How Not to Hit on a Girl
I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I got hit on! And I haven’t been hit on in a while, unless you count the vagrant lying in front of Dick’s Liquor. And being asked for beer money counts as being hit on.
The bad news is that the guy was a real poozer.
My friend Gabby and I walked into a crowded karaoke dive bar in Orange County, which, before TV made it popular, was better known as “that place you have to drive through to get from San Diego to LA.”
We tried to sit at a table marked “Reserved,” but a group quickly appeared and announced that it was their table. We apologized, found two spots at the bar and ordered wine.
Once seated, Gabby said she thought one of the guys in the group was cute. I checked him out and agreed, although he was more Gabby’s type than mine: golf shirt, baseball hat, khaki shorts. Standard OC yuppie leisure wear.
Gabby and I were chatting for a while when the golf shirt approached and started talking to us. It was a three-way convo for a while, but then the white Tiger Woods began focusing his attention on Gabby. They golfed at the same club, had a mutual friend in common and he complimented her on her hair and smile.
Cool, I thought. He’s right up Gabby’s alley. I let them talk and turned my attention to the bartender, who was belting out Honky Tonk Woman in the stylings of someone who hasn’t taken a crap in a month.
Then I heard White Tiger say, “So, can I get your phone number or your Facebook or something?” There was a bit of a silence. I glanced over at Gabby, who had a look on her face like someone had moved her cheese. Then I looked at White Tiger, and he was staring straight at me.
“Huh… me?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. I was confused. Had you not just been blowing sunshine up my friend’s ass for the last seven minutes? Did I miss something?
I dodged the situation with sarcasm, as I often do when I don’t know what to say. “Whoa, Facebook? That’s moving a little fast, buddy.” (Truth be told, I wasn’t joking. I’ll put out for a guy sooner than I’ll friend him on Facebook.) He kept pressing me, asking if I wanted to go to the Van Halen concert with him. It was David Lee Roth, not Sammy Hagar, so I considered it.
As I said, he wasn’t my type, but I had just broken up with Tom and needed a distraction. Also, I kept hearing my gay bf saying, as he often does, “Go out with anyone who asks you! Because you never know!”
I wasn’t sure. Plus, I wanted to know how Gabby would feel about it. Would I be violating some kind of girl code by going out with a guy she flirted with in the bar? I needed to buy some time, so I told him I’d think about it. He went back to his seat and I turned to Gabby.
“What the fuck was that?” she said. OK, don’t go out with him. No prob.
“I don’t know!” I said. “I thought he was totally into you.”
We scoffed and rolled our eyes for a few more minutes before White Tiger came at me again saying his phone was about to run out of juice so he had to get my number now.
I told him I was just getting out of a relationship and thought it wasn’t a good idea. He said he’d just gotten divorced also, on Tuesday. Somehow he steered the conversation toward his job as a photographer and showed us some of his work on his phone, which displayed heavily made up Asian women in lingerie. It was as if Deb from Napoleon Dynamite took her Glamour Shot business into PG-13 territory.
He probed again for my number, and when I turned him down he asked if it had something to do with the photos.
“No,” I said. But they didn’t help, I thought. “Listen, you just got divorced on Tuesday, so I think you just need to sit with that for a while.”
He told me when he said Tuesday, he was being hyperbolic. That’s not hyperbole, dum dum. And by the way, could you just give it up, already?
Finally I just flat out told him I wasn’t interested. And to this he told me, and I quote:
I suck? Now don’t get me wrong, there are in fact plenty of ways I suck. For example, I often choose sleep over washing my hair. I rarely replace the dish scrubby thing. I once drove into a pole, broke off my rear view mirror and then tried to Krazy Glue it back on. I don’t deny sucking on occasion.
But let me tell you this, dickweed, I most certainly do not suck because I foiled your plans to get laid tonight or because your ego is as weak as a porn star’s sphincter muscle.
I mean, I get it. Rejection blows. I would hate to be a guy, faced with the pressure of approaching women and risk being shot down every time. I’m sure I’d totally choke. But if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t blame it on the chick. Grow up. If the boss doesn’t like your PowerPoint, do you call her a doo-doo head?
As I’ve said before, not everyone is going to like you. Deal with it.
The numbnuts then asked Gabby if she’d like to go to Van Halen. She said she wasn’t a plan B, then we both threw wine in his face and punched him in the balls.
I made that part up about the wine and balls. It would’ve been awesome, though.