Cupcakes and Flannels

This week we have a montage of stories, so as not to get bored. It was throughout one night however, and it was quite an eventful one. It was a Saturday, probably after midnight so the time had passed for there to be an abundant amount of attractive women at the bar. The men far outnumbered the women, a real sausage fest. Every time I turned around there seemed to be another guy just waiting to pounce.

I had arrived at the bar and had just been served my drink when two men came up to the bar next to me to order. The one closest to me turned to me and said, “So you’re doing a shot with us right?” Considering I was on my way home from already being out, wanting only a nightcap, had just arrived and gotten my own drink this sounded like a terrible idea so my response was pretty quick, “Ah, no.” The guys immediately turned to their other side where two other girls were standing and said, “So you’re doing a shot with us, right?” Ha. Classy. However, the girls after me agreed to the shot so I guess the attitude try try again works out occasionally. A little while later (they had all taken their shots but were still standing next to me) a great song came on and I caught the eye of one of the cocktail waitresses that I knew and we had a little dance party across the bar for a second. The same guy who had earlier offered me a shot turned to me and said “I appreciate that you’re down to party without shots.” Yes sir, yes I am. Since when did shots become a necessity for being down to party? A nice cocktail, mixed drink, or even a beer can’t cut it when you’re down to party? Maybe I would understand if I were a shitty frat boy. Like yourself.

The next offer I had was straight to the point. No small talk or frivolous formalities. A guy had just paid his tab at the bar, turned to me and said “I’m about to go, but I’d like to take you out on a date sometime.” Would you now? The problem is, I don’t want you to take me on a date ever. He was fairly unattractive, uninteresting and unfortunately the small talk and frivolous formalities like buying a girl a drink, sometimes go a long way. Needless to say I declined this very tempting offer of going on a date with Mr. No Name.

The last attempt of the night came in three parts. A group of guys were together at the bar. They had come to this particular bar because they knew the (rather shitty) DJ who was playing. The first one of them to approach me asked if I was sitting alone at the bar, because he “absolutely did not condone” that. Prior to his arrival I had been sitting with another regular and the cocktail waitress I knew who had just gotten off her shift. Also worth mentioning, at some point while I was using the restroom one of the bartenders gave me and the other regular I was sitting with, cupcakes from a private party that had been held earlier at the bar. The other regular ate his cupcake almost immediately but mine was sitting on the bar next to my drink. Vanilla cupcake, white frosting with rainbow sprinkles. Quite enticing but I planned to eat it after I had left the bar. Mr. Flannel shirt then asked me where I had gotten the cupcake. I said it had just appeared (true story) and he asked if I would share it with him. I said no, sorry but I don’t share my cupcakes with strangers and he started going on about how I wasn’t a good “sharer”. Excuse me, do I look like I’m six years old and also, are you my mother? Yeah, no. Kye, bye bye. After the cupcake kick he tried to convince me that I should go with him and his friends to wherever they were going afterwards. By this point it was after 2am—all I wanted was to finish the drink I was on and go to bed, which is generally what I told flannel shirt. He seemed incredulous that I didn’t want to “do it up” on a Saturday night. He eventually trailed away and his friend took his place. Out of the group of four, he was the oddball. He apparently hadn’t gotten the red flannel memo that the rest of his friends had gotten. Also instead of being the generic bro type, he was the ethnic friend. He was also interested in the cupcake, or as I suspect, he used the cupcake as a way to get the ball rolling, a conversation starter of sorts. However, conversation with him left much to be desired and for this reason, didn’t last long. After he tottered away the third guy from the same group wandered over. Can you guess what he was interested in? You got it—the cupcake. He took a different (and rather annoying) approach and kept trying to stick his finger in the icing so that I wouldn’t want it anymore. I think the ulterior motive behind this however was me pushing his arm away from the cupcake every time he tried to stick his finger in it (ew, if you want it that bad, go get your own damn cupcake, this is NYC so you can find anything at any hour if you search hard enough). He didn’t go away of his own accord but instead by his friends who were still trying to “do it up” on Saturday at 2:30am. Flannel shirt number one came over at that point to urge me to come with them (again) but weirdly, the later it got, the more ready I was to go home and curl up in my cozy bed. The four friends, three in red flannel and the oddball middle eastern friend reluctantly made their way to the door, all the while trying to convince me to keep the party going but that wasn’t happening at all, particularly with that group. I mean three out of four? Not bad, right? Definitely a classy group of guys right there, taking turns hitting on the same girl. Now that’s what you call chivalry.

Shortly after they left, I made my own exit, and if you can believe it, now comes the best part. Being tired and mostly just lazy I hailed a car. Not a taxi but a car service (because as I’ve mentioned, taxis hate going to Bushwick). I got in and told the driver I was going to Bushwick and gave him the cross streets. The car ride went smoothly and when we had reached my destination, I asked the driver what I owed him. He seemed confused and said “You’re all taken care of.” Now it was my turn to be extremely confused. Free ride home and not kidnapped? Way too good to be true, so I asked what he meant by all taken care of. He said, “You called uber right?” (uber, the new craze. An app that allows you to call a car or green taxi and know exactly when it will get there) and I replied saying no I just hailed the car. At this point the driver got extremely anxious and started muttering things like “Oh, no, this isn’t good at all”. All the while I’m just trying to find out how much I owed him so I could get out of the fucking car and go to bed. He was preoccupied by being worried about how much he had just fucked up his job, and asked me how much I usually paid for the fare. I told him, paid and got out. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had just accepted that God had pre-paid my cab and gotten out. Although the driver should probably realize that if he’s working for a company such as uber, he might want to ask the people who get in his car at 3am on Saturday night if they ordered a car or are just trying to hail one like everyone else and their mother at that time on a Saturday night, but then again, maybe that’s just me.

You wanna know the worst part? When I got into the car I took a bite out of my much longed for cupcake and it was terrible, just terrible. 


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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