His and Her Nightlife Diaries

His Story
Hits and Misses at Bistro 41
Eager to find a new romantic interest, I journeyed to the intimate Bistro 41 at the Bell Tower Shops on a rainy Saturday night. I spotted a 30-something woman seated at the bar eating alone. I ordered a drink, and we smiled at each other. I liked her look until I noticed a piece of calamari dangling from her lower lip like a hanging chad. I thought about mentioning it, but decided instead to inquire about the taste of the food.

"It’s really good," she said. The chad disappeared.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I learned her name is Jamie, visiting from Phoenix on business.
I glanced at the muted, flat-screen television above the bar, and saw a close-up of an aging political commentator whose pancake makeup appeared to flake off. Jamie said she didn’t care about politics, and I immediately agreed. We then talked about places we’ve been, especially Hawaii. I thought things were moving in my direction when she mentioned she was going to a movie after dinner.

She was amiable, pretty and single, so I suggested she be my guest. She paid her bill, gathered her things and left without me. I guess she hadn’t asked me any direct questions for a reason.

Getting Creative at Cru, Blu and Cin Cin
It was 9:20 p.m. when I arrived at Cru. The outside bar was active with young people. Inside, it was crowded. The pulsing music eliminated my disappointment about Jamie. There were six or seven 20-something "chirpies" seated at one table, but they were much too young for me.
I sat at the far end of the bar, and a little later, two gorgeous women—one blonde, the other brunette—made an entrance. The blonde was dressed in a very short, tight-fitting white skirt and a cleavage-enhancing, white sequin-studded top. The brunette wore a short black skirt and a revealing burgundy top with silver studs. Both had on 5-inch heels and sported bright red fingernail polish.
 
They sat down at a high table in the center of the room and ordered drinks. I made eye contact with the blonde. She smiled brightly. Then, I made eye contact with the brunette. We smiled at each other. After 20 minutes, they were still alone.

The blonde stood up, adjusted her skirt and paraded past me. She was definitely too young for my taste. I caught the brunette, who looked older, watching my reaction.

I asked my barkeep about the two ladies. Over the loud music he said, "I see them once in a while. I think the blonde might be a shrimper."

"A shrimper?" I said. "Wow, she must own the boat."

A short time later, the brunette pulled out her credit card. I felt out-of-my-league, but it was time to move before they left. I introduced myself and said they were the prettiest women I’d seen all evening.

The blonde, Amanda, proudly said Lisa was her mom. Lisa didn’t look a day over 35. I asked if it was true, and she said, "Yes, she’s my 26-year-old daughter," and then added, "I’m 46."

I was surprised that a woman would volunteer her age. I felt some chemistry and said, "Well, since we are revealing secrets, I’m 50."

I asked them, "Do you find men too intimidated to approach you?"

Lisa laughed and said, "Sometimes."

"What is the worst thing men do when they approach?"

"Paws. They put their paws all over me," Amanda said.
"How do they touch you?"

Amanda put her hand on my shoulder and then gently touched my back. "Like this," she cooed. The caress felt really good, but I turned my attention to Mom.

I looked into Lisa’s eyes and said, "What is the worst pickup line you ever heard?"

"You ever hear of the Flintstones?" she said.

I went blank. Then she said, "Well, baby, you make my bed rock."

We continued to talk, and I became convinced my soufflé was rising. Then things really heated up.

Amanda looked at me and said, "We are going to Blu. Want to join us?"

I blinked and said, "I’ll be along in just a moment." I sauntered back to my spot at the bar. I took a swig of my vodka tonic and bebopped my head to thumping rap music.

"Hey, you did really good," the barkeep said.

"I’m going to meet them at Blu," I said. "But, I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think she is a shrimper."
"A shrimper?" he said. "No! I said ‘stripper.’"

As I considered this new revelation, I also realized there were three Blus. "Which Blu did they go to?" I asked in a panic.

The barkeep calmly removed my hand from his lapel and said they probably went to the one on McGregor in Fort Myers.

Blu is a trendy sushi place with a New York City atmosphere, but tonight there were no crowd and no shrimpers—just a few people standing around the bar and a DJ spinning records.

Not to be deterred, I walked to Cin Cin, where a large cluster of people stood outside contemplating the merits of smoking in the rain. Inside, dancers packed in tight hopped to the sound of a karaoke singer wearing a small, white fedora.

I looked around for the mother-daughter promise, but only saw a passing acquaintance. I noticed he was with a new lady. He wondered aloud why I was out alone. I thought about how great it would be if my new friends appeared—but it was not to be.

Looking for Love at Bar Louie and Blu Too
Encouraged by the "promise," I drove 40 minutes to another Blu at Gulf Coast Town Center. The bar was full of good-looking young people milling around. Techno music pounded, and I got into the groove, but no one else was dancing. I saw two interesting-looking women in my age group seated together. I walked by them twice, but they refused to make eye contact with me.

I did not find my new friends, so I walked to Bar Louie across the way. Hip music greeted me at the door, along with a spill-out crowd of young people. A tall, Hulk Hogan type, dressed in black, stopped me at the door. He wanted to see my ID.

"Dude, I’m 50," I said, as I presented my driver’s license. My suave use of young people’s lingo eased the friction, and he waved me inside.

It’s a huge place, and it was full. I wormed my way through the crowd on the lookout for women close to my age. There were lots of suggestively dancing chirpies everywhere. I couldn’t get to the bar, so I stood near the raised dance platform along with a few guys my age who looked like me—lost, dazed and confused.

I returned to Blu in hopes of talking to the two women I’d seen earlier. I sat at the bar and soon one of them stood next to me. I introduced myself and asked her name. She looked at me and curtly replied, "Marla." No smile. No eye contact. No hope. The bartender brought her drink, and she walked away. I called it a night.

Making a Move in Downtown Naples
It was cold, and I wanted a bulked-up look, so I wore two T-shirts underneath my dress shirt. I walked into McCabe’s at about 8:30 p.m. It was crowded outside and standing room only inside. I looked around and spotted two gals I liked.

I meandered close so I could read the message on their T-shirts: WINE PATROL. That provided a witty idea to break the ice: So, just what are your qualifications to be Wine Patrol?

We made eye contact and smiled. I continued with my bar walkabout. Lots of people, but only the Wine Patrol held promise. When I returned, they were speaking to a guy. I pressed onward—no sense in dealing with authority figures and another man.

I crossed over Fifth Avenue to visit Vergina. The dining patio was full. Inside, it was party time, starring an upscale crowd. A karaoke singer belted out Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.

The lighting was perfect, the music great, and the crowd polite and friendly. I felt warm and comfortable in my Donna Karan corduroy blazer. I noticed two elegant ladies seated at the bar across from me. One had short auburn hair and wore a black, tight-fitting blouse featuring large gold buttons. Just my type.

I looked around, sipped my drink and soaked in the buzz. An interesting threesome made an entrance. The bleach-blond guy had the sides of his hair combed forward and the top combed back. I figured he was a hairdresser. He was accompanied by two attractive women, one of whom might be his sister. A possibility.