time to regroup and digest this unforeseen situation. But it is not to be. No sooner than I’m uncomfortably seated, completely tangled up in my costume, than the previously mentioned babe crosses the floor and, without further ado, hops into my lap. She throws her arms around my neck and sticks her tongue—I swear—into the latex ear of my ape mask. I didn’t feel it, I heard it.

Here are the particulars, at least as far as I remember them. She was long and thin, wearing mercilessly tight jeans and a spangled tube-top. Her undoubtedly cute feet were tucked into a pair of cowboy boots, the kind with all that little curlicue shit on them. I don’t know how she managed it, being so thin and all, but she had those wonderful kind of big tits that seem to defy physics, specifically the forces of gravity. They both hang pendulously and stick out at the same time. Nice trick. Long, silky, dark hair and thick pink lips; the color of her eyes I couldn’t make out in the half-light, but they looked pretty dark. There was something a little bit Asian about her, with high cheekbones and dark skin. And she smelled so good that I wasn’t sure if I was getting a buzz off of her or the spilled whiskey fumes. She was basically gorgeous, with the kind of girlie magazine good looks that I could only ever dream of actually getting my paws on. So. Here I am, having the time of my life, and on top of it all I see Perkie out of the corner of my eye, looking at me like he’s about to start crying. He gives me the finger; I wave back.

“Who’s under this mask?” the babe purrs. Her breath is sweet and fills the mask with wine fumes. My glasses fog over and I can’t see a thing.

“Just little ol’ me,” I reply as the whiskey kicks into my system. I’m getting into gear now. Her female warmth is penetrating my outfit and, like the whiskey, is also coursing through me. A serious hard-on is doing its best to make its presence known, but is unfortunately—and somewhat painfully—pinned beneath her weight. Kind of like a mushroom trapped under a log.

“Show me,” she says.

“No can do,” I reply, assuming she is referring to my face, but not quite sure. “It’s glued on.”

“I gotta see,” she demands, as she runs a warm, slender hand under my mask, and hooks one of her fingers into the corner of my mouth. I reflexively want to bite it but prudently abstain. Something deep down inside tells me no way, the mask stays on, but I’m already thinking about the future. At some point in the course of this evening I’m—hopefully—going to have to expose more of my non-latex self to this righteous piece of femaleness. Like when we are shedding our duds, getting ready to get down to it, so it might as well be now, right? But along side the little voice there are warning bells going off, and I hear yet another alter ego say, Don’t do it, fool! I know this particular voice quite well. I usually hear it right before the bottom drops out of whatever piece of idiocy I have currently gotten myself into. I briefly considered the possibility that this woman will be willing to make love to a masked man, but I somehow find that hard to imagine. Maybe she’d do it with Batman or Zorro, but Space Ape; no way. Plus, judging from the minimal stimulation I received from her initial tongue kiss, I figure that what with this oversized condom covering my entire head, I’ll be missing out on some first class action. In the meantime she—name eternally unknown—has grabbed my rubber ape-snout between her sharp little teeth and is shaking my head back and forth like a terrier does a rat.

“Who are you?” she growls, and not without a note of impatience in her voice.

And now we come to the end of case two. And it is, of course, quite clear where all of this is headed, right? In the end she persuaded me to lose the mask. By that time I was into my second or third double whiskey, not to mention all the other stuff that had already gone into me earlier that evening. Simply stated; I was cruising. I tried to yank off the mask, which was no easy feat drunk and stoned, wrapped in bat wings and a cape, all the while pinned down by a writhing female. My would-be partner grasped the situation immediately, grabbed hold of my outer set of ears and pulled with all her might. The mask came off with a whoosh and she tumbled backwards off my lap onto the floor. Real graceful. She was up in a flash and back on my lap before I could even get my hair out of my face.

Well, the long and short of it was that she took one look at me, got up and, without another word, disappeared back into the multitudes of Rose’s clientele. Not a word, not even an ugh or a yuck. Now I may not be handsome, but I’m not exactly ugly either, so I couldn’t figure it out. Needless to say, I was crestfallen. After waiting around, fully knowing that she wasn’t coming back, but not wanting to accept that fact, I finally ended up dragging Perkie out before the pool-playing bikers started to get rowdy, and went home in complete humiliation. But it occurred to me later that what had really happened was that I had foolishly fiddled with the MoM factor. I’d created this cool mystery and then I’d offed it by removing the mask. No one—no one—could have come out from under that mask and been as cool as the unknown man that babe had created for herself. Not Paul Newman, not Robert Redford either. She wanted a mystery man. Now that’s a truth. Although she probably wouldn’t have walked away from Robert Redford. So . . . next time; the leather casing stays on, the mask stays put and I don’t give a rat’s ass how much they beg or whine.


3 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Sad Mask on 29/06/2011 at 00:54

    Well, I don’t know. I still haven’t taken mine off and I’ve yet to score.


  2. Great story. Can I link it from The Strip Project?


    • Posted by Son of Incogneato on 01/07/2011 at 22:42

      Hey Patrick, Would love to have the Rose’s post linked to The Strip Project. I sent you a mail on Facebook.
      – Brian


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