It was a brisk fall evening in our nation’s capital, and I was feeling a bit out of sorts. Normally on a Friday night, I am cruising the bar looking for the best combination on the hot/dumb scale to take back to my garbage lair for a rousing performance of my one woman show, “Oh I never go home with anyone from the bar! I can’t believe I’m doing this!” (now playing in a DC bar near you).
However, that night I just wanted to wing woman for my friend “Carol” (name changed to protect the guilty) at my favorite frat-tastic mexican/tequila themed bar in my neighborhood.
We arrived pretty sober and early enough that the line to get in wasn’t too long. We made our rounds on the rooftop, ordered some margaritas, and posted up at a high top table with good visibility of the bro-heavy environment. As the night wore on, Carol and I decided that shots were a good idea. You know the saying: one tequila, two tequila, great life choices! (No? That’s not it? Shit. That explains a lot of my early twenties).
Suddenly, I felt the dark looming presence of two pairs of eyes on our backs that could only belong to men who had decided they were going to try and take us home that evening. We turned around and I was immediately disinterested, but Carol was clearly in thrall to the siren song of the pink button down and boat shoes. I took one for the team and allowed the other boat shoe shoed suitor to chat me up, maintaining a polite amount of disinterest to make it clear he would not be getting into my sweater dress that night. This did not dampen his hope in the slightest and I found myself the recipient of several more shots.
After about ten minutes of this charade, Carol entered the “fuck you guys, I’m going home” stage of drunk where suddenly, regardless of what you’ve been doing or who you’re with and how delightful they are, you become laser focused on returning home and being in your own bed. She made this intention known to our new friends, and I happily volunteered to Uber with her. However, it turns out we were dealing with some next level persistence.
“No no no, I have my car right here, we’ll drive you home!” offered Carol’s new friend as we all exited the bar together. I STRONGLY objected to this, citing our recent tequila-fueled meeting. “I’ve been drinking water for two hours! I planned on driving all along. It’s no trouble!” he insisted. I objected again, but Carol wasn’t having my logic. “I HAVE TO PEE. WE’RE GOING IN THEIR CAR!” she demanded. I tried diligently to talk her out of it, but she broke away and hopped in their car. At this point I was pissed, but I couldn’t just leave my blackout friend alone in a car with two strangers. I hopped in and directed them to my place.
“You know, I actually have to use the bathroom too… Would you mind if I came in and used yours?” asked the guy that had been chatting me up. “YEAH SURE COME ON!” drunk Carol graciously invited them into my apartment without consulting me at all. I was very aware of the game they were playing and I was not having it. We all sat down on the couch and I specifically did not offer anyone anything to drink, which would normally be rude, but in this case, I didn’t want to give them any excuses to stay. After a brief polite interlude, I was about to invite them to gtfo when I heard a snore. Carol. GOD DAMNIT, CAROL. Carol had promptly fallen asleep upon arrival, leaving me to wrangle these two dudes that she had gotten us stuck with by myself. Seeing that his romantic prospects for the evening were doused, Carol’s beau turned his efforts to trying to get his bro laid.
“Hey guys,” he said. “Let’s play truth or dare!” The subtlety and finesse of this sudden non-sequitur were not lost on me. I was not about to let Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber think this would work. “Fine,” I agreed. “I have a dare for you,” I addressed the guy who had been chatting me up all night. “But if you don’t do it, you have to leave.” He agreed excitedly. “ I dare you to do my dishes.” I had previously done a large meal prep session and my sink was piled high with dirty dishes, just waiting for someone (else) to do them.
The obvious response here is: “Fuck this, I’m out, she’s not into it.” Not this guy. Ohhhhh no. He walked over to my sink, rolled up his Vineyard Vines button down, and HE FUCKING DID THEM. This guy was committed as hell to hooking up with me that night. My resolve began to weaken in the face of such persistence. I was texting my friends furiously when I heard another snore. His friend had also fallen asleep on the couch, right across from Carol. Fuckin’ Carol.
Fast forward two hours later as we emerged slightly disheveled from my room, him triumphant and me still confused as to how the hell this even happened. The next morning, Carol woke me up cheerfully and blissfully unaware to discuss brunch spots. On our way out the door, I grabbed my purse and something slid off the table behind it. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was my hookup’s watch from the night before, which I assume he took off to do my dishes…
This happened to be an Emporio Armani watch that Google tells me retails for $300. Now, for all my garbage habits, I am a very honest person and tried to think of any way to return it to him. I realized I had literally NO idea what this guy’s name was and certainly didn’t know anything else about him, so I tried calling the bar to let them know I had it and they said they would call if anyone came looking for it. I tried to file a report at the police station, but they wouldn’t take one because it was someone I “knew” and the watch wasn’t really “lost.” (Walk me through that logic…). I waited 3 months, and then sold that sucker on Ebay, just in time for Christmas. My overly persistent suitor never did find a way to contact me.
I was annoyed at the whole situation while it was happening, but looking back, I ain’t mad at it. I got laid, my dishes got done, and I made a nice little profit off of what has affectionately come to be known as: “the sex watch.”
Step 1: Tequila. Step 2: Household Chores. Step 3: Profit. Feel free to write that one down. .