With Mike Diskin off in search of respectable ways to meet
women, I thought it only appropriate to offer a far-less-classy counterpoint as
I pinch hit for his column. So I dredged up a particularly debauched Saturday
night from a few months ago that featured the two surefire sources for sordid
hookups: trashy dating websites and sweaty, sketchy clubs. I could lie and say
this just happened last week, but specifying that timeline could result in
certain castration from the current object of my erection.
The evening’s agenda centered on a chick I’d chatted up online. I
should have expected something ill to happen, since my date wouldn’t email any
pictures (she was allegedly in a conservative line of work). Being a typical
dude, though, I believed her when she said she was cute, tall, and blonde (not
the type that short, broke Italian guys often attract).
We met at the Beehive in the South End, and she was already
pretty smashed when I arrived. I wasn’t disappointed with the specimen; her
face was a bit crooked, but her legs made up for it and more. You know —
nothing that some calibrated beer goggles couldn’t handle.
After three rounds, we decided to change venues. But since it was
pouring rain outside, we ended up getting her car from the valet and rolling to
my Jamaica Plain compound for a blunt session.
On the ride we talked about the mechanics of online dating, and I
told her that my secret was honesty; every girl says she wants a truthful dude,
and that’s exactly what I offer. In turn, she asked for my complete candor, at
which point I told her that I wished to strap her to my roommate’s stretching
machine, suspend her upside down, and...
So we’re five minutes into this rude activity, and the girl
starts to pout. Not the “My daddy doesn’t love me” kind of pout, but the “I was
promiscuous in college” type, which I suspect is very similar. After her second
thoughts solidified, she got her things to leave. I asked for a ride downtown
since it was still pretty early (a bit insensitive of me, but mighty practical,
or so I thought).
By now this chick was hammered, and by the time we reached Back
Bay, I was sure she was going to hit someone. I was correct: homegirl
rear-ended a car full of Theater District-bound guidos on Stuart Street near
the Wilbur Theatre.
As soon as I was sure that no paperwork had to be exchanged, I
swiped her Marlboros off the dashboard and bounced at a red light. The worst
date ever (or the fear of executing the ultimate asshole move) was not stopping
me; I was on a booty rampage, plain and simple.
I wound up at a lounge right outside of Downtown Crossing. I’ll
omit the establishment’s name, but it’s a place where beats and women are
aplenty. I wasted no time flirting, and I was soon getting nasty outside with
the first sweetheart that made eye contact. A series of cheap make-out sessions
— which were, of course, disguised as cigarette breaks — took place
sporadically for the next four hours.
At the end of the evening, I asked for her number. Surely this
was something I could knock out in the near future. But the girl was hesitant;
she said she’d get in touch with me.
The next day I got a Facebook message from her friend, who
brought bad news: “My friend must dig you — since she was looking at your
pictures all night — but she’s married with a kid so you’ll never see her
again.”
Unfortunately, there’s little to be learned from the night that I
played high-stakes billiards with a pocketful of blue balls. But there
is one resounding conclusion about the casual hookup crowd: we’re
all degenerates.
