A Band Of Douches

Boy do I ever have a story for all you lovely readers. Back when I first moved to NYC, when everything still seemed glamorous and exciting, (you know, before I was here for my first winter and I hated life) I was out with a girlfriend at Alligator Lounge. All we wanted really was free pizza, but of course to get the free pizza, you first have to buy a drink. There we were pizza and drinks in hand, completely happy. We had gone out the previous night and were by no means looking for anything too exciting, even though it was a Saturday night. A short while later, two cute boys started playing pool. We had a great view of the pool table and were enjoying ourselves immensely. One thing led to another (by that I mean we were not being subtle at all, obviously) and the boys came over and started talking to us in between turns. When the game finished we had their full attention, and we were all too happy about it.

They were on their way to a friend’s birthday party at a nearby bar and invited us to join them. We happily went along crashing the birthday party of someone we had never met (let’s get real though, on your birthday you shouldn’t remember anyone that’s there anyway, so who really gives a shit?). We spent quite awhile birthday partying it up and eventually the four of us left together. The cutest double daters ever. After a drunken late night stroll, my friend and I made our excuses and headed for the train after a mutual exchanging of numbers.

My girlfriend and roommate heard from her new man friend the next day and I excitedly waited to hear from mine. And I waited. And waited. Finally almost a full 48 hours later, we’re talking two days here; I get the text I’ve been waiting for. This guy is playing hard to get. In any case, I heard from him and we hung out several more times, always having a good time. He was in a band (just like every guy ever in NYC, who are we kidding?) and so my roommate and I decided to go see one of his shows. We got there not expecting too much, Mr. Band Man had described his music as blues rock, which I imagined could definitely go horrible wrong. Pleasantly surprised however, the show was great, the music was great and Mr. Band Man turned out to be more talented than I was expecting. I’m thinking great, ‘cause honestly there’s nothing worse than pretending you like something when actually, you want to run away, hide, and never ever listen to it again. After the show we met his band mates, hung out for a hot second and then my roommate and I parted ways with the band and headed home.

Mr. Band Man and I continued to hang out. My roommate was still hanging out with Mr. Band Man’s friends and we always had a good giggle about what they would say about each other (although honestly, I can only imagine that they were doing the same about us). A few weeks later we hit up another show, this one was at “The Bitter End” and my roommate kindly joined me once more. The show was great. Mr. Band man came up after the show to exchange the usual “Thanks for coming!” and we responded with the only acceptable answer, “Great show!” He said he was going outside to cool off but that he’d be back shortly and my roommate and I decided to wait inside as it was slightly chilly out. Here I’m thinking 10, 20 minutes tops. Once that grace period was over and both my roommate and I started wondering, what the fuck happened to him? Finally we went outside so that my friend could have a smoke. Low and behold there is Mr. Band Man talking to some chick. Now I’m not really the jealous type and it’s not like we’re an official thing or even close to that so I look the other way. Come to find out, it’s his ex-girlfriend and all that jazz. My girlfriend and I went back inside to hang out with the drummer of the band and we’re all having a pretty great time. The next band is strictly a cover band and honestly sometimes, that’s all you want in life.

I keep looking out the window and the two ex-lovebirds are still out there, chatting up a storm. Eventually my roommate and I are running out of dancing steam. How long has it been at this point? Oh, only a couple of hours, totally acceptable. Except not, at all. My dearest roommate and I say goodbye to the drummer and walk outside. Mr. Band Man is standing back against the wall facing the street and the ex-girl is in front of him. You know, typical high school sweetheart stance. Anyway, this is to say he is clearly seeing us walk out, about to leave. What does he do? He gives the best douche nod ever, you know the one, chin up and head back. Then I watch his eyes widen as my girlfriend flips him off hardcore while simultaneously mouthing “fuck off” (did I mention, I love her?). By the time we get home and off the train I have a long text from Mr. Band Man to the extent of, “Sorry, didn’t mean to make things awkward, didn’t know she was coming…” and some such bullshit. My response “Well that was real awkward, talk to you never”.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t terribly keen to hang out with him after that. But even though we stopped hanging out the story doesn’t stop there. You never would have guessed, I’m sure. A couple months later we had a chance run-in, in Williamsburg. Mr. Band Man was driving and I was waiting to cross the street. We both did a double take and I got another douche nod. Well don’t I feel super special now. We exchanged several texts after that in which he gave me a “heartfelt” (cough, bullshit) apology about things getting awkward that night, etc. I’m thinking, ‘cause I’ve obviously been losing sleep over that for the past three months. Not.

Does the story end there? Absolutely not. Over a full year later, Mr. Band Man’s friend texts my roommate (now you have to understand she’d pretty much told him to fuck off months earlier). Apparently him and Mr. Band Man are at Alligator Lounge and he wants us to hop in a cab (which he’ll pay for, how kind) and go meet them. Rekindle some old flames. If you can believe it, we resist this utterly tantalizing opportunity and say “Why don’t you both fuck off?” Now I’m not saying all band guys are just the worst thing ever, only most of them. Just another fucking musician prick, get over yourself boys, we’re just not that interested. 

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About 25shotsandcounting

My name is Sylvia. I’m a 22 year old girl living in NYC. For reasons I wish I knew, I get hit on a lot. I don’t think it’s because I’m particularly more attractive, funnier or even more intelligent than other girls. I’m convinced that it’s some kind of weird aura that only men can sense. An invisible sign that says, “Well hi there, I’m open for business.” Ironically, I’m usually not. The idea for this blog came about while I was dating a bartender in Williamsburg. I would go his bar and have several drinks by myself while waiting for him to get off work. Like clockwork, it was usually only a matter of time before I had a parade of guys come and talk to me. So much so that it became a running joke between my boyfriend at the time and all of his co-workers, just betting how long it would take before I had my next victim. Sometimes flattering, sometimes annoying, other times like some sort of scientific curiosity, the unelicited attention became enough of a pattern to notice and, free drinks aside, generally dread. I seem to be a magnet for awkward pick up attempts, which sometimes lead to misadventures of one kind or another. I know this is a common phenomenon for young women in NYC, but I figured, why not write about it.
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