Goin' Out

Now that the Crazy Ex is officially gone, I've had to face the fact that I am REALLY in need of some female companionship. Is it too much to ask to find a single girl who, by her wicked demeanour, is in no way marriage material AND would want to spend some happy time with me?

A buddy of mine from work (well... some guy in the IT department who, by default given his chosen vocation, doesn't wash his hands after doing number two) noticed I was not well and used his only wisp of non-machine-interacting empathy - that of being able to sense male sexual frustration - to invite me out on the town Friday and "get us some girlies" (according to his playfully phallocentric comments, he seems to have some sort of magnetism for the Y-chromosome-challenged, despite his somewhat rotund, showerless appearance. There really is no understanding that which attracts females. Actually, that's a whole paragraph unto itself).

Why in our Lord's name are average men getting women to go out with them all the time when I, a relatively attractive guy who works out pretty much every day, wears nice clothes that have big fancy logos from upscale brands, makes a pretty darned good salary, can converse fluently in two languages about my cottage in the Laurentians, my $3,000 watch, how I am extremely effective in bed (I'll back THAT comment up with stories from the first six months of my relationship with my ex-wife - ooooooh she liked that lights-off missionary sex! - I'm no empty braggart) and my knowledge of Andrea Bocelli and Stephen King and other examples of fine culture, am NOT. I mean, it's not as though less handsome, less wealthy men have anything on me, right? And I'm a nice guy too! I swear, chicks are completely unfathomable.

In any case, we met up and headed to a bar on St-Denis. The girls were plentiful and I was wearing MUCH nicer clothes than the other guys there (it's as though half-worn jeans and grubby t-shirts are somehow seen as being stylish. I'll take my pleated-front khakis and double-breasted sport coat thank you very much). We grabbed beers and my guide started chatting up girls, speaking of role-playing games and such. I was surprised by the almost universal reaction: piqued interest at the start, then immediate disinterest whenever he mentions he likes playing a fourteenth-level elf magi thingy. I was starting to wonder if he shouldn't switch to being a paladin or something, but I've no clue about these things.

I spotted a magnificent twenty-something redhead at a table and we made eye-contact and flirted from a afar for a few minutes. My buddy tells me I should buy her friends beverages and try to integrate her group. I ordered a pitcher of sangria (what they were drinking) and made my way to her table. I introduced myself and she seemed to be happy I came over. She introduced me to her four friends and I found out they were actuaries from a consultancy I knew (my ex-wife had worked there. This was an in!).

I regaled her with stories from my trips, the latest being the one to Eastern Europe, notably Bucharest. I told her in detail how I was able to save quite a bit by choosing non-busy months and by negotiating packages with various travel retailers. I showed her the watch and basically went through my life from youth until today (unfortunately, she seemed to be one of those "interrupters", as she sometimes tried to tell me how SHE had similar experiences. I'm sorry, but something that happened in the Canadian hinterlands, no matter how life-altering, CANNOT compete with the fascinating intricacies of Balkan train travel).

Anyhoo, I must've spent three hours talking to her table, drinking a few too many pichers, ribbing their choice of vocations (actuarial math. I mean, is there ANYTHING less interesting?). A couple left, probably assuming that their friend wanted some alone time with me (she playfully pled for them to stay, but they really had to get up on Saturday morning to finish a report). Eventually, the three remaining girlies left for the bathroom together (what a silly ritual), and only two came back. My carrot-haired belle (the nickname I gave her all night. Cute huh?) had to leave because she wasn't feeling well at all. They grabbed her coat for her and took my phone number to give her (they both laughed when I handed it to them - good sign! I've learned that girls LOVE to set their single friends up).

I had been hoping for some physical contact that night but hey, a good man needs to learn to be patient, right? My colleague eventually met a UNIX architect with an affinity for multiple shots of Southern Comfort, elastic-waistband hotpants (as dictated by her lower-body morphological attributes) and, one assumes, foregoing post-potty ablutions. They were one of the many couples who had concluded negotiations and were making out, dripping aromatic slobber over sticky tabletops. I therefore wished him good luck and headed out alone.

...I still don't get it. How long must I wait until I find a girl who'll slobber with ME?

At least the entire evening only cost me one pitcher of sangria. Plus the cab ride home.

Gargy was on the Internet. The bucket was overflowing. Uh-oh.