Confessions of a gold-digging, golfer-banging dancer
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Confessions of a gold-digging, golfer-banging dancer

THE PGA CHAMPIONSHIP BAR SCENE AT [NAME REDACTED]. OUR SUBJECT IS THIRD FROM RIGHT

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CHARLOTTE – She had a voice like Foghorn Leghorn and the manners of Yosemite Sam. She’d fake-baked her skin to a brassy orange and streaked her spaghetti-straight hair into a metallic gold. She wore ass-high, crack-tight, denim short shorts, wedges, and a scoop top two sizes too tight. She was 34 was what she told everyone -- it was her birthday, after all -- but my guess is she’d also tell you she had a par when she really had a bogey.

Her face wore a mean sneer -- she was a few drinks in already -- and thought the bar at [name redacted], a straight-up place in a hip, upscale section of Charlotte, was a good place to plot revenge on some lover of hers by sport-f-ing a pro golfer.



According to her, she’s good at this.

I didn’t notice her at first. I was working on my story, laptop in front of me, a Dark and Stormy at one elbow, a plate of exactly seven Cajun BBQ wings at the other, watching the Friday golf highlights and chatting with the fan next to me. It was one of the few peaceful moments we get in a week of organized chaos. I was in a good place -- the story, the drinks and the conversation were all going well...then like a triple bogey from the middle of the fairway with a short-iron in your hand, there she was, like magic...presto! One minute she wasn’t there, the next minute she was there, drink in hand, looking for an audience.

Although several people were well within earshot, her immediate prey was a young guy in a T-shirt that said “Beer me.” He sat at a six-person high-top behind me, and he spent the entire meal turned around in his seat, completely ignoring both his five friends and the plate of food in front of him. For the entire hour and 45 minutes his burrito, clam strips, and French fries sat untouched.

Forgive the double negative, but I couldn’t not overhear them, if you get the nuance. They were right in my ear, and so obvious to both me and to the fellow next to me that not listening wasn’t an option.


I was trying to ignore her and write, but when she started talking about gold-digging for pro golfers...well, suffice to say that in the interests of journalistic purity, I am simply reprinting her pearls of wisdom as she bequeathed them from on high…very high, considering how many drinks she had. Normally I wouldn't even care about this kind of gossip - I'm a lawyer and a journalist, you get double the silence - but it's newsworthy that people like her are preying on Tour players, especially if she's drunk enough to dish her secrets in a bar.

Funny, but just a few hours earlier, a random security guard leered at a scantily clad woman as she trolled the grounds of Quail Hollow. He caught my eye looking at hm as we passed each other.

"Charlotte is Cougar Central!" he advised. I thought he was just over-sharing, but he was a local...he knew far better than me...

Let’s be crystal sparkling clear about something –- I didn’t talk to her, and this is no way allegorical. In fact, since I was taking notes, I tried to be as invisible as possible, frequently minimizing the screen or going back to the article I was writing so as not to have her or the guy behind me see what I was actually typing. I actually closed up shop when I noticed my neighbor was reading my screen too closely. When he leaned in and asked me, “How much did that guy say he could bench press?” I told him 220, then I figured I'd better high-tail it outta there before someone else read my screen too closely.

“I’m a dancer, and I like to date the golfers,” she said.

“People at the tournament were totally looking at me and talking about me, but I don’t care.”

“The golfers have so much to think about when they’re playing – like with the wind and the grass and the trees and stuff. It’s really stressful for them...and I’m like 'Just hit the ball, Dude!'"

"I told this one player, 'Dude, I’ll drop you like third period French.'"

“I don’t even like golf.”

“Tiger Balm? I thought it was sun block. It burned so bad, I was screaming in the shower.

“Their wives...or their husbands, they don’t like me...”

“I’m in a profit-and-loss business.”

“'Will he build me a house?’ I ask myself.”

“I named my dog after me. Now when you call [name redacted], we both come. I even have insurance on my dog.”

The boy, who hasn’t touched one bite of his tamale, clam strips, or French Fries tells her this next one: “I can bench press 220.”

She responds, “Ohh, I miss a guy that can do that.”

“He’s like dumb and dumber combined. We’re in bed and he has to lay on the pillow, because the bed's not soft enough for him. He hurt his back after we tried to break the bed having sex. He runs into the bathroom screaming 'Don’t worry, I’ll be right back,' And then five minutes later, we’re fighting over which hospital to take him to.  Weirdest experience. So much for 'Don’t worry I’ll be right back.'"

The guy listening has no retort. “I haven’t had the opportunity to have great experiences in bed like that. I’d be afraid.”

The woman consoles, “I’m sure you’d be awesome."

“I went to a new gyno, and he called me back directly. And my regular doctor? I don’t get calls from him, but I get calls from gynos. I’m like with this guy, and I’m all like, 'How was your day? How was your week?' Meanwhile I can just go to the gyno and get laid...and insurance pays!”

Later, she snorted. Wine came out her nose. “Hold my glass,” she laughed, and ran to the bathroom.

When she returns, she looks at the boy in the “Beer me” t-shirt. She says, “You need it. You need it bad.”

“Three straight nights I had to tell him to get out from in front of my house.”

“I’m going tomorrow and Sunday. His wife will be there. Awkward! It sucks if I break up a family, but if that guy’s got money, I would take the whole thing for my kids. Can you imagine all of us at parent-teacher conferences?”

“He had to hire a rapper to write his rap song.”

“These guys, they are just appetizers to me. I put ‘em on my plate and eat them like French fries. I gobble them up.”

“Did I mention it’s my birthday? Happy birthday! Now I want a piece of cake!”

“I only fly Spirit Airlines.”

“My mom has been in the biz since 1971.”

Eventually, the boy makes a meek, redundant move. "Wanna go get a drink with me?" he asks.

She swats him down. "No, I’m gonna go home and watch HBO. I love every HBO show."

That’s was when my neighbor started to get too up close and personal with my computer screen, and I decided it was time to skedaddle, “interview” in the can. For those wondering, she didn’t mention any names, and I wasn’t about to ask. I know when to keep my quill in my inkpot...both literally and figuratively.

Funny, but just a few hours earlier, a random security guard leered at a scantily clad woman as she trolled the grounds of Quail Hollow. He caught my eye looking at hm as we passed each other.

“Charlotte is Cougar Central!” he advised. I thought he was just over-sharing, but he was a local…he knew far better than me…

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About the author

Jay Flemma

Jay Flemma

Starting with a blog and a dream, Jay Flemma launched his first sports-writing website in 2004. Some 13 years and 25 major golf championships later, Jay has won multiple national sports writing awards. Besides GNN, his work has appeared in numerous books as well as on-line at Cybergolf, PGA.com, GolfObserver, GolfChannel.com and many other sites and print magazines. When not trying to find a lost golf ball, Jay is an entertainment, copyright, Internet, sports and trademark lawyer in Manhattan. His clients have been nominated for Grammy and Emmy awards, won a Sundance Film Festival Best Director award, performed on stage and screen, and designed pop art for museums and collectors. Jay lives in Forest Hills, N.Y., and is fiercely loyal to his alma maters, Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts and Trinity College in Connecticut.