After receiving the royal treatment (or, uh, something like that) from my online stallions and having survived the aforementioned bananas encounters, I promptly canceled my cyber-dating account and again resigned myself to hacking my way through the wilderness of the bar scene. Last weekend, my not-so-triumphant return entailed meeting a self-proclaimed Sean John model (can't seem to get away from these guys!) with a giant case on himself (shocker!). Clad in a rather fey coral sweater and tight black jeans, he first happened upon Special K, managing to tell her he was a model during their 45-second chat, then, after her hasty departure, turned his attention to yours truly.
Him [Flexing triceps casually beneath neoprene-like sleeves, light from bar lamp glinting seductively off shiny shaved head, two minutes into conversation]:
"I normally don't sleep with women...but I think I'd make an exception in your case."
Me: "Errrrrrrrrr...." [To self: I've got 'em switching teams! Holy schnikeys! Atta girl!
OH SHIT...DOES HE THINK I'M A DUDE?]
After nearly bursting into tears when I told him I was going home alone, he tried desperately to talk me into taking a cab (somewhere, anywhere) with him, luring me outside the bar in an attempt to sweet-talk and presumably mesmerize me with his pulsating pecs.
Not one for confrontation and slightly freaked out, I demurely excused myself to retrieve my coat and purse from the now-closed bar, and promptly told the bouncer and bartender to lock the place down, yo! His reaction? To pound on the door for a full 30 minutes and then, after being denied re-entry to, as he put it, "rescue his girlfriend," to call the cops...who actually showed up.
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