Manolo Goes For Some Capital Punishment

I was recently in Washington for some work-related stuff. Sure, Washington may be a seething hotbed of politics, drugs, murder, but it’s also got the country’s largest population of au pairs. At least, that what’s I heard. Someone had given the notion that, thanks to all its diplomats, politicians, and lobbyists, Washington has more au pairs than anywhere else—and every weekend, these foreign women gather at a nightspot to pick up American men. My mission while I was there: to find this magical place.

My first night there, I started by going to Adams Morgan and see what that section of the city had to offer. Most of the ladies were drinking Lindman’s Framboise, a raspberry brew not meant for real men. Men were drinking Dirty Dick’s Ale. I am sure there’s nothing like a Dirty Dick and I am sure Xtian has them left and right but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to order one. Therefore, I ordered lots of Lindman’s Framboise.

After a long night of praying to the porcelain gods, I decided to engage in some sightseeing. I am not Jewish and don’t need to get in touch with my heritage, but I decided I needed to visit to the Holocaust museum since I have been in Washington a couple of times but had failed to go. I didn’t expect to be treated to an unbelievable parade of beautiful women. Mothers and daughters. Sisters. Twins. Foreign, domestic, Jewish, Catholic. All kinds and all gorgeous. Men are outnumbered by at least two to one. But how does a man meet women at the Holocaust Museum? You have to play it very cool, something at which I fail repeatedly. This is obviously not a happy place.

First of all, you have to be quick. I noticed one pretty lady in little pink shorts and a white T-shirt. An au pair on her day off? She noticed me looking at her and she smiled at me. Nobody smiles here. But I waited too long to approach, and she wandered into the “Remember the Children” exhibit. Probably not the best place to ask where she’s from. I walked into the gift shop, where they make money selling key chains with cute pictures of Anne Frank. How tasteless can you get? I bought one and put it in my pocket, which I now realize was scant inches from my genitals. I waited for my honey with the pink shorts, but to no avail. Another strikeout.

I went to this place that serves lattes and alcohol. It was pretty packed with women. I guess women feel comfortable coming here alone because of the coffee bit. Unfortunately, lots of politicians frequent the joint. I asked a couple of guys claiming to be congressmen if they knew where the au pairs hung out. They said there was no such place and that it was an urban myth. Being so-called congressmen, I refused to believe them.

I still had faith. I kept wandering the city and I tried going into a place which had a velvet rope that took you into some sort of basement. They turned me away yet they let these hippies in wearing flip flops. Word on the street is that the Norwegian Mafia runs it. I didn’t fight it because I’d been smuggling salted fish and the Norwegian Mafia was after me.

I went to another trendy hip place. This place was like an unofficial gathering place for white people that can’t dance. As many readers can attest, I am not the greatest dancer BUT when next to white people, I am like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing or John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I started talking to this brunette with that hot Eastern European look found on many porn websites but she actually turned out to be from Kansas...not exotic enough but I had nothing better to do so I stuck around.

We were talking and dancing and we regaled each other with personal stories...She actually found my Holocaust Museum outing quite amusing. A few dances and drinks later, she then proceeds to pull me close and whispers in my ear that she wanted to show me something, I blurted out “Is it hot au pairs” She gave me a very pensive look. This time I said nothing. She took my hand, placed it on her left arm, her tanned skin was soft and I touched it a long time. and told me to roll up her sleeve, revealing a tattoo of an alley cat. I mentioned that back when I lived in NYC there was a bar/strip club called the Alley Cat near Wall Street where I spent many a work afternoon (shout out to Xtian and his life partner Matt).

She then downed her tequila shot and took her hair down.

“I have never been to a strip club. I think we should go to a strip club,” she whispered.
“That’s a stupid idea.” I answered. “Au pairs aren’t going to hang out at a strip club.”

She looked at me again with those beautiful pensive Kansas eyes and then she walked away...