I’d like to preface this story by saying that going to bars alone is a fresh skill that I have only reluctantly developed as a result of moving to a new city for six weeks. But it has so grown on me. Sure, the first half of the night usually involves the following:
- General awkwardness
- Irrationally strong feelings of jealousy and/or hatred directed at people who have friends
- Frightening premonitions of future cat-lady status
But then you get approached by a hot guy and life is suddenly worth living again. You just have to suck on the sour to get to the sweet — like eating a lemon drop or performing oral sex as a means of receiving it later.
- Note: all names mentioned herein have been changed to protect privacy.
So Friday night — it was the start of my last weekend in Nashville, and I found myself back at the gay bar where I met the blogged-about older hottie Martin over two weeks ago.
This time around, I ended up meeting Charley — an adorable and deliciously muscled all-American looking guy whom I typically would’ve melted for upon first contact. However, it soon became apparent that he was drunk off his ass. At 11:00 pm. This threw me for a loop, as people generally don’t start slurring their words until at least midnight in New York. This isn’t to say we don’t get drunk at all hours of the day — we’re just able to disguise it by forming whole sentences.
I was completely sober while talking to Charley. The result was an excruciatingly uncomfortable conversation that needed to end as soon as possible. In an effort to get him to lose interest, I turned off my charm and avoided eye contact. It didn’t work, which I’ll go ahead and construe as evidence that I’m irresistible.
Eventually, Donna — his sassy Southern wing-woman — showed up and started rambling on about some Australian guy she was sexting with. I feigned the urge to pee and excused myself.
As I took the long, around-the-entire-square-footage-of-the-establishment-twice way to the restrooms, I was secretly hoping to run into Martin, whom I hadn’t heard from since I responded negatively to a booty call text he sent two days after we met. A part of me was aware of how pathetic it was to fantasize about running into him, but the other part of me wanted to get all up in his face and yell, “If we had gone on at least three dates and participated in a joint STD screening over the past two weeks, maybe we’d be sleeping together tonight! Your loss, a-hole!!!”
It’s probably a good thing that he never showed up.
I started looking around for more potential suitors. Only two people were catching my eye:
- A shirtless bartender with a strangely endearing Luigi ‘stache who slightly resembled a founding member of the Village People
- A lesbian who was wearing the same outfit as me
I decided to keep to myself. For a moment, I became suddenly aware of the absurdity of the fact that I ended up at this bar yet again despite my staunch inability to sleep with strangers. Then I ordered another beer and got back to scanning the room for hotties.
A basic lack of man-candy made my mind begin to wander. My internal dialogue:
- I miss 90’s Mariah so much.
- I think I want Indian food for lunch tomorrow.
Before I could finish my next thought (which I’m pretty sure involved veggie samosas), a now-even-drunker Charley reappeared out of the freakin’ blue. Without saying a word, he grabbed my hand and led me to a secluded area outside the women’s restroom. The following bizarre exchange then occurred:
- Me: “What’s up?”
- Charley (directs my attention to his right bicep, which he’s now flexing): “And I’ve never even done porn.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this unsolicited declaration. Charley broke the silence by going in for a (ridiculously sloppy) kiss. My sobriety was making this whole situation feel about as natural as heterosexual intercourse, so I immediately pulled away.
- Charley: “Why are you pulling away from me?”
- Me: “I don’t know… I feel guilty… Umm. I’m Jewish.”
Random, irrelevant, and oh — totally a lie. Though I do sometimes get mistaken for being Jewish, I’m actually Italian and Catholic.
I know a lot of people get a kick out of lying to strangers at bars, but honestly, I had never engaged in the activity until this very moment. If I were ever to premeditate a spicy bar alter-ego, I doubt I’d go with with real-me-except-Jewish.
In any case, he proceeded to share that he loves Jewish boys. Some sick part of me must have been loving the attention, because I suddenly heard myself saying things like:
- “Yeah, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to celebrate Christmas, but then I remember how awesome Hanukkah is.”
- “Oh, Israel? I’ve totally been there. I spent two months on a kibbutz last summer, and it changed my life!”
I was just about to share some of my awesome bar mitzvah memories with him when Donna emerged from the bathroom and matter-of-factly said — in the Paula Deen-iest of accents, mind you — “It’s time to leave. Y’all are going home together. K?”
The fact that she’s a horrible friend won’t be discussed, as this post is already too long.
To easily get out of the situation without having to explain myself, I invented a New York boyfriend and apologetically told them about him — “He’s perfect for me and I just don’t want to mess it up. It’s not worth it. I’m sorry.”
And then I left.
After reflecting on it over an episode of Sex and the City and a Fiber One bar, I believe there may be an allegorical quality to this whole made-up boyfriend situation. Perhaps he is representative of my true self. Or the dreamboat ER doctor that I mentioned here, who’s still waiting for me to stumble into his life.
Either way, it’s time to go back to New York and find him.