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The acid-washed dreams are chugging their Molsons, Montell Jordan’s singing how good it feels in his ‘hood, and all’s right at Sea Horses Nite Club and Restaurant—an archetypal waterfront joint. “You can pick up all kinds of shit in there,” confirms Teresa, my fried-to-the-tonsils guide.
The mating game is cranking up as it does each weekend down on Solomon’s Island, an otherwise serene fishing village that lies an hour outside the Beltway, at the southern end of Maryland’s Calvert County. Over at the fight-a-night Rhumb Line, testosterone runs high as the local boys get loaded like shotguns and scrap with bouncers who went to their high school. Down the road is the more tranquil Tiki Bar, a Polynesian patio where patrons drown their inhibitions in big-gulp mai tais, then fall into Cupid’s lair at the adjoining Island Manor Motel.
But for intrinsic entertainment value and the best chance of finding a lust-interest, the smart money’s on Sea Horses, perched on the mouth of the Patuxent River before it turns into the Chesapeake Bay. From Lusby to Waldorf, they all come out: white and black and Asian and that bibber who just fell down the stairs and landed with his head between the slats.
The dominant strain is the redneck Guido, indigenous to area danceclubs. It’s Bensonhurst on the Chesapeake, with all these ersatz sons of Caesar cocking around in their Brooklyn-stoop tank-tees, spitting out mouthfuls of southern “Mare-lun.” They sport high-tops and shorts and coonskin spot perms that dangle over gold herringbones as thick as jumper cables; many look like pink toast from driving with the T-top open on the IROC-Z. Others, however, opt for bass trucks with under-car Kool Glo’s that bathe the asphalt in phosphorescent violet light—perfect for Luke Duke rebel-yell drive-bys or for reading while hanging from the chassis.
I ask Sea Horses’ manager, John Jacobsen, if he sees these people making fools of themselves. “Every night,” he says. The setting is oh-so-apropos. With seashell shingles, palm trees, a parquet dance floor, rainbow strobes, and a swordfish ‘n’ crabnet decor, the place feels like a rave gone seriously awry in Jimmy Buffett’s basement. Teresa explains the versatile allure: “You can be drunk and hangin’ outside, or drunk and hangin’ inside.”
Teresa sits astride Clint, a 22-year-old Baby Huey. “Everybody’s going to a club to get laid,” he opines. And where does he go for post-bar activities? “To the back of my truck, honestly.”
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I ask Clint his aesthetic preference. “Tan, blond, and big hooters,” he says. Teresa, a Zippy Pop redhead of modest knockage, remains unfazed; she continues Hoovering his neck. Clint pops a crisp dollar bill on a shooter girl’s tray. “This is all I need to get laid,” he declares. Teresa gives him a slap.
Andie, a 40ish brunette, says that the hunting prospects are good for her gender, too: “A woman can come in here and pick up anything she wants every night.” But she admits that the chase isn’t always pleasurable. The worst pickup line she’s ever heard, she says, was “I went to school with your son.”
Jay, a wall-of-gristle bouncer, describes the typical female enthusiast: “They’ll look at your size, feel your arms, feel your chest. A lot of them won’t ask, they’ll just do it—they’re very straightforward. You can be walking through the crowd, and they’ll feel your butt, see how they like it, then tell you it’s nice.”
“Have they ever grabbed your package?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” he grimaces.
Promiscuity abounds—or so it would seem from the Jack-and-Coke-induced fish stories. A waiter tells me that he served an eager customer “trouser trout” in a neighboring restaurant; a customer claims that he frequently shtups his Sea conquests in a nearby Episcopal church. One of Clint’s pals tells me that in a six-month span, he’s taken home 12 women. “But I use protection,” he says. “I try to make sure I know who they are.”
Then there’s Joe, who likes his women “phat to death and stacked to the hilt.” He claims that via Sea Horses, he’s had 20 in an eight-month span—no small feat, considering Joe looks like a stripped-down Forest Whitaker. “No woman can resist me dancin’,” he says. “It looks like a heatin’ session.”
He shies away from demonstrating his voodoo, but there’s still plenty of heatin’ to be seen. To the Nine Inch Nails downbeat, a frizzy dishwater blonde shakes her moneymaker and pounds her white stilettos, stopping only when she tears her flesh-colored hose. Two female chawbacons freak each other in stretched-out Lycra-tards, rocking straight off their ganglebones. Obviously, there’s no weight limit on the dance floor.
The men are a bit stiffer, jarhead Bud vats chugging their arms like melaninless soul trains, their bottom lips fixing to burst from central incisor pressure as they dance the White Man’s Overbite or the Convulsing Caucasian.
As the 2 a.m. bell is about to sound, coed tagteams saunter into the night. Clint and a still-hooched-to-the-gills Teresa extend a generous offer: “We’re gonna go blow a J and skinny-dip in the hot tub—you wanna come?”
I decline. Instead, I monitor the men’s room. Over the urinal, Dave and Kenny provide commentary on the night’s catch.
Dave: “Her face ain’t too bad.”
Kenny: “I don’t know, man, the way she talks down on that lap—she’s got to have more miles on that booty than I-95 itself. She’s collected more tolls than the Bay Bridge.”
Kenny looks sore when he sees my tape recorder. I quickly ask him if it would be hard to find a bed buddy. “Good Lord,” he says, “that’s a dumb question, dude. It’s out there!”