Serbian Affairs

Employees Only. If you’ve never been there, I have only one thing to say. Go. At least once, it’s a guaranteed great, albeit extremely drunken, time. This is a bar in a prime West Village location, meaning most of the people there have plenty of money and, to put it politely, think highly of themselves. It’s a beautiful bar, always pristine with polished countertops and an extremely impressive display of liquors. The bartenders are some of the best you can find, effortlessly making one delicious cocktail after another. The bar is always packed no matter what night of the week or how awful the weather is. People always find their way to Employees Only.

Now that I’ve set the scene and done my pep talk for EO, let’s get on with the story. It’s Sunday night and my friend and I got there early enough to get a seat at the bar which can be a tricky thing at EO. We both ordered different cocktails off the menu and were enjoying ourselves very much. We were probably just starting our second drink when the smell of cologne hit me. I almost gagged at the sheer amount of it, practically not able to breathe for a second because the smell was so overpowering. I am not exaggerating, I thought someone must have taken a bath in cologne. Two men sat down next to me and I had to turn my head away from them towards my friend to escape the smell. Finally I got used to it, as you tend to do with any smell no matter how impossible that seems at first, and eventually forgot about the two who had just become our “neighbors” at the bar and continued the conversation with my friend. Let me take one second to clarify that this particular night it was a guy friend that I was out with. We were chatting, enjoying our drinks until the guy next to me started to lean against me, as if using me as the back of his chair. His back was to me and I doubt he realized it was a person he was putting all of his weight into but needless to say, I was less than pleased with the seating arrangement. After several meaningful bumps on my part which he didn’t seem to notice I gave him a slight, less than subtle shove, at which point he sort of turned and frowned slightly but also stopped leaning on me. Great, I thought, problem solved. Little did I know the problems were just beginning.

It was shortly after that when one of the men got up and they ended up switching seats. Space was a little tight moving in and out of the seats at the bar but I gave a friendly smile at the man trying to climb into his seat next to me. He was older (saying early fifties would be generous) and well dressed, like most people who frequent EO. A little bit later I caught him looking my way and we exchanged pleasantries. I asked him where he was from because I couldn’t place his accent and he told me he was from Serbia. He also told me that he was a photographer/photojournalist here doing some work and that the younger gentleman he was with (the one who had earlier used me as a backrest) was his assistant. I told him I was a dancer and he asked me (quite creepily I might add) if I had my own personal photographer (implying that if I didn’t, he would be happy to do the honors). I said I did not have my own personal photographer. Let me stray off topic for just one second. Who approaches a girl sitting with a guy? Guy friend, gay friend, boyfriend, doesn’t matter, or am I mistaken? Because how is the outside party supposed to know what relation it is? Mr. Serbia obviously couldn’t gauge the relation and asked if the guy I was with was my boyfriend. To make things easier and after his creepy ass comment about a personal photographer I felt like having a “boyfriend” was the safest bet and replied that it was indeed my boyfriend. However it did not seem to faze Mr. Serbia. Instead he happily introduced himself and shook hands with my friend. Great, if that didn’t deter him then there wouldn’t be a whole lot more tricks to pull out of the bag. He told me how beautiful he thought I was and asked if my boyfriend was jealous of us talking and I replied saying no, he wasn’t the jealous type. He seemed pleased about that but it was only later that his true craziness started to come out. He told me, as I was talking, that I had such a beautiful mouth and that he’d like to “try it”. EW. Absolutely disgusting. By this point, I had informed my guy friend that he was my “boyfriend” and he started playing along, trying to help me out of the situation, holding my waist, that sort of thing. However whenever Mr. Serbia talked to me, he felt the need to invade my personal space by, one: talking directly into my ear, and two: also putting his hand on my back at which point the two guys would end up touching hands. My friend made a joke about how he felt like he should grab the Serbian’s hand and just hold it for awhile. Mr. Serbia bought a round of shots us, my “boyfriend” included. How thoughtful, right? Apparently after that he thought we’d known each other long enough to just go right in for the kill. He said, word for word “You are so beautiful and I want you”. Wow. No need to beat around the bush here. I said I didn’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that and he let it go for the moment. Shortly thereafter I was talking to my friend and Mr. Serbia got up to use the bathroom presumably. I started talking to his assistant who was considerably younger and less creepy. However we only had a  brief chat as Mr. Serbia came back far too quickly. He started talking about Serbia, asking if I had ever been. I said sadly no (wanting to add that after meeting him I never wanted to go there, ever). I said my only experience with Serbia was the exchange students my parents had hosted (true story) and I stressed that they were all so nice, hoping he would get the hint and tone the creepy down, but no such luck. He told me that he had worked for the president of Serbia until recently as his photojournalist. Now, I have zero ways of knowing if this is true, or instead, complete bullshit, but it really wouldn’t have been surprising to me. Such a creep must have somehow been involved in politics. Weird, creepy, backwater, Euro-politics. Anyhow, we are getting close to the best part.

“Would you like to share with me and my friend and your boyfriend?”

Yes, he propositioned a four way with one girl and three guys. If that doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever, I’m not sure what does. If I were ever to be involved in a three way, or more (which honestly I have nothing against) the girls most certainly need to outnumber the guys. What is one girl supposed to do with three dicks? That’s some crazy scary porno shit right there which I want no part in. After this proposition I gestured to my friend saying I was already going home with someone, thanks but no thanks (that sounds terrifying) and he replied saying “Yes, but sometimes you need two.” Incorrect sir. At this point I had already had about eight drinks too many plus shots on top of that. I decided it was time to just get the hell out and that’s exactly what I did, leaving Mr. Serbia and his assistant behind to find some other poor “beautiful lipped” girl (guys, just a hint, never ever lead into a compliment by saying a girl has beautiful lips, it will never be anything but creepy as fuck) for their orgy. 

Thanks EO for a good story every time. 

 

Just for funsies this week’s themesong is the themesong for Three’s Company, enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMVj-_zVkL8

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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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