The Bimbo Night
I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. I pressed my phone to my ear. Cackles and screams meshed to form a noise that could only mean one thing: chicks were driving.
“Candy, slow down. I can’t understand you,” I said.
More laughs and shrieks.
“Are you guys drunk?”
“No!” she yelled. A girl in the background was blathering about God knows what and their location.
After five minutes of listening to this shit, I heard their violent honking as they pulled up alongside my place.
Candy, 26, was a token blonde bimbo with fake tits. She was hot. Very hot. We met six weeks ago at some club in San Diego called Flux. We’d only been talking for ten minutes when her four guy friends—the same guys I’d witnessed fight to buy her drinks for an hour—grabbed her arm and escorted her out. I saved her number in my phone realizing that it would probably never lead anywhere. But I had to try.
In the weeks that followed, I sent her weekly texts like “OC tonight?” or “Parties in Newport tonight” and she’d respond with things like “I’m in Vegas!!!” or “Sorry sweety, I live in SD.” I eventually added her on Facebook to find she had over 1,400 friends, and every single one of her pictures was either a self-camera shot or a bikini pic with her and her stripper friends. It didn’t surprise me that one day after peacefully logging on I discovered she’d posted close-up pictures of her twat with the caption “Hehe me just being me.” The photos were mysteriously removed an hour later. I can understand sending texts of one’s snatch, but to broadcast it over Facebook? Who does that? It had to be a crude joke from an ex.
Either way, my “Newport” texts had finally worked, and she was pulling up alongside my house. At one point in the day, she sent me this text: “Hey would it be possible if I crash on the couch??? I can’t afford a DUI. Where do you live???” If I couldn’t get laid, I was more hopeless than Cory Feldman’s post-eighties movie career (I wanted to use Cory Haim for this simile because he wasted more talent—I still watch Lucas every time it airs on A&E—but I think it’s time everyone rags on Feldman.).
At first I thought it was only her coming out. But half an hour before showing up she used a “we” in one of her texts, putting a serious dent in my chances. Her friend—who I doubted was cool—would surely whine, brainwash, cockblock, and give Candy excuses to act like a curmudgeon.
Littered with dirty clothes, empty water bottles, and used Hot Pocket holders, the backseat looked like my room might look if it were in a car, so I jumped in the passenger seat and crammed in with Candy as her dumpy blonde friend, Dorothy, drove (Just kidding about the Hot Pockets. That’s just me.). Dorothy, with her buckteeth and upturned nostrils, was a five at best. I introduced myself to her, scolded them both for lagging, and led them around the corner to a local sushi bar. I’d been hungry for the past two hours, and my crankiness was spiraling out of control.
Candy wore a silver black dress that barely covered her ass. Dorothy meanwhile, wore jeans and a gray top. Upon getting out of the car, I got the first of Candy’s fourteen upskirts on the night. By the way, if I was a chick, I’d purposely get upskirted because 1) it’s not slutty if it’s perceived as “an accident,” 2) panties–G-strings included–are the same thing as bathing suits, so why should I give a shit if someone sees, and 3) it would make guys hornier, increasing my chances at a rimjob.
Dinner was a struggle. After the girls laughed about old text conversations involving inside-joke words like “Pinocchio,” “meathooks,” and “totes,” Candy and I attempted a real conversation. The results:
Me: “What do you do?”
Candy: “I model.”
Me: “Oh, okay. Is there a company or something where you’re employed?”
Candy: “I’m my own company.”
Me: “Uh.”
Dorothy: “Pinocchio! Ooh ooh [cackle].”
Though they did gush over me being a teacher, that was the extent of our exchanges. I realized this was going to be much harder than I thought. Candy, aside from her sweet voice and stunning looks, was a child; she wasn’t an alpha hot chick with a strong personality and decision-making skills. She needed serious pampering and attention. And she was one of those chicks who—no matter what the situation—was constantly making that face babies make when they’re in the process of shitting their diapers (When I was little, I was able to visually discern when my little brother was pooping his diapers with 95% accuracy.). But I told myself, “Hey, she’s here to hook up with me.”
They only ordered a Rainbow Roll—to split—along with a couple glasses of champagne. They seemed like the kind of girls who’d ooh and aah at bright colors, so when their Rainbow Roll came, I tried to solicit reactions from them by commenting, “Whoa, it’s so pretty!” They ignored me. (Note: When one of my editors, Axe, read this, he made this comment: “YOU ARE A FAG FOR THIS, BY THE WAY.” I kept it in anyways because trying to solicit bullshit reactions from people is a fun activity, and more people should do it.)
After sake bombs all around, the conversation picked up.
“Where are we going tonight, Dave?” Candy asked.
“Cabo Cantina. You guys’ll love it.”
Dorothy leaned in. “Is there dancing there?”
“Yeah, of course,” I lied. Though drinks were cheaper, Cabo Cantina was one of the crappiest bars around. It’s only recommended going there if you’re just looking to get drunk and save money on drinks; or if all the lines to the good bars are too long. My friends Axe, Vick, and their entire posse, however, would disagree; and that’s where they were headed. It likely wasn’t in the girls’ best interest, but I’m a bad planner when it comes to hanging out with look-at-me-chilling-at-the-pool type girl and her high-maintenance friend.
“You guys been to OC before?” I asked them.
“Yeah, we went to Sutra once. Weren’t too impressed.”
“Don’t worry. We’re definitely not going there.” Though I liked Sutra, taking them there would leave me with no outs if they turned out to be typical club chicks—which they obviously were. They’d probably head straight to the dance floor and boost their ego by teasing innocent black men while I leaned creepily against a wall sipping my beer. Fuck that. I had to take them somewhere where, if I blew it with Candy, or they began whining, I could at least ditch them to hang out with my friends. Plus, Axe and Vick surely had come with other guys who’d be drunk enough to hop on the Dorothy bomb.
Everyone was still pre-partying at Vick’s place when we left the sushi bar. I’d ordered the most, so I ended up paying. When the girls politely thanked me, I told them, “Whatever, buy me a beer.” I meant it, too. When it comes to food, I’ll usually always pay for chicks—because I’m a wannabe gentleman. Drinks, however, are a different story.
All eyes focused on us as we entered the final moments of Vick’s fifteen-person pre-party. Axe laughed immediately while Vick just stared. Some of the girls introduced themselves to Candy and Dorothy as I grabbed us beers from the fridge—which they turned down. It was then that Candy ventured to the dark side of the texting world. She didn’t stop fiddling with her phone for the next forty minutes. Real-life bimbo Candy had mutated into one of those robots from The Surrogates.
While waiting for a cab to arrive, the girls began complaining. Great. They whined about how San Diego was so much better, but “only downtown; not PB.” (Downtown is the club area, PB the bar area) Then Dorothy looked at Candy, “Do you wanna go? C’mon, let’s do it.”
Candy was silent, then said, “I just want to dance, and I don’t want to go to a fucking house party. I’m not in college.” Coming from a girl who never even went to college, she had no right degrading house parties.
I interrupted. “Girls, the cab’s on its way. We’re going to a bar. Relax, we’ll get smashed and dominate.”
Dorothy wasn’t convinced, but at least it shut her up until the cab arrived. Candy returned to her cell phone as she mindlessly climbed in the cab. Another upskirt.
While in the cab, I tried to distract Candy’s insistent texting by asking her questions about her latest modeling success (I’d read on her Facebook status not long ago that some foolish company had paid her three grand to publish her pics), but it did no good. I texted her some gibberish while she was mid-text…and got a laugh! She even looked up for a moment, but then returned to texting for another decade. She clearly wasn’t gobbling up my company, so I figured the only thing that could save me was if her phone died. Otherwise, all the come-hang-out/where-you-at-let’s-drink validations that were snowballing from her texts with other dudes would eventually render me obsolete.
Meanwhile, Dorothy had decided to spend her cab ride whining. “This is why I don’t come to Orange County.” “Where the fuck are we going?” “I’ve had like one stupid drink.” On and on.
“Man, you two sure do complain a lot,” Vick remarked, only to be ignored.
“We better not be going to a fucking chickenhead bar,” Candy chimed in out of nowhere.
Now I was fed up. “What? Chickenhead bar? You guys don’t have to come. We can have the cab drop you off at your car if you want.” Silence.
When we walked in the bar, a prototypical chickenhead—short punkish hair with red and purple swirls—walked right past us. I glanced back at Candy. Poopy diaper face. I busted up laughing and led them to the bar. I seriously think her diaper face has hypnotized her previous boyfriends into giving into her demands and constantly asking weenie questions like, “Are you okay?” or “Can I get you anything?” There is no reason a grown woman should be reduced to making this face:
I’d paid for the cab, again, so it was their turn to buy. “Okay, I need a drink!” exclaimed Dorothy. I was actually on the fence as to whether I’d buy them drinks until Dorothy decided to speak up. Now there was no way I was buying. They clung to my side, non-barside, and waited for me to act. That was it. I couldn’t tolerate their company anymore. Or maybe I was just too sober and wasn’t up to the task of being the source of their fun. I told them I had to pee, and when I returned I stealthily walked around them to where Vick was sitting with some of the guys—none of whom found Dorothy cute—and sat down.
A few minutes later Dorothy and I made eye contact. She narrowed her eyes at me, grabbed Candy by the arm, and led her to the other side of the bar. This was the gray area of the night. I’d pay good money—three or four bucks—to hear Dorothy’s brainwashing of Candy. My best guess of how it went down:
Dorothy: “Okay, fuck that guy. I told you we should have gone back to San Diego.”
Candy: [texting someone named Dan the Man Huntington Beach]
Dorothy: [scanning the bar for potential drink purchasers] “Seriously, where the fuck are we?”
Candy: [poopy diaper face at Dorothy, then checks phone for Dan’s return text]
Dorothy: “We are not crashing at that loser’s house.”
Candy: “Huh?”
I hung out with the guys for another thirty minutes, oblivious to Candy’s whereabouts. On my second pee run I saw her sitting with a group of Persian guys on the other side of the bar, drinks on the table. Seeing Candy’s tits suddenly made me horny again. Axe nudged me. “Where’s your stripper chick?”
“I ditched them. They’re whiners, and I didn’t feel like buying them drinks.”
“Dude, look at them. The only way you’re getting laid is if you buy them drinks.”
Axe had a point. I’d become so mechanical with my rules and probability theories that I’d let Candy slip through my fingers. Was she really worth a five-dollar drink? I thought of my options as I sipped my third vodka-soda. (HUGE SIDE NOTE: I have made the transition from beer to vodka-sodas. One, it’s less calories; as skinny as I am, I’ve decided to eliminate double chins and love handles before they happen. Two, I can get drunk faster. And three, I no longer need to double fist. Economics.)
After taking another leak I scanned the bar (DISTURBING SIDE NOTE: I recently went in for a physical with Dr. Kim again and told him about my pee frequency. Everything turned out okay, but he checked my prostate!) The only hot chicks at the bar were the bartenders, and I never even try with bartenders. They get so much attention that hitting on them would be like bribing Bill Gates with a twenty.
I found Candy sitting alone at the Persians’ table. She looked miserable, which could only mean her phone had died. I approached her and greeted her with a smile. She gazed at me for a moment and spoke in her high-pitched voice. “You’re being so rude.”
“I am? How?”
“We drove all the way out here, and we don’t know anyone, and you just…left us.”
“Maybe if you weren’t texting all night long I wouldn’t have left.”
“No, I wasn’t.” She paused. “Why did you leave us? I’m not used to getting ignored like that.”
“Well I’m not used to hanging out with girls who text so much.”
She looked around the bar, probably searching for a poster to give her ideas of what to say.
I took her hand. “C’mon, let’s get a dr—”
Before I had time to finish, a heavy hand settled on my shoulder. “Hey bro, you come in here and talk to our women?”
I turned around to be greeted by a burly Persian man with rough stubble who reeked of whiskey and neutralized deodorant. He was smiling at me, but I couldn’t tell if he meant business or was just messing. I explained myself about how Candy and I knew each other, and he jokingly waved it off and let us be.
Dorothy returned to the table, and I led the two girls to the bar. I was now drunk enough to forget my rules, and I bought them both vodka tonics. Re-focused on getting in Candy’s pants, it was my last card in the deck, and Axe’s drink-buying theory was probably accurate. While waiting for drinks, Candy stood behind me and continued with her “being rude” accusations. I turned around, looked at her for a second, and kissed her. She kissed me back. Now we were getting somewhere.
What happened next is a blur. I know it’s lame to claim forgetfulness, but that’s the one bad thing about switching over to hard liquor: loss of memory. After downing our drinks, Dorothy and some local Army dude had hit it off, and he wanted to go to a bar down the street called Saloon.
Saloon was brightly lit with dartboards on the back wall and hay all over the floor. Candy and I made out sporadically and ordered more drinks. I probably paid. The next thing I remember I was getting in a cab with Candy, Dorothy, and Army Guy, oblivious to where we were going.
Five minutes later the cab stopped, and Dorothy, sitting shotgun, turned around and began talking angrily at me. “Okay, Dave. We’re on your street. You need to go.”
“What?” This infuriated me. Suddenly she was calling the shots? “And whose call is that?”
“My call. Get the fuck out!”
“No, I’m not going anywhere.”
Dorothy, the cheapskate, glanced at the meter, then quickly back at me. “Get out!”
Army Guy looked at me and spoke. “Dude, you gotta go, man.”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I was about to get laid from a pre-loadtaking pornstar and pull off the greatest comeback in hook-up history. Instead, her selfish friend and her cornfed corporal (who only entered the picture forty-five minutes ago) were about to smother my chances so they could further pollute the gene pool. Candy hadn’t even spoken to Dorothy since leaving Cabo, so unless Candy had secretly texted Dorothy something like “Save me,” Candy and I were perfectly fine with the situation. I spoke.
“Why don’t we let Candy decide. What do you wanna do, Candy?”
Candy’s expression hadn’t changed. “Well, I wanna party with you, but I can’t leave my friend.”
“And he’s not coming with us,” Dorothy chimed in. “Now get the fuck out!”
One last try. “Candy, is she always like this?”
No response.
Corncob looked at me and repeated himself, “Dude, you gotta go, man.”
Fuck it. I got out. As I slammed the door, I yelled at Dorothy, “Fucking hag!” Unfortunately the door may have slammed before the hag part.
I’ve come to embrace the challenge of the single life—playing my cards perfectly to strike with precision timing, saying just the right lines, evading obstacles, and ultimately getting what I want, when I want it. While the night would definitely go down as a failure, there is nothing more frustrating than getting denied by a cockblocker. Though deep down, I knew that if I’d just bought them the damn drinks at Cabo in the first place, I probably never would’ve had to face the Dorothy cab incident.
As it was, I walked home alone. But then I realized I was hungry, so I did a B-line to the Circle K across the street. I heated up a frozen barbecue rib sandwich (the most underrated midnight snack of all time), purchased it, ate it, and power-walked home and crashed. I didn’t even masturbate.
I awoke the next morning with a classic feeling of there-should-be-a-terribly-hot-chick-in-bed-with-me-right-now. I’ve had a lifetime of these mornings. They suck. I assessed my night: Candy had driven an hour out of the way to see me; she’d probably researched my 600 facebook pictures, decided I was fuckable, and then even told me that she needed to crash at my place. And I had blown it. It was a tough pill to swallow, but even so, I asked myself whether it was worth it. Am I really supposed to put up with such whiney chicks and buy them drinks just to increase my sex hopes? Is this what my life has boiled down to—where I need to jump through these hoops so I can add another empty notch on my belt?
It may be time to cut the bullshit and get a girlfriend. Being single is getting old. Or maybe I’m just going through a vicious drought since Scandinavia, and I’m overreacting. I’d better masturbate now.
well well well, the great “Dave Glenn” is thinking about giving up the single life!!!
Say it isn’t so
Probably just the emotions flowing from my drought. Girlfriend is doubtful…
Fuck that army guy!
Great story across the board…living in NYC the club/bar scene is filled with snobby,pretentious shallow materialistic bimbos, I can def feel your pain as i myself found myself in these situations but pride sets in…next time buy her annoying cockblock friend a roofie coolatta to shut her up