Cock-blockers And Cocaine

This week there wasn’t any one particular creeper or weird guy that I can rant about. Instead there was a mish-mash of would be suitors, so buckle your seatbelts, its story time. In case you’ve been getting bored by these long-ass stories (in other words if you have the attention span on a three year old like most people now a days), this should liven things up. It’s like when you go to a comedy club, the best kind are the ones where there are at least four or five comedians. That way if one of them falls short (you know, just bombs completely) the next one will come along and get you back in it. That’s what I’m hoping for this week at least.

I’m at the bar (starting out good right? Just like every other one of my stories…) and it’s another one of those weekday deals. I’m not trying to get crazy, just having an after work drink (or two or three) and enjoying a book. Now, there are two men sitting next to me who are just going to town on some chow, and whom I can only assume, are brothers. The one sitting closest to me starts off on a good note by leaning over to me and saying “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m going to anyways”. That is a great way to start a conversation with someone, wouldn’t you agree? Then it gets even better. “Can I just say that I’ve probably spent $800 worth of kindles? Leave them in cabs, get them wet. So cheers to real books!” First of all, take better care of your shit, like really, you’ve gotten multiple kindles wet? What do you do, take a bath with them? On second thought I probably don’t actually want you to answer that. Second of all, I don’t give a flying fuck how much you’ve spent on kindles, or really on anything for that matter. Just saying. However he then went on to tell me that I should get a kindle and stop hauling around such big books (granted the book I was reading was over a 1000 pages and kind of a pain in the ass, but that is really none of your concern, sir). When I told him that I prefer to read real books he attempted (attempt being the key word here) to make a joke. “You know what you should do, put it on a scroll” (this is when my suspicion that he was Jewish was confirmed, now the $800 opening remark makes more sense, a nice Jewish girl like me can usually tell). He kept going with the scroll thing “You would look religious and some people would like you” (gee thanks, what I’ve always dreamed of is religious people liking me), “Top ten things not to do on the subway, read your scroll”. Seriously? At this point I had kind of zoned out and was thinking what in the world could this guy still be talking about. Fortunately I didn’t have to worry about Mr. Jewish too much as his brother was the biggest cock-block ever. He was not about to be a third wheel and every time Mr. Jewish tried to say something else to me, he had something even more important to say. It was hilarious and all I can say as they paid their tab and Mr. Jewish had his cock blocked right out the door is, thanks a million.

Next, drum roll please, I got hit on by my first ever lesbian. I somehow feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, girls like me too. I was extremely worried. Ms. Lesbo comes all the way down from one end of the bar to the other where I am sitting just to ask me what I was reading (guess this pick up line is not only for men). She had apparently bought the same book from a friend, but they hadn’t given it to her yet (tragic, I’m sure) and she felt the need to text her friend right then and demand to get the book ASAP (thank god, I was so worried she would never get the book. Not.). She also felt the need to tell me exactly what she was saying in the text message to her friend (This is happening over the backdrop of me trying to read the stupid book by the way). Then she introduced herself as Jacks (please, that cannot be your real name) and told me to come join her and her friend at the other end of the bar if I felt the urge. Needless to say, I did not feel the urge.

Alright, let’s fast forward to a different bar. Let me quickly set the mood for you. Imagine a bar that is 50% musicians, 10% models and 40% people who think they are cool because they are friends with C-list celebrities. Got it? The night started out good. I’d been drinking at the bar for about an hour, so I’d definitely already had a few. I hear a voice next to me ordering a double vodka tonic. I look over and it’s none other than Lindsey Lohan herself and the first thought that came to my mind was, guess rehab didn’t really work out for you then did it? Now that you fully understand what type of bar it was, let’s continue. After that first hour it was a constant flow of would be suitors, but one stands out in particular. I met him briefly (we’re gonna call him Mr. Coke, just for funsies–keep reading if you haven’t figured out why) and then directly after that I met another guy. The second guy was on his way out but after meeting me he apparently had second thoughts and came back to tell me that I had made such an impression on him (doubtful, maybe you just really need to get laid, sir) that he felt the need to come back and ask for my number. However, then he looked at Mr. Coke who was still standing next to me and asked “Is that your boyfriend?” Just to make things easier I said “Yes indeed, that is my boyfriend” and he high tailed it out of the bar, I’m thinking, great! Unfortunately that was when I made my biggest mistake of the night. I turned to Mr. Coke and jokingly told him that I said he was my boyfriend to shake someone off. Instead of doing the normal thing and laughing it off he got extremely serious, saying he was happy I felt comfortable enough to say that about him (and I’m thinking, what the fuck have I gotten myself into, now I feel real uncomfortable). Apparently me saying this made him believe that he actually had a shot at being my boyfriend (not sure that’s how it works) because after that he would not leave me alone. I tried various escape tactics including, but not limited to, going to the bathroom for an extended period of time and hoping that he was drunk enough to forget about me (no such luck) and chatting with the bartender in order to completely ignore him (also no luck). He always found something extremely pressing to say to interrupt the conversation. I finally drew the line (HA) when he invited me to do coke in the bathroom with him (thus the nickname, I know you were on the edge of your seat about it this entire time). I told him that I wasn’t into that kind of thing, particularly not in the bathroom of a bar with someone I had just met, to which he responded, “Don’t worry, you can just do a little bit, and I’ll do a lot”. I looked at him in disbelief and responded with “Tempting, but still no.” after which I told him I was not interested in any of his propositions and walked to the other end of the bar. Thank fucking god and baby Jesus, he didn’t follow me.

To sum things up, a slightly pudgy Jewish man who had spent over $800 “worth of kindles” (take better care of your fucking shit, dude), a butch Asian lesbo who apparently named herself Jacks (sorry but you are neither as hot or awesome as Jacks from Sons of Anarchy, which is obviously the first thing that comes to mind) and an overly eager man who does coke in bar bathrooms with strangers and also apparently has no sense of humor. The answer to your question is yes, I find the keepers. 

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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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