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The Hump-and-Run

Candy's Column

The Hump-and-Run

I love visiting the Singles Scene every so often.  Having been with Mr. Candy for thirteen years, I find the whole hook-up process fascinating.  In fact, I consider myself a bit of an honorary biologist, studying human mating patterns in bars.  The Jane Goodall of Nightclubs, if you will.  Horny drunk people are a lot like wild chimpanzees, only much worse dancers.

As the designated married lady, I am also the perfect, non-threatening WingWoman for my single friends.  Frankly, there is no easier job than WingWoman (except, perhaps, being a Los Angeles meteorologist).

CANDY APPROACHES CUTE DRUNK GUY.

“Hi, would you like to dance with my cute, drunk friend in the low-cut dress over there?”

“Um, HELL YEAH!”

CANDY DISCREETLY DISAPPEARS AS THE TWO BUMP GENITAL AREAS TO SOMETHING ROMANTIC, LIKE  “GOLD DIGGER.”  SUCCESS!  HER WORK HERE IS DONE.

Best of all, a visit to the native land of horny singles ALWAYS makes me realize how happy I am to be a boring, old married lady.  And never was this more true than last Wednesday, when Mr. Candy generously offered to watch Miss Skye while my single friend Lori and I enjoyed a couple gingerbread martinis at a nearby lounge.  That’s right, folks:  GINGERBREAD MARTINIS!  Two glasses later, I somehow found myself on the small dance floor, jumping up and down to Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling.”  I gotta feeling, all right.  A feeling that I’m a LIGHTWEIGHT in the tolerance department these days.  Also…?  A sinking feeling that Lori and I were being surrounded.

“So… how do you ladies know each other?”

Oh, shit.  It was weird enough to be at a bar as a new mom, but even weirder to be at a bar as a new mom with horny single dudes ambushing us.   It was both flattering — hey, Mamas need validation, too! — and icky.   Yeah, definitely more icky.  It’s so rare that I get out these days; why couldn’t they just let me enjoy this very special moment of flailing around the dance floor with a gingerbread martini buzz?

I made sure they saw my wedding ring with a subtle gesture:  by grabbing my chin with my left hand, as though deep in thought.  Of course.  Very… natural.

“You’re married, I see,” Horny Single Dude #1 says to me.

“Yep,” I nod, hand on chin, apparently still deep in thought.

“Lucky you — you have nothing to lose,” he responds.

Yeah.  Okay.  Whatever that means.   But before I could further charm him by mentioning that I was a new mom and could feel my milk coming in — Yes!  The lactation defense! — the guys suddenly disappeared.  Phew.  Thinking that we’d successfully thwarted their advances, Lori and I continued dancing.  And then — with apologies in advance to my parents and Mr. Candy — it happened:

HUMP, HUMP, HUMP!

Yes, folks, Horny Single Dude #1 was attempting a different approach — he was HUMPING MY BACKSIDE.  You ladies out there know the move.  Men, in their infinite beer-fueled wisdom, seem to think it’s acceptable to gyrate into an unsuspecting woman’s behind on a dance floor.  P.S.?  It’s NOT.

I froze.  Like, I was not moving AT ALL.  Unfazed, HSD #1 continued to do his thing.

“I would like to leave, please.”

“You got it,” Lori said, her eyes wide with horror.

So we ran the hell out of there.  Married or not, friends don’t let friends get dry-humped.

As you can imagine, I was very relieved to return home to my family that night and slip into bed with Mr. Candy — a man so sweet, that he didn’t try to hump my behind on the dance floor until the third date!  Awwwww.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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