Booty Call
What happens at the bar should stay at the bar
There’s no experience quite like dancing with a complete and utter stranger at Shooters.
He doesn’t know you and you definitely don’t know him, but for one song (which may feel like several depending on the height of your heels), the two of you are united in sweaty bliss on the dance floor. In that moment, you feel a connection. Perhaps it’s the mood lighting (nothing says “romantic” like strobe lights), but more than likely, it’s your astronomical blood alcohol content. Regardless, you exchange phone numbers.
And why shouldn’t you give him your number? You’re drunk, and in the dim bar light, he looks decent. Not to mention, you’re drunk.
So, the two of you text back and forth for a while. And by “text,” I mean send each other enough winky faces to last a lifetime. Once you’ve crushed your chicken quesadilla and made enough spelling mistakes to make even your Autocorrect cringe, you pass out–probably mid-conversation.
I wish that’s where the story ended. I wish guys were satisfied with a couple songs’ worth of grinding and some quality drunk texting. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
You wake up the next morning hungover but happy. There are blisters on your feet resembling craters on Mars, but that’s just a sign of a successful night. You danced your heart out, drank your face off, and the best part is you lived to recap it over breakfast at Cranker’s with your friends.
As you contently munch on your bacon and cheese omelet, you feel the familiar vibrate of your phone. It can’t be. Say it ain’t so. It’s that dude from last night, and he wants to know “What’s up.”
Look, just because I gave you my number doesn’t mean you have any right to text me. So we exchanged sweat and maybe saliva as well, depending on what song the DJ was playing, but that doesn’t mean I ever want to hear from you again.
Everyone loves drunk texting. But contacting me in the sober light of day is just plain unacceptable. We danced (if you can even call it that) for approximately seven minutes; I don’t want to tell you what’s up. Chances are I want to delete our conversation, attempt to salvage my dignity and forget we ever met. This will be nearly impossible though since I begged my best friend to take 900 pictures of us, and of course, she’s already uploaded them to Facebook.
What happens at Shooters should stay at Shooters (unless what happened at Shooters is you took one too many tequila shots…you’ll get to relive that with your head out the window of an All-City cab). For all other instances though, this adage holds true.
Don’t text me. Don’t request to be my “friend.” If you pass me on the sidewalk, look the other way. I just wanted someone to dance with and mistakenly chose the one guy who’s looking for a life partner. So, keep your “what’s up” to yourself…until next weekend.
