Page 113 of Gin and Lava

I smile and don’t reply, pulling up my waitress’ contacts and starting to dial. If I start asking Naomi about those Viking Princess fantasies, I’m going to be stuck in this office with another problem, and my dick is still too sensitive to work that out.

34

NAOMI

Lounging on the couch of the beach house, I pull up the Gin n’ Lava’s Instagram. To my left, the 3Ms and Shauri are fussing about which designer sandals to wear for the evening’s activities. Hello, the plan is to hang out on the sand and build a fire … bare feet will be fine.

Meanwhile, Rick and his groomsmen are in the kitchen making Old Fashioned drinks, debating if you peel the orange, zest it, or spritz the glass. I smile to myself, knowing if they ordered an Old Fashioned at Arie’s restaurant, they’d be schooled by their seductive Flambé waitress who’d do something irreverent and dramatic. She’d probably drizzle her fingers with the orange’s juices, before inserting them between the peel and flesh (making it overly sexual and giving all of the groomsmen erections), finishing with a flourish as she rimmed the glass with fingers dripping in orange essence.

Glancing at the Gin n’ Lava’s Instagram, it strikes me that despite how different Mason and Arie’s restaurants seem on the surface, somehow they’re both selling food, alcohol, and sex. They’re just going at it from two completely different angles: sexy vs. raunchy.

I snuggle into the couch and tune out everyone around me, studying Mason’s brand.

It’s surprisingly professional.

Yes, I said professional in relation to Mason Haas. Mason who wears penis shirts to work—the epitome of unprofessional—and yet, that’s part of the bar’s aesthetic. After browsing the images, watching reels, and reading the captions, it’s clear that the Gin n’ Lava is a tiki haven of Pina-goes-in-your-Lada delights (that’s what Mason named a Pina Colada at his establishment), and yet it’s completely unflinching and cohesive.

All of the photos match each other—beautifully. He’s established a flashy, neon color story, and all of the images transition perfectly from one to the other: acidic green melting into Blue Hawaiian teal, contrasting the pinks and yellows in the kitschy décor. All of the photos have good lighting, which I never considered when standing in the Gin n’ Lava before. Did Mason design the bar to have the perfect blend of misty sea-faring allure? It’s as if 80s neon had a baby with tiki-torch couture and magically birthed a naughty mermaids’ fantasy underworld. Bring on the raunchy signs and the fish netting and kitschy strings of glitter and pearls! Only, it works.

I can tell all the images are taken on a cell phone, but they aren’t crappy snapshots. They’ve got good composition, and funny moments, and surprising juxtapositions. Looking through the photos, it’s a carnival of umbrella drinks and good-looking drunk patrons that you’d want to party with all night.

On top of that, the captions are hilarious. They’re a naughty pun paradise and Mason’s been crowned the Dirty Dad-Joke King. He’s honed his voice to a T. Imagine Jack Sparrow from thePirates of the Caribbeantossing out rum jokes and slights, but he isn’t held back by Disney’s PG holier-than-thou aesthetic, instead half of what he says is pornographic.

I can’t stop giggling.

There are funny reels, and clever games, and free drinks for audience engagement. There’s even a thread that has over three-thousand comments where followers attempted to give a dirty name to a new drink Mason made. When I glance up to the follower count, I almost choke. Mason has a quarter of a million followers!

Is Mason an online influencer and he never told anyone about it?

Clearly, the Gin n’ Lava is its own niche brand, and Mason is killing it. I always knew the Gin n’ Lava was doing fine, but maybe it’s doing more than fine—maybe it’s doing amazing. In which case, what was all of Mason’s jealous BS about a girl only wanting to date rich men? It’s altogether possible Mason’s doing better than he let on.

My eyes catch on a picture in the middle of the feed. It’s of Mason. Someone else took the photo, because he’s standing behind the bar, pouring a drink and laughing. The wide mid-laugh smile on his face makes my chest warm. It’s pure joy bottled in a picture. In fact, it’s perhaps the most attractive picture I’ve ever seen of Mason: naughty Hawaiian shirt, caught in a gut laugh with his head tossed back, green eyes twinkling. He’s completely himself, unfettered, and completely in his element. He’s perfectly free and joyful.

A smile blooms across my face. His joy is completely infectious. I click the buttons on my phone to take a screenshot, wanting to keep a copy of the photo to look at when I’m feeling down. Maybe that’s Mason’s superpower: all the wicked things he says makes people laugh. It shocks them and takes them out of their heads. With Mason you can escape your life for a few minutes, or maybe an hour, or a whole evening. I know I’ve been escaping my life plenty with Mason around. Perhaps that’s what Mason really sells at the Gin n’ Lava. Sure, it’s drinks and food that you shell out money for, but it’s the tiki kitsch and funny jokes you come to enjoy. Or it could be his unafraid, carefree spirit you want a piece of when you go there. And if you’re lucky, perhaps you leave the Gin n’ Lava feeling lighter, more optimistic, hoping you can take a little of that ease back home with you.

It's enough to make me consider more nights out at the Gin n’ Lava.

I stand up and turn to Shauri and the wedding party.

“Change of plans,” I announce, handing Shauri my phone and pointing to Mason’s Instagram. “You’ll love the captions.” I turn to the guys in the kitchen. “Boys, forget your whiskey drinks, we’re going out. And ladies”—I nod to the 3Ms’ feet—“put on the brightest, most ridiculous shoes you brought. And if you don’t have any, we’ll stop at a kitsch tourist shop on the way and grab you some flip flops. Trust me, they’ll be perfect. We’re going to the Gin n’ Lava tonight.”

Shauri busts up laughing from one of the captions she just read, and Sam glowers. “Is that your fiancé’s bar?” he asks.

“It is,” I say, proudly, standing up tall in defense of Mason. “I suggest you wear a Hawaiian shirt, preferably one covered in penises.”

“What?” Sam balks. “Covered in—?”

I laugh. No, I cackle like a mad woman, like someone possessed.

“Or wear whatever doctor fanciness you brought.” I shrug. “Or wear your swim trunks and go shirtless. It’s the kind of place where that’s totally allowed. Point is, tonight we’re going to have some fun. And don’t forget, you promised to be kind.”

Sam scowls as if I just turned into SpongeBob SquarePants and invited him for a drink in my pineapple under the sea. He looks to Shauri desperately. The bride has veto power, after all. But she’s laughing from her gut because Mason’s Instagram is magic. It just makes you want to party and have fun. And that’s exactly what we’re going to be doing.

35

MASON

I’ve made more Pink Pussy Pounders and Zombie Slut drinks in the last hour than I can count. My hands are sticky with rum and pineapple juice, and for the first time Brad has actually removed his flannel shirt because he’s been sweating behind the bar. I’m washing my hands when I hear the signature Shauri shriek. I’ll admit, it’s starting to grow on me.

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