I was at The Study Hall the other night and something not so unusual happened. It was about 9 p.m., so the place wasn’t packed yet and there were about six people at the bar. Four of the early birds I knew, or at least had seen around in a friend-who-knows-a-friend sort of way.
Here’s how it sized up: two nicely dressed pseudogay guys and one clueless tube top, followed up by a poser with a Kobe jersey on. The next two bodies that filled space at the bar were the skuzzy, jobless-looking type who pan the room with that half-focused look in their eyes, anxiously waiting for the next piece of 21-year-old meat to walk in the door. The 40-year-old machismo is just oozing from their unbathed flesh, and I could feel their gaze locking into the back of my neck.
“Fuuuuuuck,” I think to myself; why does this always happen to me? I must have a sign on my forehead that reads, “Please sexually harass me if you are over 40 and you love to go to 634 on college night. I’m desperate.”
But no matter how desperate any 21-year-old gal is, there is no way in hell she is ever going to hook up with a 40-year-old who hasn’t bathed since the ’70s.
I’m a no-bullshitter with these men. Once one of these guys does try to hit on me he will have two results: one, beer in his face; and two, post-one-liner suicidal thoughts. The last thing I need to give them is ambiguity because to them this automatically means, “Let’s screw in the park.”
After the sleaze was eloquently rejected by my typical roll-the-eyes glare and the “fuck off” response to “What’s your name, baby?” he met up with his fellow 40-something backup buddy.
Together they began the charade: “Hey, sweetie” with a scoot-scoot of the chair. Apparently “fuck off” wasn’t clear enough, which is why ambiguity is like asking these less-evolved creatures to jack off to you in the bathroom. They will never quit.
I’ve never understood the girls who are just “nice” and don’t want to be “mean,” and who go along with their questions in the hopes they will soon stop. Didn’t they get the memo? If you’re nice to them, they will never leave you alone. It’s like feeding Kibbles ‘n Bits to a Pomeranian that hasn’t eaten in four days. I’d rather drill myself a new anal sphincter with a sharpened pencil than deal with their high-pitched yapping.
Once you’ve given them conversation they move into the “I’m so drunk,” lean-on-your-shoulder bit, which gets sketchy because then they are actually touching you. That means that the same hand with which they scratched their itchy balls 20 minutes ago is making contact with your skin – and who wants a genital rash on their shoulder?
Girls like this expect some heroic Pike (an oxymoron in and of itself) to come out of nowhere and do the dirty work for them.
Women play the “I’m independent and self-sufficient” card when a guy they are actually interested in comes over to them at the bar; why can’t they prove it when the hapless midlife crisis walks their way?
It’s a terrible plague that infiltrates college students; they are ambiguous at all the wrong intersections. Women are ambiguous from the start: Does she want to talk to me or is she just being nice? Would she hook up with me after another cosmopolitan? Does she like the way I lick her clit?
You just don’t know. Not until after the deed is done. Then she either barely edges away from your gripping come-ons, or she goes home with you. In which case you find out that you’re licking her clit because you screw like a Teletubby: a teeny-weeny unit and lots of boring babble.
Guys are straight out before the hookup, but vague the moment the girl starts to tell the truth. Do they like you? I’m not sure yet. Do they want to call you? Umm, just leave me your number. Was your name Jon or Tom? Depends.
If everyone were just straightforward all the time, we’d never have to worry about the over-the-hill lost causes wandering the world of 20-something bars. They’d either be dead or the equivalent: married.
Daily Nexus sex columnist Beth Van Dyke is as blunt as a brick and a hundred times as pretty.