The Bartender Knows

Thursday, April 12, 2012

SHIT GIRLS DO

I just watched Bridesmaids. Pretty hilarious. Then on every other billboard I’m seeing advertisements about Lena Dunham’s new series Girls, all about a group of relatively attractive women who continually make mistakes and wonder why they are unhappy. Jesus, Lena, hang out in Brooklyn much? You could bottle the amount of livid dissatisfaction I hear from women around here. And the whole Bridemaids thing was spot on. Ever participated in a wedding? Women go CRAZY. There is more neuroses, madness, moodiness, insecurity, perfectionism, and good old fashioned bitchiness involved in the average wedding to fuel the next two world wars.

It just seems to me that there’s big business these days in ‘women behaving badly’. And what are the twelve year old girls supposed to look up to? Fucking a Vampire? Dying in a Hunger Game? Nobody wants their daughter to be Lohan-ed.

So now that pop culture has given women permission to not only be assholes, but be raging, greedy, power hungry, dismissive, slutty assholes, it’s time for a Bartender Knows Public Service Announcement. As a child of a matriarchy, yes, actually spawned by women who are not only beautiful (we don’t so ugly women in my family) but successful, fair and firm in their opinions, and intellectual and ambitious enough not to just live only to drink, fuck, and complain (and in Williamsburg, get tattooed), I've got an interesting perspective on said topics.

This week’s topic is merely what intellectuals would call a ‘literary critique’ regarding observations this Bartender has noticed over the years behind the bar about the ‘fairer’ sex.

STOP SHOPPING

Seriously.

Stop.

I mean, buy shit if you need it, but not only has your gender been systematically taken over by fashion magazines, television commercials and cosmetic companies, but now I actually hear women defending their own enslavers.

“Shopping makes me feel good”. Yeah, honey, so does heroin, but it doesn’t mean we should do it! Other notable things that feel good: Unprotected sex, binge eating, cocaine, excessive drinking, hundreds of nameless sexual partners, bar fighting, habitual marijuana abuse, talking shit on others, etc, etc. This does not mean we should participate in these activities, and ON TOP OF THAT convince those around you that it’s a good thing. I mean, hell, most of my friends do all of the above, but at least we KNOW it’s bad.

Fashion is the most self-aggrandizing, vacuous, shallow, competitive, vain and pointless thing that has ever been spawned upon this fine Earth. I’m not hating on theatrical costumes, film wardrobes, or any other of the creative arts, but the insistent concern over ones looks is absurd. Let me paint you a small logistical diagram. Shopping means forgetting your troubles. So you buy shit. Then you barely wear that shit. Then you’re upset again, feeling ugly and fat, so you buy more shit, playing right into the hands of the money-makers, guilting you back into spending your cash on bullshit. Buy a book. Buy a camera and take rad pictures of ponies or trees. But giving your money over to exactly the people that fuck your own gender up is psychotic.

There are women I know with hundreds of pairs of shoes. That can’t be healthy. Let me make this short and sweet. You know the advertising world uses women’s insecurities against them (you watch Mad Men, right?). And when you buy (literally) into it, you truly are, to quote my favorite author, the ally of your own gravediggers.

BE NICE TO ONE ANOTHER

Women fucking hate each other. I’ve watched you guys interact. I’ve seen more friendliness between two underfed Cobras. Sure, you got your girls, but what about those other ones. Like that bitch waitress who asked you if you wanted Diet Coke instead of Regular Coke. What a whore! Or those girls down the bar laughing too loud in way to short skirts? What bitches! I have never seen more animosity between individuals than I’ve seen between two women who don’t know each other. The amount of shit-talking rivals a Chelsea bar during Pride week.

What’s the deal, ladies? What are you fighting for? Tell me it’s not us men! We are a notch above a drunk monkey obsessively playing with his own shit, trust me, we do not deserve your concern. Then what is it?

Take a moment and observe other women in a regular environment. Just during the writing of this blog here at an undisclosed café on Bedford Avenue, I have heard 1 out of every 10 women actually say thank you to the foreign women serving them their triple decaf soy Cappuccino. NONE of them made small talk (Note: More men make small talk then women. Just a side note, another café observation). And don’t just take this Bartender’s word for it. Grab a pen and paper, sit down like a scientist, and make the observations for yourself.

Reality is right in front of you.

All you got to do is open your ears and listen.

FALSE ALIGHNMENTS

So your having guy trouble, huh? Who are the people you turn to first? Your girlfriends, right? Or how about your favorite gay male, he must know the confounding mystery of why he’s doing what he’s doing, right?

Wrong.

You are asking the wrong people in the end. The only people who truly know about straight guys are straight guys. That’s it. Your girlfriends are equally as clueless as you are about our strange and bewildering ways. They are in the same battle as you.

You’ve got your ‘never gets hit on’ friend. She’s the one you constantly try to hook up with guys, but then the guys always end up hitting on you instead. The ‘never gets hit on’ girl is shy, right? Now, remember The Bartender Knows Credo about Shyness: If you are over 25 and you’re shy, it doesn’t mean you’re socially awkward, it means you’re just a dick. If you can’t handle base level dialogues with an average person (I’m talking eye contact, question asking, and smiling, it’s remarkable how many people can’t even do that), you’re just an asshole. Your “never gets hit on” friend doesn’t get hit on because she’s probably a self-obsessed jerk who can neither maintain eye contact, ask questions about others or smile. She hasn’t been laid in 11 months, what the hell does she know?

What about your ‘constantly fucking’ friend? You got one of these, right? But she’s not much help either. Her legs are open so consistently she can barely speak unless it’s in orgasmic grunts. She’s the one who solves every problem by falling on a penis. However, the last time she had boyfriend was back in the day when she was slightly Goth and writing bad poetry. Now she’s a size queen with a subtle coke problem. She’s no help either, especially if want some kind of successful ‘normal’ relationship. The ‘constantly fucking’ girl is more afraid of intimacy then her own reflection in the morning.

And your gay male friend, what does he know? Don’t be confused. Just because he has a dick like your straight guy doesn’t means he knows anymore about us than you do. Let me repeat: Gay men only know about Gay Men. You know the “my only friends are gay dudes” girl. These women look up and realize that every night they are in a gay bar. And not a cool Lesbian Bar. They’re hanging out in places like the Phoenix off Avenue A- a burly, all male, sweating not hot gay bar. The “my only friends are gay dudes” girl is no help at all either.

So who can you turn too? In the end, go to the source. If I got problems, I go right to another straight girl to get the answer. And that’s what your Bartender is here for: so send over them questions!

THE HOT AND COLD PHENONMENON

Ladies. Please. Tell me what the hell is this?

You like a guy. You act crazy for him. The guy is stoked. He’s crazy about you back. Then the next time you see him, it’s like you barely know who he is? Talk about mixed signals. And I’m not talking about when you just meet. Games are inevitable in the early stages of any courtship. I’m talking about even months in. I have heard from countless guys about this phenomenon.

I think there is some kind of confusion some ladies have. They believe that by acting cold they are either protecting themselves from pain or attempting to appear elusive (i.e. attractive). Either way, you are on the shortcut to being dropped like a bad habit.

If you like someone, just be a regular person. That’s how they do it in Paris. If those girls like you, they’ll stare you down until you sack up and talk to them. Here in America, when you mean to girls they like you even more. It’s fucked up. And true.

So there it is ladies, the state we’re in. And don’t worry. I’ll be continuing my ‘literary crtitique’ about the fellahs soon enough. But that one is just too easy, isn’t it?

Till next time!

LADIES, PLEASE. LINDSEY LOHAN IS NOT COOL.

ANGRY COBRA! AND A LITTLE UNDERFED!

SHE'S AS COLD AS ICE.

Friday, April 6, 2012

COSMIC BREAK UPS (Or, "It'sThe End Of The World As We Know It")

I wake up and my cat Lysander is sitting on my head. I crack an eye open, blurry from last night’s debauchery, and hear a strange flittering sound from her mouth. She stretches up to the window pane above my pillow, her yellow eyes intent out the window.

The flittering sound continues. She is no longer the shy kitten I once knew. Her tail wags back and forth, her shoulders hunch like she’s in the African brush. Then I hear what’s riling her up. Out my window in a recently blooming tree is a nest of new baby birds, all happily chirping on one of the branches.

Lysander wants to kill them. Yep. Murder. I pet Lysander quickly. She turns, sweet as ever, and meows something cute.

“You’re a fucking killer, Lysander. A goddamn murderer,” I say.

Nature’s instincts. Thousands of years of genetic programming. My cat, although sickly sweet, wants to tear the living flesh off these chirping little birds. Then I think about if she was bigger than me she’d kill me too, play with my body and bring my lifeless corpse to someone she respects.

And you Nature lovers want to protect the environment? It took thousands of years to finally conquer Nature with roads, mini-malls and community colleges, and now you want to go back to ‘organic’ life?

Nature would kill you (especially you) if you returned to it.

Shit, when I’m at the grocery store and am asked if I want paper or plastic, I demand plastic.

Keep Nature on her fucking toes.

This week I received a pained letter. Thank God there are bartenders. We’re not just here to make out with your girlfriend after you storm out of the bar after a fight.

The letter reads:

ok, so i have a question for the Bartender Who Knows:

have you been noticing slews of break-ups recently? it seems everyday a friend, acquaintance, or even complete strangers have been telling me their break-up stories - and i'm not talking breaking up with the guy you've been knocking boots with for 2 weeks, i'm talking long term, heavy duty relationships. is this a change in the cosmos? didn't someone somewhere once say that life and other things cycle every 7 or 8 years? you might say it's the weather - spring fever and all - but i think it's something more...internal, if that makes sense. What is happening in our universe, Bartender? How long will this state of flux last?

Sincerely,

Waiting for the Flux Capacitor to Stabilize

Dear ‘Waiting For The Flux Capacitor to Stabilize”,

Marty McFly would be worried too.

I totally agree something is drastically wrong in the universe. But I generally feel that way when I don’t have sex and am hungover. And I read way too much Freud and Nietzche.

For fun. So it’s probably just me.

What you’re saying is true. I’ve been seeing it all over the place. Couples fighting on the streets, divorces from long term married folk, break ups galore. I even have an old friend, him and his girl a goddamn institution like Catholicism, are now trying to ‘work things out’, which in relationship speak means they are going to break up in 3 weeks.

Two major factors are working against relationships in the cosmos as we speak, and you were partially right about one of them.

SPRING TIME IS STUPID

Yep.

Right when the squirrels in the park start trying to fuck each other I know something is going on. I mean, walk outside. After a grey and long Winter, now these blooming flowers on the trees are everywhere! You know what those flowers on the trees are?

Flowers are reproductive organs.

So every time you’re out there walking around on a fine Spring day ogling the new found flowers on the trees, you basic looking at Nature’s version of dick/pussy you fucking perv. When they say ‘sex is in the air’, literally, it’s in the air, like on the trees above you when you walk around.

Now with all of this pornography floating about, you look over at your stale mate (no pun intended) and realize: “What the hell am I doing with this person?” All the fights. All the arguments. You’ve tried every version of sex under the sun. You met their parents. You know everything there is about them. They can no longer surprise you.

Combine that with all the other people feeling the same way, all giving a seductive side glance your way, how in the hell can us humans (and we are animals, let us not forget) resist? We can’t be blamed.

Just like Lysander wants to tear the flesh off the pretty birds, we simply were not built for monogamy. And when finally you realize (and everyone does in the end) that staying together because of arbitrary reasons like ‘not wanting to die alone’ simply does not give dominance over thousands of years of preternatural genetics.

And give me the ‘we’re higher than animals’ speech and I’ll tell you to go film yourself fucking next time and you tell me exactly what you see.

2012 WILL KILL US ALL

It is the end of the world. I assure you. Just like Y2K. You were there in the 90’s. You know what I’m talking about.

The President was lying to you about a blowjob. There were some secret wars going on ‘over there’. The end of a Millennium was upon us. People knew it had to do something with this thing called the Inter-web. The Christians were clambering (as they always do). Radiohead got really, really weird. You’re sitting around finding hidden meanings in Tool lyrics. The Ouija Board told you the end was nigh. Kurt was dead. David Bowie actually started to suck. Emo got invented. The 90’s, all full of doom and gloom, proved it was all over.

Who wants to stay together when you know the world is coming to an end? Another prophecy of the Mayan calendar is to get rid of your failing relationship. It could be the end of all existence! Do you really want to spend it sitting next to your partner watching Netflix together in silence? Let’s say there is a God: Now the planets explode and collide or whatever supposed to happen this fair December and you’re at the pearly gates and God looks down at you and says: “Really? Season Three of Ancient Aliens? This is how you spent your last days?”

Shameful.

So people are cosmically freaking out. Because just like Y2K, it will destroy the world as we know it. And frankly, we’d rather be lost in some Roman Orgy somewhere than having to sit in a cubicle on another drab Wednesday morning only to look forward to predictable mutual head and 7 minute sex when you get home.

It’s not like the first time, or the first year for that matter.

And it never will be again.

But don’t let it get you down, I’m sure it will all be over in December. Time to visit your local sex shop, get freaky, and buy that bunny outfit you’ve been thinking about!

Till next time!

REALLY PEOPLE? WHAT DOES THIS REMIND YOU OF?

YES, MY CAT LYSANDER WANTS TO TEAR THESE BIRDS TO SHREDS!

THE MAYANS KNEW YOUR RELATIONSHIPS SUCKS!

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Killing The Sunset

This weather is fucking strange.

I’m with friends, drinking out, ready for Spring. It’s everywhere. By day, the warmth demands liquid comfort. Nothing is better than drinking in the late afternoon with friends on a patio, beer in hand, letting the last light-orange glow pet the skin as we lounge with our feet up.

We need the sun in New York. We need it like money. It’s Vitamin D we lack, hence the foul neurotic sometime bouts of mania us New Yorkers experience on any given day. And after a grey, dark Winter, these small, early respites of sun and blue skies are golden. My friends put back their pints:

“Man, what is up with this change of weather?” I say to the group.

My Well-Published Friend, Reuben, already embittered and a prince of Doubt, stares coldly behind his brown sunglasses: “Who gives a shit? The afternoon is beautiful.”

Roland smirks: “I second that, Reuben. Hence the spring jacket I’m wearing. Look at Wyatt, he’s even broke out that 40-year-old Dickie’s blue button up. Oh, the tides are a turning.”

Wyatt, puffing on a hand rolled cigarette, blowing smoke from his beard, leans back, explaining: “Well, you see Roland, I was going for the working class look. I’m a hard working man. Thank you for noticing.”

We cheers to that.

“Still, the weather is changing. Global Warming will kill us all. Another round?” Roland says, standing.

Everyone nods.

“If these are the end of days, it feels pretty fucking good. I’ll make the Apocalypse my bitch. Don’t forget the shots, Roland,” Reuben decrees.

There is nothing better than right now. I look around, the bar is clean, a little place off Berry, everyone’s laughing and getting along.

Then it hits me, we could take it up one notch.

“Fellahs. Let’s call 15 people and meet for the sunset at Berry Park,” I say.

“Where’s that?” Wyatt asks.

“North 15^th, by McCarren Park. Best roof top ever.”

Reuben slams his shot glass down. “Let’s fucking do it.”

Wyatt looks over: “Is there women and booze?”

I grin: “Does Mama Kennedy have a black dress?”

And this is where the story goes to shit. What do you think happened to the young gentlemen and our little plan? What could go wrong? We had everything going for us. The sun is out, the weather is warm, the boys are properly sauced, our buzz like a buoy in the water, staying afloat. We had 7 others agree to meet us there. The plan was perfect.

Now Berry Park has the most amazing rooftop, this is true, a perfect view of Manhattan, plenty of fine folks to leer at under the fading sun.

That is until you want to get drinks.

Our party has arrived, now we own the table, all 12 of us, chatting, lighting each other cigarettes, sneaking a bowl hit of weed every twenty minutes, and the sun is slowly disappearing behind the great monoliths of midtown. They even have a bar on the roof.

Which is closed. On the first hot day of the year. Right? Stupid. Okay.

“I’ll grab some beers downstairs,” I say. Wyatt joins me to help.

“I gotta be useful for something,” he tells me.

“You’re doing God’s work, sir.”

We walk down the awkward long staircase that is made to kill drunk people and head over to the practically empty bar. There’s two waitresses arbitrarily standing beside the bar, a bored look in their eyes. Behind the bar, three, yes, three bartenders. The first guy looks like some weird Ukrainian pimp, bald head, bad retro sweater, 6’5”, khaki pants (always bad). The other is an emaciated girl with eyes sunk deep into their sockets. There’s another guy, a skinny, lecherous looking type, sort of the guy you’d think pays for Internet sex chat rooms, pacing back and forth.

Everyone looks like they are high on drugs. And not in a rad Keith Richards way. More like Nick Nolte arrest photo high on drugs way. Me and Wyatt saddle up to the bar.

There are bartender crimes galore over here. There’s only 5 other customers, other than Wyatt and I. First thing first, there are dirty empty glasses strewn across the bar. I actually have to grab a couple napkins to wipe off some dreck to rest my elbows on the bar while I wait.

Crime number two: everyone has their backs towards us. This is just a bartender rule of thumb. Never keep your back to the populace. It’s a real fuck you vibe to the drinker. I’m peeved already.

So Ukrainian Pimp Guy comes over, doesn’t smile a lick. Wyatt even tries to be charming. The guys face is a solid pink cube.

“What do you want?” he says, in some thick Communist accent.

“Gimmie the Pilsner,” I say, returning the kindness.

“No more Pilsner,” he huffs, then he’s off again, helping one of the drugged out waitresses with a question. Wyatt and I look at each other. Internet Sex Chat Room Guy now comes over. But he’s one of these bartenders who avoids the eyes of people. As if he’s he won’t be seen by the customer if he doesn’t acknowledge them, visually speaking.

“Excuse me,” I say. No response. He’s two feet away from me. He’s pretending not to listen.

I look down the bar. Every other customer looks pissed. Two girls angrily stroke their hair. A pack of guys stand stone faced, as if they just witnessed a car wreck. There’s no music playing. Just some murmurs from the waiting customers.

3 bartenders. It’s been 6 minutes. We finally get their attention. The Deep Eye Sockets Chick comes over. I sneak the big order quick, getting a couple of extra beers so I don’t have to come back down to this madness.

The thing is this people. You roll into my bar; you get a greeting, a smile, and beer faster than you can say Miller Genuine Draft. And that’s on my bad days. I’ll cut the place some slack if it’s packed. I’m not that much of an asshole, but these bartenders are terrible.

We ascend the drunk killing stairs and make it back to our party. The Whiskey Twins (fine, fantastic literary characters who walked straight out of a Fitzgerald novel) smile and greet us. There’s Victoria, the wild, chatty blonde, and her sister Anne, a brown, doe eyed people watcher.

“What the hell, you boys get lost down there?” Victoria asks, kissing me on the cheek.

“Don’t ask. Bartender Hell down there,” I say.

“It didn’t look that busy,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“And the bar up here is closed? That’s weird. On such a nice day like this?” Victoria says.

“Yes. I know.”

“Well, let’s get one of the waitress to help us,” Victoria says, pointing to the two waitresses from down stairs. “I’ll try babe, but I’m pretty sure they are on drugs or just don’t give a shit.”

Victoria nods, taking a drag from her cigarette: “Williamsburg Customer Service,” she says, grinning.

This waitress is definitely a heroin addict.

I approach. “Hi. My friends and I were wondering if we could start giving you our drink order. It’s a little weird downstairs.”

She looks at me with strange, vacant eyes, as if she didn’t really work here, and she was just some chick I was bothering.

“What? Oh, yeah. My boss just told us to stop serving customers up here. They have to go down stairs,” she whispers, then exits with a “Sorry, dude.”

I return to Victoria.

“Verdict?” She asks.

“The boss doesn’t want them to serve up here,” I repeat in the waitress’s monotone voice.

Nodding, Victoria says: “Right? Why make anything easier for the customer.”

I brave it again downstairs; get two more beers from The Deep Eye Sockets Chick (7 minutes for each). Then they lose my credit card. Ukrainian Pimp Guy finds it, but when he brings it to me it is the wrong card. He charged some other poor sap 40 bucks. Now Internet Sex Chat Room Guy is on the case. He’s asking the waitresses for information. I stand, stunned.

Finally I’m back upstairs. And that’s it. The sunset was already gone. I still had my friends, but Berry Park killed my sunset.

Thanks Berry Park. Your beer selection is shit. You’re overpriced. You fired one of my favourite bartenders in Williamsburg for arbitrary reasons (The Bartender’s Bartender folks, she’s the shit), and you killed the first beautiful day of the season.

Losers. All of you, you being the managers and owners. And just like the Democrats this election, it’s time to get you’re fucking shit together.

YES. I ACTIVELY TAKE A HEAPING SHIT ON THIS PLACE. NOW I FEEL BETTER.

UKRANIAN PIMP GUY. HE'S A SHITTY BARTENDER. HE'S ONLY GOOD IF YOU WANT SOME UKRANIAN PUSSY.

THIS WAS STOLEN FROM ME. THANKS BERRY PARK.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Power Of The Slut

The scene:

Iggy’s on the Lower East Side.

The happy hour crowd is here. 6:30pm. The bar is already body to body, but not in a bad way. There’s still breathing room. The beer and shot combo they got going is keeping everybody happy. I’m there, calm, which is rare for me, not having any particular plans, wandering.

New York City is the finest place to wander aimlessly. It’s the wandering that teaches you about the 9 million collected inhabitants squeezed into each corner of the city. And there’s a bar on every block if you need a drinking respite for the weary legs.

The Central Park walk is good. Up Third Ave, my friend and I discovered a peaceful bar, hosted by a Greek/Italian bar keep. He cussed every other sentence and we took to him immediately. He liked my friend, her blonde hair in particular, barely taking his eyes off of her as she ordered some appetizers.

Then, properly drunk, hours later, we went for the inebriated 1 hour run through the Met. There are rules to museum adventures. You should never be in a museum longer than 2 hours. Otherwise, it’s just Art Porn. But with a little drink in you, the museum is fun as all hell.

That was last week. Now alone, I went for another walk. This time from Williamsburg across the bridge descending onto Delancy. Thirsty, I took a quick right and Iggy’s it was. I thought I knew someone who worked there. But that’s what all us drinkers hope for.

A friendly face, a buyback. A funny story.

Goddamn benevolence is another word for it.

The bartender was nice enough, a curvy little thing, pacing back and forth, a sardonic grin, shaking up some martini’s for two suits leaning by the corner, awkwardly laughing, watching the bartender’s ass as she bends over for each Miller High Life she grabs from the ice bin.

Now the crowds are here. All types. The two suits, a gang of obvious NYU kids reeking of self-importance, lost in some Spring Break fantasy. Some punks, remarkably still in existence, smelling of body odor and leather, take the back corner. The place fills slowly, the door cracking every 10 minutes. The suns already going down, the bulb lights inside glow a sick orange hue hanging from long wire cords behind the bar.

The music gets turned up and it happens. You feel it in your bones. Eyes start flashing at everyone else.

Alcohol has just unleashed lust into the room.

The normal bar routine starts. I’ve seen it a million times behind the bar. Now I am just a civilian, a drinker. Part of the jungle.

The hunt is on. The men walk a little taller, the women, with coy confidence, all look their best. I usually spend most of my time in dive bars far dirtier than this. There are barely any women in places like that, and any young ladies that do stroll into the Subway Bar for instance were either suffering from depression or on a slumming kick.

But here at Iggy’s there’s a mix. Everybody is looking for someone, or on their phones texting the person they’re hooking up with after they meet someone here.

The sexual milieu is present.

Rule One: Act uninterested. It’s the New York Way.

Here, it’s disinterest that gets people interested. They like the challenge. They’re all little masochists.

I can see people looking over shoulders, giving sideline glances to someone walking back from the bathroom. This is the human game, especially on a Friday Happy Hour. The workweek is over. Now it is time to play.

The rules are obvious when you observe them from afar.

Rule Two: Keep your options open.

People will talk to you, but not pick one until they’re on their way out. Or, like some others I know, take as many numbers as they can.

It’s a usual Happy Hour shift in Manhattan.

Then the door opens, and in she walks.

Big hair, tussled, thick and lovely, hang over her all but bare shoulders. No make up, black dress, cut right up above the knee. Deep décolletage, her breasts almost spilling out of the little black thing. She’s obviously already drunk with a huge smile, howling right when she walks in. This girl rolls in like lightening and the whole places pauses as if a record scratched.

She languidly swims through the crowd, winking at every man near her, lightly touching their stomachs, their shoulders, their backs as she passes. Every woman immediately in the place has hate in their eyes. Every man suddenly, like a starving prisoner who can smell food when the cage bars open, puts an eye on her. I watch the tide change in the room. The girl reeks of sex. It’s the way she slinks across the room. It’s the way her easy eyes have no fear of recourse, staring down both the men and the women.

She makes her way to the bar. I see her laugh and raise up her arms to a hipster dude. They hug and she plants a kiss right on his bare mouth. Then she moves to the next man, maybe she knows him, maybe she doesn’t. All I hear is:

“What’s up, baby?” And kisses him too.

She’s coming my way now. I try to avert my eyes. Next to me she mounts a bar stool, legs spread a little too wide, the skirt creeping up her thighs. She smells of yesterday’s perfume.

“What’s up, you?” She says over my shoulder.

I turn. “Not much.”

The bartender comes up, scowling, already full of disdain.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, deadpan.

“Darling, you can get me every fucking thing you got,” she says, then looking over at me. “How about you quiet guy, what do you think I should drink?”

“As much as possible,” I say.

“Good answer. What’s your name?”

“Frank.” (Note: I always give this fake name when I don’t want anything to do with the person.)

She takes up my hand, and right there in front of the on lookers, sucks on my pointer finger, keeping her eyes on me, finger deep in her mouth.

I look to the bartender: “2 whiskeys, please.”

Suddenly, we are surrounded by other men. She takes the finger out of her mouth and, sticking out her tongue, licks up my arm. I’m stunned, dumbstruck.

“To Fuck it,” she cheers, and slams the shot back.

Before I know it, I’m pushed out. This girl is now flirting, kissing, leaning her breasts on all of these men. I slowly sneak away from this sickening pack. I don’t know who she’s going home with, but it’s going to be someone. I don’t even start theorizing about her childhood.

Women hate this kind of girl. You know what I’m talking about. When a girl plays the sex card like our ‘lady’ here at Iggy’s, it devalues the cat and mouse game everyone else is playing. It makes the sex too ‘easy’, as they say. All the men would rather chase the Slut then have to go through the useless pedantic games of trying to fuck a regular person.

Sounds tragically bitter?

Here are some facts about sex:

No matter what anyone tells you, it is a game. Call it what you will. Dating is series of well-played (and hopefully honest) interpersonal revelations done systematically by both sides to appear to be more attractive. No? Everybody puts their best foot forward when first meeting someone. That’s not how you dress everyday! You don’t wear that much make up! You don’t offer to cook people food right when you meet them! You don’t usually wear cologne! Come on people, it’s a fucking game. A human sexual chess game.

The power structure currently in our modern world is that men are the initiators and women are the gate keepers. They choose who shall be the victor. Admit it ladies, you get hit on at least 37 times a day (and if you don’t, either you are not paying attention or your one of Medusa Sister’s). And, in the end, you have the choice for your personal ‘preference’.

Men, we don’t get shit. We have to ‘get up, get out, and get something’, to quote Outkast. It’s just the way it is.

The slut devalues these games. Yes, the girl who sucks on your finger before you know her name changes things. Immediately, the other women are angry. If sex has value, and the rest of the upstanding women of the world insist on upholding this value, the power of the slut comes from de-valuating sex. Making it like breathing, or taking a piss, or a really fun handshake.

I don’t know what happened to our slutty friend. I can make one or two educated guesses, however.

But I do know this. From the moment home girl walked in the bar, she changed the entire vibe of the place.

Her brazen sexuality sent a tidal wave of energy across the room, and not all for good (especially for the wholesome girl trying to talk about her day to her distracted boyfriend).

The Power of the Slut is revelatory. It shows men for the Neanderthals they really are, revealing pathetically simple and base natures. It erodes the power of sexual attraction by devalueing sex and the chase itself. The Slut puts it all right out there.

I’ve walked into a million bars and never changed shit (except that one time I collided with a bar stool, falling upon it, causing a domino effect of other falling barstools, and getting promptly kicked out of Zablowski’s a couple years back).

Keep your eyes in the bars. Look around for that ‘one’. Every night of the week, there’s always that ‘girl’. You’ve seen her. And now you know her power.

Till next time by the drinking fire, kids, keep your shirts on.

THE GIRLS ARE PISSED...

THE MEN ARE REDUCED TO THEIR TRUE SELVES...

ALL BECAUSE THIS CHICK WALKED IN THE DOOR.