A Night at the Tam

It's interesting proofing this after writing. There's not much dialog. Part of that is faded memories; after 40 years, those details dropped out, but the physicality of it all stayed with me. The Tam O'Shanter was a restaurant and bar in Brookline, Massachusetts. We used to call it the Tam, which should have been confusing because there was a dive bar named the Tam on Tremont, but we were never confused. In the late 80s, one of my favorite acts there was "The Pencils," also laughingly called "The Fucking Pencils" from a satirical song they did, "I'm a Cambridge Kind of Guy" that was punk-ish. They did high-energy rock, R&B, and pop covers, originals that were mostly satire, and songs by Pousette-Dart Band from when the three main band members, John Curtis, Jon Troy, and Jean-Dominique Sifantus, were in the band. They rocked. Their oldies were awesome and tight.

For the Pencils, I went for the music and generally didn't dance or try to hook up since I wanted to catch the tunes. I was at the far end of the bar from the door, sipping away at my bottle of Bass, when I noticed her. She was alone and short, about five feet even, with a striking black bob of hair and a blue dress that was pretty much my favorite color and eyes so brown they looked black, which gave the illusion that her pupils were totally dilated. I had about the same eye color, which is a huge psychological advantage when seeking a hookup. They unconsciously think you are really interested from the appearance of dilated pupils. She probably didn't break 100 pounds.

My now-divided attention was struggling with that classic approach-approach conflict I had studied in intro psych class at college. I knew the likely response but was powerless to resist it. First step: rapid vacillation. I would look at the band and listen, then turn my head slightly and drink in her beauty, then John would lay down a power chord, bringing me back to the band, then she would laugh, bringing my attention back to her. The only thing saving me from whiplash is that she was almost directly between me and the stage. This lasted a few songs.

That woman had the best radar. She caught me looking. Several times. Suddenly, she stood and turned to face me directly. After a brief pause she slowly walked up to me, coming just a bit into my personal space so I could hear her, and stood up on her toes craning her neck up toward me asked "Wanna dance?" at a quiet moment. We now entered the Compromise and Integration phase of an approach-approach conflict, trying to synthesize both options and get the best of both worlds.

I looked her in the eyes, consciously noticing the pupil effect. That psych class really had given me useful education. I nodded slowly and said, "That would be great."

She took my hand and led me the few steps to an open spot on the floor. The song was "Jacques Cousteau" and when she spun, I could just see the tops of her stockings attached by blue garter straps. That was intentional, never an accident, when a 5'10" guy can see garters of a 5' woman. Without prompting, we both did the swim dance move as John sang, "Well, Jacques and the fishes are doing the Swim. Jump back, shark, let's do it again!" We both giggled at that. It was clear from how she started the swim before John sang it that she knew it was coming. Another Pencils fan!

As the song came to a close, she reached her arms around my neck, pulled me down a bit while turning my head, and gave me a peck on the cheek before letting go. "So, you're a Pencils fan, too?"

"Yeah. Used to be a big Pousette-Dart Band fan back when they sometimes opened for Eagles."

She lit up. "I loved them! I especially loved the live version of *Silver Stars*, where Jon would play the intro bass line while Pousette-Dart pretended to dial it on a Touch Tone phone."

"Saw that in Springfield. It was awesome!"

I noticed in my writing style, I just stopped saying who said what. That's fair. Most of the things could have been either of us. We were that in sync. It was starting to look like integration might be a winning strategy. I liked that. "Drink?" I asked.

"Bass Ale," she responded, and that growing flame inside me grew just a little more.

The bar was three deep, but I was a regular and just waved two fingers at Barfy, the best bartender nickname ever, and he passed me two Bass. I offered one to nameless chick, asking, "What's your name?"

"Stephanie," she answered, holding out her hand for an introductory handshake.

Instead, I turned her hand palm down, leaned down, and kissed the back of her hand. "It is truly a pleasure to meet you, Stephanie. I'm Rob."

She curtsied and responded, "The pleasure is all mine, Rob." She took both my hands and pulled me down for a quick lip-on-lip kiss. We listened to the music for a bit while we finished our beers. She kept pace with me sip by sip, her arms mirroring mine. Oh, that psych class was ringing bells in my brain. She was for real interested and either just acting the way or, more excitingly, doing it on purpose because she knew the psych rules. This was getting fun. She would touch my shoulder, lean in, and laugh when I told a joke. I felt like it was then safe to touch her hand whenever she said something thoughtful. We were seducing each other to a script straight out of psych class. My prof, iconoclast that he was, had literally walked us through seduction scripts using mirroring, leaning, touching, and eye engagement. There was quite a bit of eye engagement. I felt a sudden urge to send him a thank-you mail (this was the 80s; I had email but didn't know his BITNET email).

Apparently, Stephanie ran out of patience for me and asked, "Want to take a break outside for a minute?" I nodded, and she led me past the bathrooms and out the back door, propping it barely open with a rock from the alley. "Can't miss the rest of the show," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me down for a long, luxurious kiss as our mouths opened and tongues became acquainted.

I leaned back, leaving my hips touching above hers, and took her five short feet into consideration. She had a blue headband, blue lip gloss, that wonderful medium blue dress that was oh-so-short, blue stockings, and blue shoes. All slightly different in a beautiful monochromatic color scheme. It was hard at this point to not make the psychological judgement: calm, control, introspection, depth, and yet detachment. This could get interesting.

I reached around, grabbed her with both hands by her ass, and lifted her up until her lips met mine for another long kiss. She wasted no time while we shared our mouths, unbuttoning my shirt, running her hands over my chest, and disengaging from our kiss to tweak my nipples. I pushed her back against the brick wall and used the support of the wall to take some of the load off my arms, freeing one hand to reach under her dress and remove her panties, which were, of course, another shade of blue. She reached into her clutch, pulled out a condom with ease, and deftly unwrapped it. "Put me down for a second," she asked and dropped to her knees, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my 501s. She dragged my boxers down until my cock popped out and gave it a quick suck before rolling the condom on.

Then she stood and said, "Lift me back up and fuck me." I did not need a reminder. I grabbed her butt and lifted, pinning her to the wall. She lifted her legs and guided my cock into her pussy with a sigh. "I knew I would like that from the moment I saw you." Each thrust brought a little pulse of pleasure, which increased into an aching in my balls, which I could feel retracting into my body. She covered her mouth and let out a muffled yelp. That pushed me over the edge, and I filled that condom. She let her legs down, and we disengaged. "I love condoms. Saves the need for cleanup on aisle one." Then she kissed me and said, "See you next time the Pencils play. Or maybe sooner. I come here a lot," and she walked down the alley to Washington Street.