I have been of the legal drinking
age for at least six years and have been going to Singles bars for at least 9
years (yup, do the math). In that near decade of bar hopping, I have never ever
picked up a phone number, given away my email address, or gone home with
someone. It is surely a streak that should be mentioned along with the likes of
Cal Ripken and Joe DiMaggio. Sure, I hear stories about my friends who went home
to a ménage à trois, hooked up with a supermodel, etc. But nope, not me.
So the last time I went to a bar
with my friends with the group’s intent of picking up women, I tried to see
what I do and don’t do. First, I came to the realization that I’m awfully
cheap. I don’t like the idea of buying a lovely lady a drink. Why should I pay
five bucks as an introduction? Second, I order…how should I phrase this? girly
drinks. I don’t like the taste of beer or scotch. While my friends are
pounding shots of Jack Daniels or chugging Sam Adams, I am quietly sipping my
Midori or Amaretto Sour. Maybe I’m sending out the wrong signals.
I also don’t dress for the
occasion. For me, dressing up for a night out would entail a clean shirt and
jeans. My socks don’t match my shoes. A Coach belt goes with a pair of
Reeboks, right? My friends are decked out with their A/X clothes, cologne, and
fancy shoes. Subconsciously, I think I go to bars just to mellow out. Why should
I put on a show for the ladies? To me, the idea of a night out is one where I
can be relaxed and get away from the daily grind of running an Internet start-up…at
least that’s the story that I tell my friends when they tell me that I’m
such a scrub.
Inevitably, women come to our
table. Most of the time, they talk to my friends because my buds make a
concerted effort to cast their nets wide with the rare hope of catching a
marlin. On occasion, a bluefin tuna will join us. And, sometimes, you get a fish
that is so small that you have to throw it back into the ocean. Usually, by the
second hour, our group does a whole M&A deal with a table of ladies.
Eventually, we do the “let’s buy a drink for the person that we are drinking
with.” So I ask my fish what she usually wants (is that where the phrase “drink
like a fish” comes from?). She usually replies, “Whatever you’re having
would be great.” As I come back with a daiquiri and a bottle of Coors Light,
there is a momentary twinkle in her eye. Wow, finally a man who knows how I like
my drink, she must be thinking. That is, until I hand her the beer.
Also, I make for a lousy
conversationalist. For me, talking to strangers is not about making the best
impression but a rare opportunity to practice my stand-up routine. Once, a woman
said to me (as she brushed my arm), “I like a guy the way I like my coffee,
light and sweet.” She looked at me as if to signal that I was her man. Of
course, the line was so stupid that I couldn’t resist saying, “I like a gal
the way I like my coffee, too,” I replied as I stared into her soul, “a bit
old and very bitter.” Despite my efforts to be the conversation killer, some
women persist. Usually, if they make it past this stage, I talk about the
differences between WWF and WCW wrestling and how Vince McMahon is my idol.
By this point, the few remaining
women disappear. I am a bar leper. No one wants to touch me. Consequently, my
friends often go home empty-handed, too. Some of my pals joke that they go home
to “rosy.” I will not explain that joke, Ms. Jocelyn Elders. But I still go
to the singles bars. Perhaps, there is a woman out there who can make it past my
WWF conversation. If so, my nine-year streak will be over.
