Last night, this guy I've only recently known made an interesting statement:
"I'm getting you laid tonight. That's my mission."
I told him thanks and I appreciate it but I don't really need any help. The truth is I probably do, but that usually isn't my goal when going to a club. So I patronized his mission and if I got laid out of this whole thing, then honestly there's no harm in that so long as I remember the proper latex protection device.
I guess there's pride involved in someone trying help me score, mostly wounded pride, as if I am inadequate. There is also a kind of appreciative sense to it, as in he sees something in me that leads him to believe that I deserve it. To add unnecessary (and probably invisible) layers upon that statement of his, if we're talking about hunting prey -- and that's what this kind of is -- then isn't it more satisfying and enjoyable to eat the carcass of your hunt if you were the one that actually hunted for it?
When he said that, I was already three sheets to the wind. The remainder of the evening saw a swift descent into FUCKEDUPCITY USA. The bartenders already know of my reputation as a lush and they enjoy pouring more than enough gin into my glass. Like I said, I'm not trying to get laid. I'm not trying to find love (or at least actively searching) in a club. If this were hunter-gatherer times, Id be wasted away. My insides would be fine decorative props in some unibrowed caveman's den. Sure, I'd dodge a couple arrows, maybe make a couple people laugh and ocassionally survive by the skin of my teeth. I'd associate myself with people that could protect me and try to stay on good terms with them. But at the end of the day, my caveman obituary would hold an age far younger than the obits of my peers.
But in this day and age, survival isn't just predicated on the ability to not be dead. There are non-survivors walking around, locked inside their rooms, planning elaborate murders regarding co-workers, making love to expensive synthetic dolls, lying in bathtubs wondering about 1995 and revising the direction of their lives to a more acceptable route.
I as a human being know my limitations and strengths, understand my weaknesses and grow as directed by such actions and inactions. And growth doesn't necessarily mean maturation or evolution. It means adjusting. It means figuring out what scheme you fit into this world and figuring out you are no more special than the walking dead and social elite alike. It means keeping your guard around people but making sure you are not stand-offish. It means deciding when you are being too nice or being too rude or knowing how many calories you can eat in one lunch sitting.
My strengths do not involve casual sex. Maybe if I were to hone that craft, fine tune it, make it a point to learn and unlearn and theorize then I could do it. Maybe if I had that drive and burning desire then I, too, can learn to familiarize myself with chlamydia and pinpoint which girl in the room has the lowest self-esteem. But I find that boring, uninteresting. I hate myself far too much to point-and-shoot.
My strengths in that setting involve lots and lots of liquor, lots and lots of dancing and hopes of offending people by the way I move. I do not give two fucks about 99% of the world when I am there. I am there to forget my limitations and weaknesses and to revel in the fact that I can and have that ability to forget, all while staying on beat with the 4/4 time. Everyone is invisible when I dance, except for whoever's dancing with me. My goal in that club is not to fuck girls, but to fuck the world in my own private, non-threatening way. And hey, if a girl feels me then fuck it let's have fun. But honestly, I don't care unless I am told to care. And when I am told to care, when someone feels their duty to me is to help me get my dick wet, and I am put into a position to care about the people I'm around, well then I'm screwed. Because I am aware of the people in the club, I am aware of who wouldn't be interested in me and in how vapid everyone seems to be, myself included. That removes the allure of what I feel in there.
And so he hooks me up with a girl: Blonde, British. She lives in Amsterdam, she can't dance worth a lick. I'm talking to her friend, who has a boyfriend. I helped them get in earlier in the evening. And he tells me "You're talking to the wrong girl." But I don't care, although now I feel it is an obligation to see his goal come through. And there is nothing there, nothing from me except an obvious acting job. Nothing from her, except polite disinterest. And I feel like I'm in some Patrick Dempsey movie about a guy who wants to get laid but he can't.
I thank him and apologize. He tells me there's always next week. But I don't care about next week. I care about going to bed now. I start to get involved in a conversation with an acquaintance. We discuss movies. I start waxing poetic about absolutely nothing, all psuedo-intellectual, unintelligible. She's responsive and seems interested. But all I want is to lie down, get rid of this headache and prepare for the hangover that awaits me the next day. I know my limitations, I know how to work around said limitations. Execution is crucial.
"I'm getting you laid tonight. That's my mission."
I told him thanks and I appreciate it but I don't really need any help. The truth is I probably do, but that usually isn't my goal when going to a club. So I patronized his mission and if I got laid out of this whole thing, then honestly there's no harm in that so long as I remember the proper latex protection device.
I guess there's pride involved in someone trying help me score, mostly wounded pride, as if I am inadequate. There is also a kind of appreciative sense to it, as in he sees something in me that leads him to believe that I deserve it. To add unnecessary (and probably invisible) layers upon that statement of his, if we're talking about hunting prey -- and that's what this kind of is -- then isn't it more satisfying and enjoyable to eat the carcass of your hunt if you were the one that actually hunted for it?
When he said that, I was already three sheets to the wind. The remainder of the evening saw a swift descent into FUCKEDUPCITY USA. The bartenders already know of my reputation as a lush and they enjoy pouring more than enough gin into my glass. Like I said, I'm not trying to get laid. I'm not trying to find love (or at least actively searching) in a club. If this were hunter-gatherer times, Id be wasted away. My insides would be fine decorative props in some unibrowed caveman's den. Sure, I'd dodge a couple arrows, maybe make a couple people laugh and ocassionally survive by the skin of my teeth. I'd associate myself with people that could protect me and try to stay on good terms with them. But at the end of the day, my caveman obituary would hold an age far younger than the obits of my peers.
But in this day and age, survival isn't just predicated on the ability to not be dead. There are non-survivors walking around, locked inside their rooms, planning elaborate murders regarding co-workers, making love to expensive synthetic dolls, lying in bathtubs wondering about 1995 and revising the direction of their lives to a more acceptable route.
I as a human being know my limitations and strengths, understand my weaknesses and grow as directed by such actions and inactions. And growth doesn't necessarily mean maturation or evolution. It means adjusting. It means figuring out what scheme you fit into this world and figuring out you are no more special than the walking dead and social elite alike. It means keeping your guard around people but making sure you are not stand-offish. It means deciding when you are being too nice or being too rude or knowing how many calories you can eat in one lunch sitting.
My strengths do not involve casual sex. Maybe if I were to hone that craft, fine tune it, make it a point to learn and unlearn and theorize then I could do it. Maybe if I had that drive and burning desire then I, too, can learn to familiarize myself with chlamydia and pinpoint which girl in the room has the lowest self-esteem. But I find that boring, uninteresting. I hate myself far too much to point-and-shoot.
My strengths in that setting involve lots and lots of liquor, lots and lots of dancing and hopes of offending people by the way I move. I do not give two fucks about 99% of the world when I am there. I am there to forget my limitations and weaknesses and to revel in the fact that I can and have that ability to forget, all while staying on beat with the 4/4 time. Everyone is invisible when I dance, except for whoever's dancing with me. My goal in that club is not to fuck girls, but to fuck the world in my own private, non-threatening way. And hey, if a girl feels me then fuck it let's have fun. But honestly, I don't care unless I am told to care. And when I am told to care, when someone feels their duty to me is to help me get my dick wet, and I am put into a position to care about the people I'm around, well then I'm screwed. Because I am aware of the people in the club, I am aware of who wouldn't be interested in me and in how vapid everyone seems to be, myself included. That removes the allure of what I feel in there.
And so he hooks me up with a girl: Blonde, British. She lives in Amsterdam, she can't dance worth a lick. I'm talking to her friend, who has a boyfriend. I helped them get in earlier in the evening. And he tells me "You're talking to the wrong girl." But I don't care, although now I feel it is an obligation to see his goal come through. And there is nothing there, nothing from me except an obvious acting job. Nothing from her, except polite disinterest. And I feel like I'm in some Patrick Dempsey movie about a guy who wants to get laid but he can't.
I thank him and apologize. He tells me there's always next week. But I don't care about next week. I care about going to bed now. I start to get involved in a conversation with an acquaintance. We discuss movies. I start waxing poetic about absolutely nothing, all psuedo-intellectual, unintelligible. She's responsive and seems interested. But all I want is to lie down, get rid of this headache and prepare for the hangover that awaits me the next day. I know my limitations, I know how to work around said limitations. Execution is crucial.
posted by p.b. at 9:38 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home