We all know the white-lies that come with the dating scene – having this job title, or travel experiences in that country, or being STD-free. So your 16-hour layover in Nepal may not be the same as spending two weeks climbing the Himalayas with your buddies after college, but they don’t need to know that off the bat. Everyone stretches the truth here and there to appear more interesting in the hopes of having an awkward morning; because we all know an awkward morning is better than a bad night. Consider me the guiltiest person when it comes to white lies, because honestly, that’s the only way I’ve been able to keep girls interested as a newly-single gentleman in this newfound jungle of yuppie singles after being in a relationship since college. But this past weekend, I went a different route. I’m not sure why, but I decided to be completely honest – and it worked. I was honest, and it not only got me a number from a girl who’s probably out of my league, but it may have even created something greater (still TBD).
Baltimore is like my personal Vegas. It’s where I can go act like a complete degenerate, not know (too many) people around the city, wake up the next morning and make the one-hour drive back to our nation’s capital and pretend like nothing ever happened. This past weekend I decided it was time to get out of DC, so I hit up a close fraternity brother of mine and let him know I would be coming up for the night to partake in his usual degenerate activities.
The night began around 4 p.m. when I arrived. We decided it was best to go to some market in Federal Hill (sorry Baltimore people, can’t remember the name) for some afternoon brews to get the night started. All five of us hop in a cab, pick up some girl they met the night before and hit the road. Upon arrival, we were immediately turned down by the bouncer who claims they were “at capacity.” Now I’ve been to my fair share of watering holes through my five legal years of frequenting these establishments, and this placed looked nowhere near “at capacity.” Freezing our asses off, we decide to cut our losses quickly and go to a country-themed bar right next door. As soon as I walked in, I could tell it was my kind of bar – a casual place where you can walk in and take a seat, great music playing but not so loud that you have to scream at the person next to you in order to communicate, and plenty of cheap beer options. We start with a few buckets of Bud Light bottles and some food to hold us over while the soothing sounds of Kenny Chesney and Garth Brooks took over the bar. Yahtzee.
Fast forward a few more buckets and in walks two girls. Let’s call them Lauren and Layla. Immediately, you could tell they wanted to party. Dolled up with a hot outfits on, they weren’t settling for a few beers to then head home and watch HGTV reruns. They had that alpha-female vibe to them, which I dig. I can only imagine their conversation before leaving to the bar going something like this:
Lauren: “Layla, let’s go the fuck out, get drunk, hit on hot guys and see what happens. How does my hair look?”
Layla: “Lauren, first off, your hair looks amazeballs. I bet you could get Michael Phelps in bed tonight. Also, great idea. Let’s polish off this bottle of Skinnygirl margarita real quick then I’ll call an Uber.”
Lauren: “Fuck the Skinnygirl, it’s too sweet. I have a bottle of Woodford Reserve – let’s rip a few and hit it girl!”
Layla: “Laauurreeennn, you betch. Fine, but just two.”
After breaking the seal, I walk back to Lauren and Layla chatting with my friends at our table… perfect. Immediately, I knew my suspicions were right – these were alpha females. They knew exactly what they wanted, how to get it and were not going to stop until they did. After approaching so many females in the hopes of them not immediately pretending they have a boyfriend, it was refreshing to have a girl come right up to you and strike up a conversation (which is rarely the case #feminism). We were on our way to the next bar, and they decided to tag along.
The next bar was a Bier-Garden themed establishment. Steins, pretzels, soccer on the television. You get the picture. I decide it would be advantageous to sit next to Layla, as her friend was already courting another in our party. Tall, great smile, nice body and not too much make-up — she was right up my alley. Thinking we’re going to have the usual empty small talk that complete strangers do in bars, I was in for a surprise. I’m not sure how the conversation started going in this direction, but we quickly started talking about what we want in life, our deepest fears, and even our parents. And then we committed the biggest no-no in dating – we talked about our exes. Not so much about how much we hate them, but how the whole experience changed us as people, what we’ve learned from it and what a rollercoaster your twenties can be. And you know what, it was so refreshing to just be honest with a complete stranger about where you are in life. It’s like getting drunk in an airport bar and spewing your feelings to the bartender (who clearly is just listening for a good tip), but in this case, they actually give a damn. We had two more steins before deciding to head to the next bar. It was fuckin’ on with Layla.
Next stop, a great dive bar with one of those piano players that immediately kills any request put in front of him. I order her a vodka soda and a G&T for myself. Immediately, he plays my request – “PYT” by Michael Jackson. Layla and I hop on the dance floor and start dancing like two college freshmen on their first night out. Not a “bump n’ grind” dance, but a nice “I think there may be something here” way of dancing that was equal parts intimate, mildly inappropriate and still acceptable in a public place. Next thing I knew, we were in the last row of an UberXL getting after it like two kids in their mid-twenties do after more than a few drinks. We arrive back at my buddy’s place and continue said activities. Shortly after, Lauren decides it would be a good time to get sick, forcing Layla to play the mother and bring her home. I respect the loyalty, so I didn’t push for anything further and you know what? I’m glad I didn’t. I did everything wrong in the playbook that night and it ended up better than the last few, without the underlying fear of keeping up with all your white lies.
I’m not saying to never lie or exaggerate again (as I would probably die alone if I went that route), but give honesty a shot next time you meet a cute girl at the bar. It may just work out for you. Until then, keep fighting the good fight my fellow single friends. And Layla, I look forward to seeing you again. .
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