Standard Procedures

Hello dear avid readers! I know you’ve been missing the weekly stories, and frankly, so have I because it means I’m too busy working to go out and have a life, and even when I do, I’m too busy to write about it weekly. But enough bitching on my end, let’s get to the good stuff.

Let’s start with the setting. Saturday night at the Standard hotel by the highline, in meatpacking. For a lot of you readers I know that says it all, but for those of you who don’t recognize any of those terms, I’ll explain further. The Standard hotel is one of the fancy ass hotels in NYC where it costs a fortune to spend even just one night. You can go into the lobby at 9am on a weekday and women are walking around like they are ready to go OUT. I’m like bitch, it’s 9 o’clock in the morning, take off your fucking heels. But anyway, there are two rooftop bars at the Standard. The Boom Boom Room (I kid you not, it’s actually called that), which is so exclusive it’s often rented out for private parties (a celebrity birthday or some shit) and you can’t even get in. Then there’s Le Bain, (don’t be fooled by the fancy name, that just means “the bath” in French. Suddenly sounds less appealing right?) which is the other rooftop bar. It’s also selective in the people it lets in, but if you are a mildly attractive girl, you’ll probably be fine.

So, here we are. The story begins before we even set foot inside, because obviously, there’s a line. We’ve been standing in this line for about 15 or 20 minutes, not terrible but we are definitely committed. We’ve almost reached the part in the line where there’s a metal rail alongside the line so people can’t “join” in with their friend’s party (the polite version of cutting). Just before we got to the no-more-polite-cutting point, this guy comes and stands almost right next to us, but a little bit in front, not saying a word. On his phone the whole time, he sneakily (not at all) slides in, right in front of us. For a hot second I thought he was with the two guys who were waiting ahead of us, but no, turns out he was just straight up cutting three fourths of the line. I almost let it slide but I heard the girls behind us bitching about such a dick move and decided not to let it go.

“Sir, sir, excuse me.” No response.

“EXCUSE ME, Sir.” Still nothing.

A polite tap on the shoulder finally brought him out of the iPhone world and back to real life.

“Did you really just try and cut basically the whole line, really?” I asked sassily.

“I’m just trying to get to my friend’s party, they didn’t let me in last time, I was at the end of the group. I’ve been here for over an hour” was the excuse I got.

First of all sir, sorry to hear about all that, but that’s not really my problem is it? I mean, if you had told me your sob story BEFORE you tried to cut, chances are I probably would have had a bit of sympathy. But now you’re just another asshole. Second of all, there’s probably a reason they didn’t let you in the first time. Just saying.

So I replied, “But really now you’re just that asshole who cut us.” To which he attempted to tell me that “he wasn’t an asshole”, which just verified that he was, honestly. By that point the two guys in front of him had reached the security man and were being asked if they were “on the list”. They were not and were asked to step away from the door. Next up is Mr. Asshole. The doorman goes through the same routine, asking if he’s on “the list”. He’s scrolling through his phone going “Wait, wait, let me find the invitation”. The doorman is obviously not about this and tells him to step to the back of the line and basically shoves him out of the doorway. Being two cute girls, my girlfriend and I are asked how many are in our party, and then immediately ushered inside. Sometimes being a girl does have its perks.

Whew. So now we’ve actually made it inside. It’s obviously crazy loud, with crazy lights and my friend and I b-line it for the bar (to buy $15 mixed drinks, god help me). Once we had gotten our expensive ass drinks we went over to one of the windows to enjoy the nice view. It took us several minutes to notice Mr. Pukey. I’m guessing you can’t imagine where he got his name. He was sitting in an armchair by one of the windows, slouched over the side. For a second my friend and I thought he was just passed the fuck out, but turns out no, just vomiting his guts out. Classy Le Bain for you right there. After watching horrified but transfixed for a few moments wondering if we should tell someone, we ended up just making our way to find a new, less gross view.

We made our way across the dance floor (a real challenge let me tell you) and found another window to enjoy the view from. By this window there was a large-ish party who had a table and bottle service, but get this—no one was fucking drinking anything. There were three bottles just sitting on their table. It’s like seriously you paid well over $1000 to have this bottle service and no one is even drinking the fucking bottles. Good for you. Maybe if I was rich I would understand but alcohol is alcohol right? Who’s with me (I know you’re all thinking, god get this girl some help, but don’t worry about me too much, I’m basically a well functioning alcoholic and I have a theory that most people in NYC are, although there are varying degrees to the “functioning” part)? So anyways, we finally decided to make our way onto the dance floor. Now don’t get me wrong, I love to get down, however when a guy I’ve never met comes up behind me and tries to hump me passing it off as “dancing”, I’m not really all about that. The most noticeable thing about the dance floor was the people trying to shove their way in and out of it. Men and women have very different ways of accomplishing this. Men get incredibly handsy, apparently thinking it’s appropriate to touch you anywhere to get you out of the way. Although that sounds bad I’m pretty sure I actually prefer it to the approach of the self entitles ladies of the Standard who just shove their way around.

We had only been on the dance floor for a short while when I noticed the Lurker. He was completely bald, much older than the general crowd and generally just creepy. Not even trying to dance, just making his rounds, looking for some poor girl to prey on. The first victim was a girl who clearly already had a drink in her hand AND a guy with her. Double no no. But the Lurker still asked her if she wanted a drink to which she held up her drink, pointed at it and then pointed at the guy. The Lurker moved on. Unfortunately a short time later, he moved on to me. Instead of asking me if I wanted a drink he just creepily stood behind me, as if waiting for his chance. I tried moving to the left and right to shake him, but as quoted by my girlfriend “I think he’s following your ass”. Bad news for me. I tried the left and right tactic a few more times but to no avail. Eventually my girlfriend and I sneakily swapped places entirely, which stumped him, and after a brief pause he was forced to look for his next victim.

I’m sure you are getting tired of me rambling on. I promise I’m almost done. One more, the Australian. I noticed him watching me dance for awhile before he made a move (creepy). He came over and asked if I wanted to dance. Sure, why not? He was in front of me and not trying to hump me from behind so he already got kudos for that. Also he was somewhat attractive so it’s like sure, let’s dance. He had the Australian thing going for him except it was so fucking loud I couldn’t even hear his accent over the music. So there we are, I’m dancing and he’s attempting to dance. Then he starts trying to actually talk to me. Normally I’m not opposed to that but in a club it’s basically pointless given how many times we had to repeat ourselves to hear one stupid get-to-know-you question. Basically what I got from the conversation was that he was in town for just over a week. Which is code for, you just want to fuck, and I’m not really about that. He started asking me what I could “show him” of the city while he was in town and I knew it was time to get the hell out while I still could. I made the excuse that I was “going to the ladies room” (classic), he told me about eight times that he would be waiting right there (oh good, I was super worried), I grabbed my girlfriend and we got the hell out of dodge.

Now I’m hoping that after reading this I haven’t forever  made you want to avoid the Standard at all times, I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s a fun place every now and again when you wanna have a great view of the city and get your jam on. Unless you have a thousand bucks a week to blow on bottle service, which by all means do your thing, but for those of you more average spenders, save it for a now and again kind of night.

Happily providing you with great stories and a good laugh since 2013 (just wait a hundred years when I’m still kicking it and writing badass stories, that will have more effect). Look for new stories coming soon, though I’m not promising weekly posts unless that one reader wants to give me the $1000 instead of going to the Standard? No, well then I’ll just be squeezing the posts in whenever I can manage.

Yours truly Sylvia


The Roof is on Fire: Rock Master Scott and the Dynamic Three


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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