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There is a popular sentiment that any woman in a bar can sleep with any man she wants, should she only provide the overtures to do so. This is not true. Or rather, I hope it’s not true. But, in my case, it’s most definitely true. (I just pray there are better examples of the species out there, probably reading poetry or stopping or starting wars.) I deem myself a 6-6-9 on the “area code system” (face, body, personality, and if there was a fourth number, it would be for your penis, and I’d get a five based on character). I’ve found myself in the tender embrace of 4-4-3s and 2-3-7s on several occasions. I will sleep with objectively unattractive women, because this is a subjective game, and my opinion, it’s easily swayed by their willingness to get down. I’m not trying to demean anyone, and I’m not saying I ONLY ever consider a woman’s beauty when thinking of her sexually. If we’re all honest with each other, though, talking to someone in a bar doesn’t exactly lay bare her innermost truth. It’s a bit of a crapshoot–that’s kind of the appeal–and we’re all working off of limited information. So, yeah, looks and a general willingness to speak to me tend to jump to the top of the list of qualities I’m looking for. It’s really all I’ve got to go on. Hell, I don’t even need the looks. At least I’m not alone right now. “So, tell me about your cat blog. I love it. Look at that cat! He’s got a tiny guitar! Now can I sleep with you?”
If a man’s base urges drive his focus in a bar setting, women are driven by…well, no one really knows. This is evidenced by the fact that no guy is good at picking up girls in bars. This is no secret to girls, judging by the amount of times I hear them say, “I should start a dating blog.” The real secret is that we guys know it. Having sex is called “getting lucky” for a reason, as if we won a prize at the carnival basketball game where the rims are bent. We tell our friends, our coworkers, even our priests, because wouldn’t you if you won the lottery? And they love to hear the stories because they can’t believe it either. A girl would do that? To a penis? We all have nothing. It’s just us, a dream, and our stupid egos that say, “Give that line about her dad and buns a shot,” because “I’d bang me.” I once saw a guy put his arm out and ask a girl to pay a toll and I thought, “Nice move.” Women have a flirty look and an extra-close whisper and the deal is closed. We’ve got nothing. Well, almost nothing–we can buy her a drink.
That’s it. Our moves are limited to a strong drink order and hoping that whatever I’m shouting into her ear over the loud music is remotely interesting. I’m pretty sure that a woman’s actions after that are completely dependent on whether or not she likes my shoes. Whatever, a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets and all that bullshit, but mine is not. So I’d like to say definitively here that if you are a girl I’ve never met and I buy you a drink in a bar, it is with the intention of sleeping with you. Let everyone know, sound the horn, release the carrier pigeons! Then maybe we can all come to this consensus: if you accept, you are not entirely eliminating the possibility. Maybe you won’t that night, but perhaps sometime in the future. It’s essentially a live Tinder swipe. You’re not obligated (duh) but the possibility is not zero. (Unless you accept my offer of a Fireball shot. Then you’re definitely giving it up.)
I was at a bar a couple weeks ago high kicking the shit out of life. I’m not joking, it’s my move. I reach back into the bowels of my soul and offer to the dancefloor gods my legs as if they were my first born who was going to keep the rest of my religious followers alive. I kick so high. I kick so good. It’s to show girls that if I can kick like that with one leg, then my thrust must be otherworldly. My thrust must break down a wall from five feet away like the noise off of a sonic boom. I kick and I kick until I see a smile, which is what I got from a fine little filly in the corner. So I mosey over to her and offer her a libation. She says, “Why? So you can get me drunk?” with a real attitude. I just gave everything I had out there for her–I’m dripping sweat, out of breath, and I look at her and I think that a simple “no, thanks” would have sufficed. So I walk away, destroyed but not defeated. The next day I’m sure she told her friends about the guy who tried to buy her a drink and how she can never find any good guys and some crap about how it’s so hard to meet people in a bar. Never once in her conversation will she mention that perhaps she’s to blame for having arbitrary, meaningless standards; for drawing a pencil thin line between a guy trying and “trying too hard;” for judging man’s transparency; for having so little understanding of the human condition that somehow a man’s sexual desire has no crossover with her romantic ideals; for being offended by getting offered a drink. Or maybe she’ll realize–in a flash, perhaps–that while I tried so hard, she didn’t try at all, and she never has. Oh well, it’s too late anyway. I went home with that cross-eyed babe. She’s got a blog about sweaters. Fascinating stuff.