Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [30]
“I can't believe you used the word missy.”
She gasped in horror. “See what happens when you talk to a one-year-old all day? PEE! POO! PEE! POO!”
“I surrender,” I said with a deliberate whine that I hoped might change her mind.
“Whoopee!” she cheered. “I'll call the new sitter!”
Persuasions: A Cheesy Slice of Jersey in the Heart of Manhattan
By Jessica Darling
Located on a particularly alcoholic stretch of midtown, Persuasions doesn't look like a bar in Manhattan. Modeled after craptastic clubs on the Jersey Shore, Persuasions is a haven for Wall Street meatheads who can't put their sunnin' and funnin' days behind them. (Oh, and girls who love them for their money.) Its unapologetic celebration of 1990s neon gave me a sense of neither-here-nor-there, jet-lagged disorientation.
At eleven years my senior, my sister, Bethany, was the perfect person to join me for an evening at Persuasions. It was a dead ringer for the Bamboo Bar, a club on the strip in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, that was the setting for the fateful Jägermeister-fueled introduction to her future husband back in the summer of 1993.
“Grant would love this place!” Bethany said.
She was so right in that assessment that I would not have been surprised to find my brother-in-law at the bar, buying kamikaze shots for a bunch of his old trader buddies.
“We aren't spending a single dollar on drinks,” Bethany declared with the confidence of someone who has always relied on libations kindly proffered in the pursuit of pussy. So we set up shop near the bar: two babes in body-hugging black. In less than ten seconds, the first wave of guidos launched their libidinous attack: seven beefy guys wearing their gel helmets, ribbed sweaters, and shiny pants with pride. Oh! I could taste the Miller Lite already.
After a few minutes of mind-numbing Dow Jonesian conversation and a refill or two of their own drinks, they, as a unit, asked us, as a unit, to dance. This did not surprise me, as I had been observing their fellow guidos' surround-and-conquer dance floor strategy. The females would dance amongst themselves in a tight circle, which was enveloped by a larger ring of guidos, creating a hump-and-bump huddle. We might have been able to overlook this unacceptable attempt at busting a move if one of these guidos had offered to buy our beers. But none of them did, so my sister and I declined. They quickly and indiscriminately moved on to the next cluster of females. And so it went with three more waves of cheapskates.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of thirst, I caved in and bought our own beers.
“To sisterhood!” Bethany sang, clinking our bottles together.
I didn't have time to decide whether her toast was cute, corny, or a bit of both because “Pump Up the Jam” suddenly erupted from the speakers. This, according to Bethany, is a universally understood Jersey Shore signal that something monumental is about to begin. The throbbing base reverberated through the floor—I was literally buzzing with anticipation. Sure enough, the MC hit the stage. He was in his late thirties, a year-round-tan kind of guy glistening in such a way that if I'd gotten close enough, I'm sure I could've confirmed that coconut-scented suntan oil oozed from his pores instead of sweat.
He announced that it was time for Persuasions' Third Annual Homemade Bikini Contest. Bethany and I giggled with girlie glee: A fashion show! What fun. Yes, we naively assumed that sewing machines would be somehow involved in the creation of the contestants' swimwear. So I literally spewed my beer when Contestant #1, “Cricket,” took the stage wearing spoonfuls of creamy cake frosting on her nipples and her preternaturally waxed pube region. I knew contests like this existed (how could I not with the proliferation of MTV Spring Break specials and Girls Gone Wild videos?), but I never thought I would be in the audience.
We weren't the only stunned ones. The guidos fell into a collective coma—as though their brains had to take a time-out to give their dicks the news: ATTENTION! NAKED