No one sits at the bar anymore, and I really don’t get that. Sure, it’s a dance club, but really.
The bar is where the magic happens. The bar is where everyone eventually goes. Even if its to get water. The bar is the bazaar at the crossroads of the club world. It is Mecca, and Walt Disney World morphed into one. And the view can be something terrific.
The girls stop by here, but not too often. Not nearly enough. But when they do, that’s your chance, your place to make contact. Say hello and see who says hello back. Throw a ball, see who catches it. If you’re fortunate, they’ll throw it back.
Savvy girls will smile and let you buy them a drink. The realistic ones know nothing will happen more than some chit chat, a couple of awkward silences and a free buzz work up. The more skittish types will expect that you’re going to try and get in their pants. Of course, this is secretly your goal, but if you’re smart, and cautious, you know that it’s just a preamble to a lucky phone number, maybe a kiss, or even a good make out session. You’re probably not getting laid, even if that’s your goal (which it probably is…probably hers, too).
The careful hunter has a realistic view of the world.
The bar is a good start for getting your prey. As long as you’re Boy Scout ready you’ve got good chances of a smile, some quality flirting, maybe even some deep conversation, or something more…interesting. Even if your best line is “hello.”
For example:
One night at one of the monster clubs, I and a couple of friends decided to make a night of just hanging at the bar. No dancing. No freaking out when we discovered that the hot chick we were drooling over was a 17 year old on a fake I.D. We decided to use our bright day-glo green wristbands to their full advantage. That night we opted for a night of enjoying the much underrated bar at the place.
While we were on our second 7&7, a bunch of cute blondes walked up, and parked near us. They put their orders in with the bartender, and left two of the cuter ones to collect the damage. I smiled and nodded. The smile was returned.
“Hello. You’ve got a good posse here tonight.” It was a lame intro, but as most good hunters know you work with the tools that you have at hand. Even a lame line.
“It’s my friend’s bachelorette party, and we’re making sure that she’s gonna party like a rock star!”
“Really? Let me get a round for you guys.”
You must be prepared to buy drinks if you sit at the bar. It’s only right.
I picked up the group’s drinks on my tab, and a couple of the girls hung around and joined me for a little bit of casual conversation. Which lead to conversations about the firmness of asses. They brought it up, I swear.
“I have the hardest ass ever. It’s rock solid. Grab it!”
“Excuse me?”
“Grab my ass! Do it!”
When a good-looking woman tells you to grab her ass you do it. So I did. Yes, her ass was, in fact, rock solid hard.
“You could bounce quarters off of that.”
“Yes you could! My ass is perfect. It’s even better than hers!” She pointed to her attractive friend standing on the other side of me. “Grab her ass and squeeze it, you’ll see!”
“Um…”
The friend piped in with quiet resolve. “Just do it. She won’t shut up.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nope, not at all.” She smiled as I then grabbed her ass. It was nice.
“See, I told you! Mine’s better!”
“Just agree, she’ll shut up.”
After a while more of this (I swear, I was waiting for “grab my boobs”), and several shots of Jager, Rock Hard Ass wandered off to smoke.
“You’re a nice guy.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” Sure, it’s cheesy, but it’s the best I could come up with after that much Jagermeister. “I hope you don’t find me too forward—“
“No, please…”
“But would it be too much to ask you for a kiss?”
“I can be convinced.”
Two hours later, we’d managed to make out all around the bar. And the dancefloor. And the smoking patio.
Am I bragging? Dear Lord, yes. But I’m also illustrating a simple point. The bar is a good shooting off place. A great starting place. The launching point extraordinaire, where fireworks can flare, rockets can launch, and Vodka flavored kisses can be stolen. A good Son of Adam can find a good time with your garden variety Daughter of Eve.
“But what about the girl’s side of it?” you may ask. “How horrible! She gets so used!” you exclaim. Let me offer this in way of explanation. She could have said no thanks to the drinks. They often do. She could have avoided several rounds of free drinks. She could have.
Instead, she went for it, got her drink on, got two hours of quality snogging, and got a guy to pay for her entire bachelorette party to get ready for the rest of the night. We even exchanged numbers.
The wench never did call me back.
Yeah. It’s that kind of column.
