More Dr. Smooth

You knew it was coming. I was single again and that would mean visiting bars and having more retarded conversations with women, leading to hilarious stories and my exiting alone. I already gave you a taste in a previous blog, but another weekend has now passed. You see, in 9 years of going to bars, I don't believe I have ever actually picked a woman up, with the exception of the Charlotte Cougar, who picked me up...literally. Sure, I've gotten a phone number here or there, but nothing has ever really come from these excursions. Except for classic tales of Dr. Smooth, like this one to follow:

So, it's Saturday night, we've been drinking and partying at my house for my younger brother's birthday. There's about 16 or so of us and we proceed to kill close to 120 beers playing beer pong and flip cup, and of course there's the gratuitous shots being prepared by Kevin's girlfriend. In simple terms, it's a giant shit show and everyone is loaded by 8 PM. We stay there til 11 PM, however, and while most normal people would call it a night, five of us, including yours truly decide to trek down to Bethesda.

We arrive at Blackfinn, I miraculously shove my way to the bar with little trouble (or maybe I shoved 10 people and didn't even notice). I order up a few drinks (like we needed it) and I notice that two relatively good looking girls are sitting alone at the bar right next to me. Typically, I'm somewhat shy in starting up conversations (I know, no one believes me) but I've had enough alcohol to blind a mule, so let's give this a try. I turn to my buddy, and inform him that it's his birthday, not my brother's. He's obviously confused by the glazed look in his eyes (the beer and vomiting might have done that too), but nonetheless, I turn to the ladies, pull out my camera, and request they take a picture of us, since it's my friend's birthday. And we're in...remarkably somewhat smooth, I must say.

We're talking for a bit, I buy a round of drinks and they buy a round of lemon drop shots for the four of us (the other three headed to Union Jacks once they saw this obvious train wreck coming) and things seem to be going well. To be honest, I only remember pieces, but I think they were going well. The truth comes out that it's not my friend's birthday, but I save it with the brutally honest, "I know it's not his birthday, but you have to admit it was a pretty good line to come talk to you." The one girl agreed and is my streak about to end!?

Nope. This is where I make my tragic flaw. The blond that I'm talking to decides to ask me which one of them I used the line to talk to. Wait, I have to make a choice? This is too much to ask after all the drinking and then those damned lemon drop shots. I make the wrong choice. I look at both of them, and say, "I saw two hot girls...I wanted to talk to them both." This didn't seem like a bad thing to say, but that was in my mind. I notice her dislike of this line, and even my "...but I'm partial to blondes" attempt just digs the hole deeper. There's a definite shift in the mood, and then the closer comes in.

I had mentioned earlier to the brunette, who recently broke up with her boyfriend, that I too had recently broken up with my girlfriend. Ironically, this was a bonding point as we were both the dumpees in these relationships. The downside, however, is that my ex-girlfriend just happened to be at the same bar as us, and the friend I was talking to these girls with was her brother (who works with me and was at my brother's barbeque), and right about this time is when she and her roommate are leaving the bar and decide to come by to say goodbye. And this is when the girls decide that they too are leaving. Can't draw it up better than that. Oh well.

But we're not done.

We decide to go to Union Jacks to meet up with the others, and while this portion of the evening is extremely blurry, there are a few things I know for sure. At some point, we strike up conversation with two other girls, and someone makes the suggestion that we dance. As you've read in past blogs, I dance pretty well (for a white guy) and I think I'm dancing pretty well. Then again, it could have been like the scene in Beer Fest and god knows what the hell I was doing. However, we do end up going into your standard booty dancing moment, where she's grinding her ass up into me and we start doing a side to side motion, and then she starts getting low, low, low, low...and my thighs are burning.

As an aside, I just played two football games the night before, and I have been standing and drinking for the past 9 hours at this point. What would you do?

Here's what I did. I turned to the girl and said, I'm too drunk and tired for this, and I pointed at a guy dancing by himself and said, you should dance with him. And I walked away.

And that, my friends, is the Return of Dr. Smooth.