A LITTLE MORE PRACTICE (1)

It must be a slow night I think to myself as I take a quick glance around the near deserted bar. I look toward the only other occupants, three middle-aged men hell-bent on downing a couple pitchers of beer. It's apparent they're not in the first round either.

They laugh loudly, shout, and are totally absorbed in some primal male bonding ritual. They're slapping each other's shoulders and spouting the ribald humor that can only be appreciated in an inebriated state.

I wonder if a table of drunken women is as insufferable to listen to. What really irritates me though, is the fact not a single one of them has bothered to check me out.

Sure I'm not the svelte and glamorous babe I used to be, but surely I warrant at least a token leer or remark. I was a runway model just twenty pounds and fifteen years ago, and the extra weight has only enhanced my curves. Do men enjoy a bony ass?

Motioning the bartender for another screwdriver, I wonder what rock he crawled out from under. His scrawny a