I Just Got Chastened

The hard thing about writing this blog is knowing how much to reveal---what makes a good story and what's TMI. Since this is a mostly anonymous undertaking (out-of-town friends are the only ones with access) I prefer to err on the side of TMI. With that in mind, I will return to the subject of pick-up lines.

One of my favorite pick-up lines is the Story of the Thong. It can be used after conversation is initiated, as well---the whole point of a good pick-up line is to get the girl involved. If you are the only one talking, you've just been shot down.

The Story of the Thong goes thus: A friend of mine was dating this girl---they'd been together for about two years. They had a big fight and broke up, and the next night he brought home some woman from a bar. The next day, his ex came over and they made up, got back together, and she noticed a thong on his bedroom floor, mixed in with his clothes. She confronted him. He didn't want to break up with her again---he loves her. So, knowing that she's a pretty liberal chick, he said the first thing that came into his mind: that it was his thong. She decided the whole thing got her hot, so now every time they have sex she makes him wear a thong, or a slip, or a dress and parade around the room. He's miserable but he doesn't want to lose her again. Do you think he should tell her? Do you think maybe she knows and is punishing him? What would you do?

The risk of the Story of the Thong is that she'll suspect you are talking about yourself. At the beginning, you dispel this. If you have approached two girls and told the story well, there will usually be a pronounced reaction and both of them will have opinions that they will share with you. They will tell you it's a good story. That doesn't guarantee a phone number or even a further topic of conversation, but you have your foot in the door. That's the hardest part.

Enter Nick's. Vixen is a skinny, 40ish regular with short dark hair, a pierced nose and a pierced tongue. A month ago, she was sitting with a friend and I told her the Story of the Thong. She and her friend loved it. They were on their way out their door, but I knew that they would remember me the next time I came into the bar.

The next weekend, I was at Nick's again with two other girls. I was paired up with one, and we went outside to get a cab for her friend. As we were hailing a cab, a woman jumped in front of us, raised her arm and opened the cab door.

"Excuse me, I think you just stole our cab," I said. The woman turned around.

It was Vixen.

"You were hailing it on the curb....you have to go to the street," she responded as she climbed in.

The next time I saw Vixen, I reminded her about her cab theft.

"If you were as interested in getting a cab as you were in getting laid, you might have gotten the cab," she snarked.

Yesterday, after work, I walked into Nick's. Vixen and Thor the bartender were the only ones there. I sat two stools away from Vixen. We each did a shot with Thor.

"A month ago," began Vixen after the shot, "you told me a story about your friend involving a thong....remember?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was at a bar with Angela, and some guy approached us and told us THE EXACT SAME STORY. Isn't that interesting?"

"It's a small world after all," I offered. I would have to brazen it out.

She smiled. "You're a very aggressive guy. You're a trader-dude. They're usually aggressive, but I've seen you work the bar. You're very aggressive and you enjoy the hunt. However, I'm a regular here and you're a regular here and I don't want to cringe every time I see you walk in the bar. Right now I cringe when I see you come in. You don't need to try so hard."

"I don't want to make you cringe," I replied, the smile plastered to my face, "I'd rather make you smile."

She laughed.

We shared the evening at Nick's. We talked about dating experiences, food, movies, the last time we got laid, a variety of topics over the next four hours. After awhile, not having eaten, I felt it was time to stop drinking and get home. We said goodbye. A thought briefly entered my mind: with just a bit more rapport, I might be able to take her home. Instead, I shook her hand and stumbled to the door.

Her criticism was just. I will take it to heart.

In other news, I got an email from the musician I met two weeks ago letting me know where she's playing. I'd like to see her play.