Foreplay: Alright, so I'll be honest here. Part of the reason I started this blog was so that I could grow a pair when going out and meeting people. I was in a fantastic relationship for almost 3 years and when we amicably split, I simply forgot how to be single. And by "forgot how to be single" I really mean that I lack any sort of social grace when it comes to engaging with attractive strangers. What, Jesus jokes aren't appropriate?
I was self-deprecatingly ranting to Whiskey Sour on one occasion like I so often do: Why can't I be more confident when I go out? I'd like to be able to walk up to a guy and strike up a conversation. But what if he doesn't think I'm attractive or interesting? How about if I get rejected?! I was practically hyperventilating by this point.
But Whiskey Sour put things in a very blunt perspective as he so often does: Look, if a girl hits on a guy at a bar and she's cute, then that's great. If he doesn't find her attractive, then she's still a cool girl. Either way, he'll think she's awesome for having the balls to do that. 'Cause c'mon -- how often are we hit on?
That makes sense. But then a lot of things sound reasonable before they're put to the test... like girdles and lobotomies.
The Down and Dirty: It's a rain-soaked Saturday night in Hollywood but Kamikaze, Gemini, Daywalker, and I decide to brave the weather for a preposterous version of a girls' night out at my favorite neighborhood bar, The Woods. A table of four ladies seems like an impenetrable fortress of ego bruising so we were determined to take matters into our own hands.
A pair strolled through the door that caught my attention as they took their seats at the bar. My eyes passed right by the young Seth Rogan look alike and landed on his companion in a stylish black jacket. Now, I wouldn't say I have a type -- more like characteristics I favor over others. Tall, brunette, clean cut, a devastatingly defined jaw line... guh -- don't know what his type was but I was favoring it hardcore.
Daywalker relentlessly insisted that I march up to Blackjacket and charm his pants off but he was far too cute to even be talking to me and I wasn't on my game that night. Was this guy out of my league? Yes. Was I going to let that stop me? ...possibly. It wasn't like me to go up and -- hey, uh... where did Daywalker go?
I scanned the bar to find her chatting up Blackjacket. Oh god. A cold prickly sensation washed over me. What is she doing?! Don't tell me she's talking to him on my behalf! Oh god, he's coming over. I pretended to be intensely interested in whatever Kamikaze had to say as I downed the rest of my glass.
"Hi," I peered up with my best please-don't-think-I'm-some-
We all introduced ourselves before Blackjacket slid into the seat next to me and struck up a conversation. I was impressed by his cognizant rejection of religion. He knew his Oscar trivia and favored Katherine Bigelow. AND when I quipped that I loved the song that was playing he responded with, "Oh yeah, 'Crown of Love'. Arcade Fire's great." Um. Swoooooon.
But dudes -- when I said that I wasn't on game that night, I wasn't kidding. He mentioned that he was here for his friend's 31st birthday. I said that was a... respectable age and then asked how old he was.
"A respectable age."
Oh. Damn it.
My embarrassment finally subsided as the alcohol rushed through my veins like adrenaline, making me uh, bolder than usual. I made him list his favorite bands under a time limit. I interrogated him about Portuguese sex talk after learning he had lived in Brazil. I might have even ranted too... passionately about my bout with the psychic. I had finished an entire drink during the course of our initial conversation when I noticed that he not touched his at all. "So what are you having tonight?"
"Oh, I'm the DD. I'm not drinking."
Wait. So he's been stone cold sober this whole time that I've practically been making an ass of myself? Fueled by what was left of my liquid courage and my desperation to save face, I tried bullying him into getting a drink and even offered to buy him one. No dice. Ouch, my poor ego.
Blackjacket excused himself to answer a call and I went to grab another drink but when I returned to the table, he was talking to a friend at the bar. Bummer. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that the intoxicated girl who asked how to correctly say, "I'm coming" in Portuguese probably wasn't his type. By the way, I just cringed hardcore while typing that sentence. 'scuse me while I go die a little in the corner.
Just as Gemini handed me another drink, I heard a familiar voice ask, "So what's that you're drinking now?"
Blackjacket had sauntered back and we resumed talking as if we had never stopped. Conversation was in full swing when I pulled the biggest blogging taboo ever: I told him the premise of my blog and showed him my D.V. task list on my Droid. As we strolled through my list I innocently asked, "Hmm... so what can you help me cross off tonight?"
After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:
- Ask for a guy's number
The Afterglow: Holy shit, I did it! I asked for a guy's number! And not just any guy but a devastatingly cute guy.
I'm still petrified of rejection and am currently trying to convince myself that he wouldn't have given me his number if he wasn't interested. But this is what this blog is partly about: to not fear failure or rejection and to take action. If I text him and he doesn't respond, it's okay. He was nice enough to hang out with me for a good portion of the night and helped me cross something off my list. And if he does... I'm probably going to burst with giddiness.
The night ended up being a complete success for our intrepid group. Daywalker, the only one of us with a significant other, managed to attract a steady stream of admirers despite announcing her relationship status. A friendly fellow offered to buy Gemini a drink but she asked him if she could buy him one; his mind was totally blown.
Kamikaze, my favorite partner in crime, eyed a spectacular specimen but two girls engaged him before she could get a chance to make a move. She stewed in regret until she saw the girls walking away. She immediately sashayed over to him, "Hey, do you come here often?"
They immediately hit it off. Kamikaze admitted five minutes later, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you." He laughed and told her he had been hoping she would come over.
I've got to hand it to Whiskey Sour. Ladies, take risks! I'm not saying to go get a girdle or lobotomy rather than to not fear rejection. After all, I'm sure men love to be hit on by women with curves and a brain.
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