A Very Special Guest Post: “Why Don’t You Like Me?!”

I can’t think of anyone better to pen the first guest post on my blog than the male who has tortured me the most in my life – my older brother. Now a married man of almost a decade, he reminisces about one of his wild and crazy nights out as a single club-goer, long ago in the tale below…

My best friend, who shall remain nameless, has been a Ladies Man from time immemorial. Since we were 12 years old chicks have always dug him. Twenty-five years on and it gets a little old sometimes, being a mere mortal standing in the shadow of flirty, oozing, greasy Sicilian greatness.

Over the course of this time standing in the shadow of a Sicilian Adonis, I have also had the awkward honor of flying wingman for said Sicilian Adonis. One hundred percent of the time he has always been flirting with the better looking gal, and I have always had to make due with whatever Lady Luck threw my way. One particular Flight of the Wingman stands out in my mind as being particularly horrible (or hilarious, if you’re not me).

The Sicilian Adonis and I were in our early 20s and partying at Webster Hall in New York. I always loved going there in the 1990s because it was a mega-sized club with multiple rooms, great music and minimal pretense. I always felt almost cool there. This particular night I felt really cool because the place was not crowded at all…we could actually move around from room to room without getting jostled.

We made it into a huge ballroom that included thumping industrial and dance music…The Sicilian Adonis’ prime feeding ground. He knew what he was doing…women that he was interested in were never found in the heavy metal or rock rooms. The chicks there were pretty scary most of the time. In the dance hall rooms were most of the goers, the hot ones who were ready. That is what attracted the Sicilian Adonis.

A few drinks in, we took up our usual observation position on the outside of the dance floor. Chicks a-flutter, everywhere…the man just had to take his pick. A few less-drunk women had already noticed him. We slowly waded into the sweaty female crowd and started to slowly get used to the music. Slightly buzzed, my inhibition fell away and I began to dance. The Sicilian Adonis did as well.

We had done this so many times in groups large and small that we rarely had to speak to each other. Body language and facial expressions were enough to report status. This operation was particularly easy as the odds were in our favor overwhelmingly…there were barely any other men around. After only a few minutes we each were dancing with women and not with ourselves anymore. The Sicilian Adonis had found a tall, tan girl with black hair and a respectable rump-shaking ability. Her frumpy friend, who found me, was dancing a bit too energetically and getting close enough that her sweat stained my own shirt. I accepted my reality and rolled with it.

Within ten minutes the Adonis had struck and was sucking face on the dance floor. How did he do this? Every time. I was now locked into the situation and my disheveled gal pal also looked ready to suck some face. She went in for the kill and I quickly juked to the right and shouted into her ear “Wanna get a drink?” She nodded eagerly and we went to the bar…I had successfully dodged a bullet there.

The bar was not particularly crowded and we were able to get drinks quickly. The music was less thumpin’ and we were able to strike up a conversation. I started with the highly original, “So what do you do?”

“I work at CNN, I’m an intern there.” That actually interested me so we started talking about her work and what she wanted to do with her life. Bad move. She thought that our conversation was not part of my wingman responsibilities…maybe that I was even interested. How unprofessional! Who knows though, she could have been playing wingman as well. Do chicks do that?

Anyway after about ten minutes of talking she grabbed me by the sweaty shirt with her meaty paws and dragged me back out onto the dance floor like a sack of dirty laundry. This girl was strong…and that might lead to issues.

We danced for over an hour and as the room got more crowded my own sweat started to mingle with the sweat she was spewing all over me. The Adonis was enjoying himself thoroughly, making out and laughing and generally being himself. If he could live his whole life making out with tan chicks and sweating 24 hours a day, he would. Who wouldn’t really, I guess…

After a solid hour of not making any moves as part of my duties, I could see that the CNN frumpster was getting frustrated (frumpstrated?) and really wanted to get the party started. She went in for a kiss again and I again asked her if she wanted a drink. This time it was much more awkward and quite obvious that I was avoiding having my face sucked by her.

We got to the bar and after getting jostled and pushed as I was supposed to, finally got a few more drinks. The time was drawing near…either I was going to have to do my duty as wingman and go all in, sucking face and whatnot, or I was going to have to disappear. Rude? Yes. But these were the cold facts.

“Why don’t you like me?!” cried the CNN frumpster into my ear. I think the music actually stopped in the dance hall too. I had never been asked this before. People in general, never mind girls, could not care less if I like them or not. I was temporarily shocked, and I pretended to not hear her, just to get a few more seconds to try and formulate a response or just flee through the crowd. Legs frozen in fear, I had no choice and had to respond.

“What?” I asked, putting on my best naïve face, which is an exact replica of the face I ordinarily have on.

“WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME!?” she shouted again, her eyes getting all glassy.

“What makes you say that? I really like you!” I lied.

“Kiss me!” she shouted, spitting some of her drink onto my sweaty shirt. A little club soda would get that out.

“I have a girlfriend!” I lied again.

“I don’t care!” she fired back.

She was a pro. The only way I could keep from getting drawn further in to this quagmire was to get back out on the dance floor and find the Sicilian Adonis. I shouted “Let’s go dance!” ignoring her question and she actually followed me back out on the dance floor. “Born Slippy” by Underworld was playing, a favorite song of myself and the Sicilian Adonis, and of the CNN frumpster too apparently, as she began gyrating and flinging sweat and drink everywhere. This was spiraling out of control, and I could not find the Adonis anywhere. He must have been getting busy in one of the dark corners of the hall.

The whole dance floor was dancing in unison as my heart pounded. How far would I have to take this? Would I actually have to get physical with this girl one way or another? I prayed to Jesus.

Before it got too ugly, the 11 minute song finally ended and I whipped out the bathroom excuse. I found the Adonis in there by the urinals, either peeing or admiring his genitals…it was always hard to tell which.

“Oh man this chick is awesome!” he shouted. I just leered at him as I peed.

“Don’t worry, just a few minutes more,” he said.

“You want me to go back out there? Are you fucking crazy?”

“Come on I had a bad break-up, I need this,” said the Adonis.

“Fucking guy,” I muttered.

I zipped up and we returned to the dark dance hall. Both girls were waiting. CNN frumpster said “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” I lied, and left out the part “because my friend just had a bad break-up and needs your friend’s tongue in his face.”

The music was much more subdued now so all four of us could hold a conversation. The girls asked what we did and I immediately answered that we were trapeze artists. That answer typically scared away most chicks for its sheer dorkitude. But these two started hysterically laughing and it seemed like they thought I was serious.

“Get the fuck out of here!” the tall tan one shouted. “You mean for the circus? How do you get into that?”
I was stunned, as was the Adonis. Was this ever going to end?

“You are so cute!” shouted the CNN frumpster. Crap…this was terrible. As we continued to discuss working for Ringling Brothers and the Big Apple circuses, the music picked up again. We all stumbled on to the dance floor, which had grown much more crowded. Growing exhausted and soaking wet with my own sweat, sweat from the CNN frumpster and drinks from everyone around me, I gave the Sicilian Adonis the nod. This was a five minute warning to wrap up his business and it was a firm timeline, no fucking around.

I was very excited as the dance floor continued to grow more and more packed. After five minutes, I finally was able to get lost in a crowd of strangers and extricate myself, a sticky, soggy mess. I breathed the air of sweet freedom and met the Sicilian Adonis outside the building.

“Man, that girl was cool. Got her number,” he said contently.

“That was a lot of work, she actually asked me why I didn’t like her,” I told him. “HA!” he laughed, then rubbed my head as he usually did after mild successes. “You did good.”

We went further downtown and the Sicilian Adonis bought me a gyro at one of our favorite post-dance restaurants. Looking back, I suppose that was a little less than a fair exchange for six hours of hard work. But the alternative was far worse.

Yes, it could have been worse. As each of my stories demonstrates, it is almost always worse. Ah, the single life!  Now I want a gyro…


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