Gone Fishin'

It started out like any other night, really. The two of us, good friends since the wee days of High School, sitting around his house, contemplating a slow death in lieu of an even slower life, three beers deep into what would become a strange and drunken night of "fishing". Simply put, I hadn't gotten laid since before my girlfriend and I broke up...and I desperately needed some female attention. So had he, quite frankly, for his girlfriend was away with the family on some sort of vacation in Cabo, a junket no doubt involving her, copious amounts amount of tequila, and hammerhead college frat boys looking to date rape her hot little Jewish asshole. As they say, if your girl is in a different area code, it isn't cheating. My father taught me that, and his father's father before him. So finally, we set out to the bar to snag us some snapper.

"Onward, ho's!" we cheered as we pulled up into what could be quite possibly the greatest bar in all of Long Island, and which will remain nameless due to the fact that I am now a frequent patron of the place, and don't want it to become tainted with my readers' filthy heathen blood. It's never too packed, hot chicks serve stiff drinks, good bands play there almost nightly, it's FREE (for me at least), and the deciding factor of it all?

You can smoke, 'til your lungs explode in a maelstrom of tar and blood.

Wanna smoke some weed? Go right ahead. The owner doesn't give a shit. Just don't do it out front. Sure, you come home stinking like the ass end of Tijuana ashtray, but nothing beats being able to hunker down on a barstool, order a shot and a beer, and chainsmoke (remember kiddies, smoking is now illegal in NY bars) the night away. NOTHING. So we burst through the doors like kings, shoving aside the chick blocking the entrance demanding a cover charge for the shitty pop punk band now on onstage screeching Blink 182 lyrics like some encephalitic homunculus man-child screaming for his mommy, and starting consuming drinks with all the gusto of a Bukowski poem. "To all my FRIIIIEEEEEEENNNNNDDDDSSSSS!"

But alas, no one got the reference. Uneducated savages, the lot of them. The night was still young, as was the crowd, so our plan for attack became a waiting game. Wait out the younger, less disciplined drinkers and by the end of the night, all that would be left is the true drunkards and those beautiful salty whore-women looking to get their boxes filled with ample amounts of whiskey dick. We chose this mission, and I would be goddamned if we weren't going to carry out those orders.

Sure enough, after we threw some shot glasses at the shitty little band and booed them offstage, their little groupie girlfriends left with their fake ID carrying boyfriends, and left us to scout out the scene and snipe away at the stragglers. Mind you, my friend is quite the 1 percenter. Simply put, ask 100 chicks to fuck in one night, at least ONE of them will say yes. He has lived by this credo for years, and takes rejection like a warm breeze on a cool day. I can respect that attitude, but it isn't mine. No, I sit back, drink in hand, and play the swarthy lothario of the group.

Smile in front of the ladies, tell a quick witty anecdote, and then wait to catch their attention. Give a nod and a wink, then turn your attention elsewhere. Above all else, never come across like you "care" or you're "interested in their problems" or act like you want to be "their friend". Some guys try too hard to make it seem like they care about what the opposite sex is talking about. I, on the other hand, don't care at all. So I sat back, and watched my friend go to work, angling this one and that one over to where we were sitting. "Christ", I thought to myself, "look at him work." The kid was a master at what he does, aggressive and always talking, never shutting up even in the face of rejection or awkwardness. I'd watch his body language, his hands rubbing their arms at the right movement, the sly little looks, the sidling up next to them. Me? I just sat back and laughed to myself, throwing in a quick witty remark. I know my game. I have nothing to prove.

By the end of the night, and one drunken shouting match later with another fisherman encroaching on our territorial waters, my friend was plastered and slurring his words. Lightweight. I was already 8 shots of Beam deep and a number of gin & tonics consumed, but I'm at my best when completely sauced. And then something took a nibble on my bait and I decided to feel it out. She walked past us, blond and bloodshot eyes, all squeezed into a paint-stained pair of overalls and looked directly at me. I raised my glass and nodded, she smiled...then my friend gaffed her and reeled her in for himself. He immediately went to work, talking loudly and grabbing aggressively, all the while her eyes kept darting over to me looking for some sort of safe passage through these troubled waters my foolish friend had stirred up. So I did the only thing I could do.

I cockblocked.

"Dude, you want another drink? I mean, seriously, just finding out you have AIDS is a hell of a thing. Don't worry, guy, I'm buying this round. Just don't drink out of my glass." BINGO. He walked away, pissed and shooting daggers out of his eyes towards my throat, leaving me with little miss hippy-chick. We talked, laughed, and consumed a bunch more shots, and then I heard those fateful words.

"I'm married, with children."

Fuck. Children are my kryptonite, how could she have known?

"But it's not going to last. He's such an asshole."

And there it was, ladies and gentlemen. My cue to start reeling this floozy into my boat. I mumbled something like, "Yeahthat'stoobad...wannanother drink?", and she saddled up a little closer, hand on my thigh, talking close into my ear. Maybe it was the fact that she was 10 years older than me but could pass for 24, maybe it was the desperation in her voice, but by god, something stirred in my shorts. Then again, all I wanted was attention.

Pretty soon it's time to go, and for me to decide on her fate. Is she a keeper, to be mounted on my living room wall? Before I could think about it, her eyes were on the verge of welling up with tears, guilt ridden and about to unleash 36 years of pent up womanly rage. What to do?

Throw her back, and move on to the next fishing hole.

I fish for sport, not food.