Night Wranglers

You know those nights when your Freak Magnet powers are just reeling ’em in? Well, we were having that problem at Denim and Diamonds, the unlikely setting for a night of bad come-ons and earnest confessions.

OK, we weren’t sure what to expect from a country-western bar in North Kansas City, but we actually had a fantastic time, thanks in part to the 50-cent drinks on ladies’ night every Wednesday. Yep, that’s right — 50 cents for wine, wells and select draft beers, and no cover for the chicks. Plus, it’s only a 15-minute drive from downtown. So we gathered Research Assistants Cece and Laura and headed north.

We liked that the huge bar wasn’t smoky or crowded, and even though a ginormous screen was repeatedly showing ESPN’s top ten plays of the day — something that usually entrances us — we were more interested in taking in the scene. On the big hardwood dance floor, folks in cowboy hats and boots were line dancing to the Escape Club’s “Wild Wild West” (and more authentic country songs, too; line-dancing lessons are offered from 7:30 to 8:30 p.m.). The Copenhagen and Skoal girls were giving away free samples in the back, causing a cowboy near us to exclaim, “Let’s go! Free fucking chew!”

As the night wore on, though, the older crowd cleared out, and a decidedly younger and more raucous atmosphere took over. The DJ put on Usher, Lil John and 50 Cent (between the country stuff), which prompted much free-form grinding as well as pole dancing on the two platforms flanking the floor. RA Laura pointed out a cage by the DJ booth, and when we went to investigate, a chick who said her name was Katie was on her knees doing a blow-job shot from the crotch of a staff member who called himself Sheriff Dennis. He said his job was to “make people have fun.”

“Do you have handcuffs? That would make things fun,” we said.

“We can’t use them here — insurance. Maybe later,” he teased as he walked away. Ooh. We needed a drink after that exchange, and as we were getting our umpteenth vodka cranberry, a woman exclaimed, “Ohmigod! You’re the only other Asian woman in here!”

The Night Ranger turned around and met Bobbie, 28, a pretty half-Thai chick who was having a GNO (girls’ night out) with her co-workers from Outback Steakhouse. We had spotted them earlier in the night, singing along loudly to Shania Twain. We ended up discussing that ever-popular topic — dating in KC — with Kira, 22, and Sarah, 22.

“We’ve got Asian love,” Bobbie somewhat tipsily proclaimed to her friend, Karie, 28. “We’re in a country bar. We don’t belong, but we do.”

“You and that black girl,” Karie answered.

Bobbie then pointed out a tall guy in a light-tan suit and a tie. “We went to high school together. And he won’t even talk to me. He’s so trying to be that cool guy who doesn’t know you.”

Ugh. So rude. We drunkenly pointed out that anyone who was still wearing a suit and tie at midnight was a tool anyway. Plus, he was fake-bake orange, which just added to his toolishness. Not a half-hour later, our RAs pointed out that some sort of fight had broken out, so the NR trotted to the front to check it out. Lo and behold, Tan Suit and his man tribe were being kicked out. “It’s a big pissing contest,” he said. “We didn’t start it.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but we swore we could see an orange glow around him as he left — kind of like when Fox Sports put a blue-glow tracking device on a hockey puck.

Just when we didn’t think we could handle any more excitement, a young guy with a shorn head wearing a hoodie approached the NR.

“My friend wants to talk to you,” he said. “Can he?”

Um. Is this seventh grade? Guys, please note that if you have to send an agent over to make the initial contact, you will never get laid.

However, because we were Night Rangering, we agreed. Our new potential BF was the last thing we expected — Khan, a 40-year-old guy from Pakistan with a booshy moostache. Instead of giving him shit for sending over a friend, we chatted briefly before trying to give him a gentle brushoff. Apparently, the NR was a little too polite.

“Can I see you for breakfast?” Khan asked. Uh, no. “All right, I tried.” Sadly, he decided to try harder and came back for round two.

“I wanted to yak with you. Come on, want to call me? You’re from Asia. I’m from Asia. I’m lonely. I hate this music,” he said. Just then, another guy came up to the NR and asked her to dance. She declined. “It’s not right of him to ask you while you’re sitting next to me,” Khan said. “Put that damn book down, will you?” he demanded. (We were furiously taking down everything he said.) Yeah, bossiness and a passive pickup style — not high marks with the NR.

But Khan was downright smooth compared with pink-shirted “Dax,” 27, who casually announced to us, “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m really fucking good-looking.”

Proclaiming himself “Kansas City’s pretty boy,” he sat down next to us, then opened up. We found him oddly mesmerizing. This mortgage broker (who told us he makes six figures) found it difficult to hold back any detail, no matter how self-aggrandizing.

“I’m not gay” he announced. “Just so you know. I’m just a pretty boy … I’ve got pretty hair. Most guys don’t have hair,” he said.

“Do you frost it?” we asked, hoping in vain to find him as fascinating as he found himself. He said no and attributed his blondness to riding around in the sun in his bright-yellow Mustang convertible. After sharing some grooming details (he shaves his chest with a Microtouch; he has a pierced dick and a pierced nipple), he mentioned that, by the way, he’s never worn a condom. “I’m a dirty boy,” he said. “They [women] have never asked. They just see me and are like, Mmm, baby.” He acknowledged that this might sound a little arrogant, but it barely registered with us. We were too busy thinking, Ewwwww.

We left hot and bothered (and not in a good way). But we appreciated that Dax had added to the randomness of the night, and during a GNO, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. At least we’ll be snickering for days afterward from our adventures up north.