The bar II

Riding the mechanical bull

SHAWNA SWEENEY VOLUNTEER STAFF

There are moments when you find yourself in a situation that causes you to take a step back and say, “Self, how did I get here?”. It seems impossible that it ever could have happened, that circumstances delivered you to the place you are in. You wake up one day and the next thing you know you are sitting on top of a mechanical bull in a soaking wet t-shirt, wondering where it all went horribly wrong.

One night a few friends and I were bumming around trying to figure out something to do. We wanted to try something different, but it didn’t seem like there was anything new under the sun for a Saturday night until someone suggested going to a country western bar and riding a mechanical bull.

As soon as we arrived I started questioning the wisdom of our decision. The floor was covered in sawdust, peanut shells and trashed rednecks. It was like an ocean of cowboy boots swimming with 10-gallon hats on the waves of all those drunken bodies. And arranged casually in the corner, tucked away from the bar and dance floor, was a mechanical bullriding ring.

As we paid cover, the doorman gave us a flyer that read “TONIGHT: WET T-SHIRT MECHANICAL BULLRIDING CONTEST” in enormous black letters. We laughed and joked about how ridiculous it was as we bellied up to the bar.

Six beers later it was sounding like a pretty good idea. After a round of shots and two more beers, I found myself writing my name on the sign up sheet. A few minutes later they called all the participating girls to explain the rules of the game. The announcer handed out thin white t-shirts, raised his hand and shouted, “LISTEN UP! This is a wet t-shirt mechanical bullriding contest. We will be providing the t-shirts, the wet and the bull. The rest is up to you.”

Five minutes later we were standing in a herd next to the ring staring down both horns of the bull as “Cotton Eye Joe” by the Rednex blasted out across the tinny speakers. The announcer came back and said that whoever was going first needed to step up to the front and “get ready to rock and roll.” But, unfortunately, none of the girls wanted to rock nor roll first.

My friends turned to me and said I should go first because I was “brave,” and as soon as the other girls overheard they gathered around and asked if I was going first. I kept shaking my head and saying no but found myself pushed to the front of the line as some stranger shouted, “She’ll go first!”

I stood there staring blankly at the bull as the ocean of drunk cowboys flowed to the bleachers surrounding the ring. The announcer approached me with a squirt bottle and sprayed me down with the coldest water ever to hit my skin. My nipples immediately hardened into something resembling Tic Tacs and I wanted to turn around and ask my friends if they needed any glass cut.

I took a deep breath, removed my shoes and hopped across the inflated rubber pad to the bull. I put my left foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the great plastic beast. As I grabbed the harness, I was suddenly not so sure that this was a good idea, but it was far too late for second-guessing.

The bull began to gyrate underneath me in slow circles. There were about 200 guys crowded around the ring and 400 eyes were glued directly on me. The Rednex were still blaring sickly out of the ring speakers, and as I scanned the audience the full scope of the situation began to dawn on me.

I tried to avoid complete panic by imagining Ernest Hemingway sitting in the front row, tossing back shots and laughing his ass off. Papa was amused. He’d never seen anything like it, even in Spain. It helped, but 30 seconds later it got much, much worse.

Apparently in a wet t-shirt mechanical bullriding contest, just riding the bull is not enough. One of the rednecks started screaming, “Show your tits! Show your tits!” and it was not long before all 200 drunken cowboys were waving their hats and fists in the air chanting, “Show your tits! Show your tits!”

I didn’t know what to do. The message was clear, but I did not want to do it. I looked pleadingly to my friends for help, but they just stared at me with enormous eyes waiting to see what I would do next.

Normally I am not the type of girl that follows directions well, but this was a special situation. I took a second deep breath, pulled up my shirt and flashed the crowd.

They erupted into catcalls and cheers as the bull ground to a halt and I was finally free. I jumped off and ran back to my friends. They laughed and laughed and clapped me on the back in congratulations.

One after another, the girls rode the bull, and one after another, they caved to the peer pressure of all those thundering voices. The prize for the contest was $100 cash, and some of the girls who went later were all about winning. They ripped their shirts off and bounced their jumblies back and forth like porn stars. I couldn’t believe it.

The girl who actually won was not the best bullrider or the best tit shaker, but she was wearing a “bachelorette” sash and everyone knew what that meant: Sympathy vote.

We clapped and cheered as she walked up to collect her prize. After it was all over, we grabbed our jackets and headed out to the car. “I can’t believe we just did that,” said one of my friends.

Neither could I, but some things you do against your better judgment. And a wet t-shirt mechanical bullriding contest? That might just top the list.