One nightIMG_1261


Not everyone likes the one-night-stand.  In the lesbian world, a one-night-stand is the opening night of a long-term relationship.  In the gay world, it’s just Tuesday.  I was out at a club.  I’ve tried clubbing at home, but there are always the same girls hanging around trying to make me cook or clean up.

I was sucking down a shot, trying to loosen up for a drink, when this chick moves toward me.  I thought, whoa this lady takes her androgyny seriously.  She’s got the wife-beater-no-breasts, buzz-cut-thing going off.  She orders a daquari and I’m completely flummoxed.  She gives me the high school waz-up with her chin lift.  I say hey.  I guess it was too transparent of a “hey,” because she bolts before I could fully decide to sleep with her.  That’s cool.  She probably knew some baby dyke street moves that could be awkward without the right sized needles.  Suddenly another girl approaches me and I have to assume this one wants money.  Wrong again.

“I think I know you from somewhere.”  She says, punctuating that thought by slipping her finger inside her drink and unconsciously sliding it across her tongue.  Is there a school that teaches this delivery?

I replied casually.  “Yeah?”  It’s best not to appear too excited.  Women like to be treated as badly as their most neglectful parent.  “You look familiar, but I’m nearsighted so I can’t see what’s in my own best interest.”

She laughed tentatively, as if she was both attracted and repelled.  I get that a lot.  She took a sip off her straw so slowly I thought she wanted me to fetch her a straw with a hole.  Another, in a line of flirt techniques that hit the mark for me.

“What’s your story?”  She demanded.

Why do girls always ask me this question?  I have stories, but the question freezes me faster than dry ice.  “What do you mean?”  I stammer.  I know damn well what she means.  She means, will I entertain her, annoy her or eventually pick up her dry cleaning for her.

“What are you doing in this gay club?”  She say’s with a hint of condescension as if she is not in this very club.

“I come to gay bars for the same reason as everyone else,” I pause, “For the quiet time.”

“Uh huh.”  She mutters, trying to decide if she wants to continue her line of questioning.  I don’t give her the chance.

“Alright,” I say. “You wanna crack my code?  I’ll help you out.  I like girls.  Not all of them, but I try.  I come to bars to meet them because farmers markets happen too early.  Bars are dark and cozy like a bedroom so I figure we’re halfway there.  And they have alcohol which takes the edge off women’s farmers market defenses.”

“You’re interesting.”  She said, finally having decided.

“You’re smart.”  I said.

Never tell a gorgeous girl the obvious.  They’ve gotten compliments their whole life.  They want what they didn’t get, someone to appreciate them for their intellect.  It can be a stretch, but sell it.

“What’s your number?”  She asks.  “I’ll call you and we can do something.”

“I don’t give my number out,” I say, “It’s a really good number and I’m a solicitation magnet. Give me yours and I’ll call you.”

She eyes me suspiciously, as she takes out her card and hands it to me.

The truth is, I don’t like waiting for a girl to call me.  She might dial the wrong number and end up with someone I’ve been with already.  The circle is so small.

I called her the next day.  I don’t care what the Rules profess; a woman doesn’t like to wait for a call.  It makes her feel desperate and insecure, two emotions that shouldn’t be encouraged until you’ve embarked on a relationship.

She was sweet once she loosened up like a guppy.  But then, “I’m not fishin’ for keeps,” I told her.  “I follow a strict catch and release policy.”