I’d like to see Sarah Jessica Parker in a steel cage match with Vince Vaughn. I give it about five seconds before the so-called “swinger” is screaming for mercy and “Carrie” is cleaning the blood off her alligator-skin Mohink Blanc pumps.
That is to say, Trevor Martin, and all of your kind, you think you know but you have no idea. Women have their own games, and while you and your pals sit in the sandbox, we’re out getting ours. So listen up, that is, unless you want to wake up one morning and realize you have slept with your entire dorm and all you have to show for it is a beer gut and an unexplained itch. I don’t think it will be the sand in your diaper either.
OK, let’s make it a typical GW situation. You at meet at dream Thursday night. We know we look good. And you? Well, either we see your VIP bracelet or your American Express behind the bar. So we talk. But not for too long, because if a guy doesn’t offer to buy a drink in the first minute, PEACE. And I don’t mean a Bud Light. I mean a Cosmo, a Long Island, a Red-Headed Slut. Or, if you’re smart, all three.
So talking leads to drinking, and drinking leads to dancing, and dancing leads to grinding, and grinding leads to . well I guess that all depends on how generous he was at the bar.
And if things go well, you exchange numbers before you leave that night or, in some cases, before someone leaves the next morning. If it’s the latter, don’t feel too excited. It wasn’t your smile that won us over, or your dancing skills, or even your American Express. We basically had our mind made up at 10 p.m. that night when we were chugging our Smirnoffs and opting for the BCBG Sexy perfume over the Clinique Happy.
I don’t know if I should disclose this, but we know about the three-day rule. Let me tell you what we’re doing while you sit at home for those three days with our numbers posted on your bulletin board over your computer getting carpal tunnel syndrome from checking our AIM profiles:
1. Sitting at Starbucks with our best friends laughing about a) your dancing, b) your weird birthmark, or c) your marriage proposal.
2. Having our best guy friends re-record the outgoing messages on our cell phones and answering machines so we can screen our phone calls from you.
3. Trying a combination of ice cubes and credit cards to get the hickies you left all over our necks to disappear because we don’t want to be reminded of the horrible mistake we made.
Congratulations if you’ve grown out of the three-day rule. But a bit of advice: Please don’t call before 1 p.m. the next morning, because we are definitely hung over and nothing says stalker like a 10 a.m. wake-up call from, what was your name again?
Finally, relax. If we like you, you’ll know and we will accept your dinner
invitation for the following weekend provided its not Bertucci’s or Lindy’s – show a little imagination please. And if dinner goes well, you might have a shot. And if it turns into a relationship, cool. If it doesn’t, at least we got a nice dinner out of it. But please don’t kid yourselves into thinking we’re hacking into your GWeb account so we can walk by your class as soon as you get out, or leafing through bridal magazines earmarking our favorite wedding dresses.
We don’t have time for AIM. We don’t have time to nod at you wondering if you know our name and then run the other way when we see you at J Street. We have more people to meet and better things to do. So while you and your boys are watching “Swingers” to brush up your “game,” we’re polishing our shoes and getting ready for another slammin’ weekend. Happy Valentine’s Day boys.