Everybody Wants Some!!

Picking up a girl in a bar is no simple task for men like me. There is no easy "in": no mutual friend, school, nor organization. One is left with the bar itself as the only common ground.

Well, that's when it dawned on me: The bar. Use the bar.

What is there to discuss in a bar? The bartender. The clientele. The music. The decor. It might sound silly, but that's exactly why it works. No girl wants me to attempt depth at first contact. The bar is fun, immediate, and neutral. The only challenge is making it interesting.

I saw the girl I wanted. She had puckered lips and chipmunk cheekbones. Her long legs and short waist seemed perfect for bell bottoms, but she wore short shorts. No guys around her; better without competition.

I could talk about her: her clothes, her hair, her figure, her face. Every girl likes to talk about herself, but do I know how to talk about her? Probably not. The chance of me talking about her in a way she likes is slim. And besides, every other guy's plan is to talk about her to her. Better I not.

She was near enough to me and in a conversational lull.

There was nothing funny or noteworthy about the bartender. A remark regarding the clientele might come off as judgmental. For me, talking about music is risky, as most hip girls tend to know more about it than I do. I chose the decor.

"Do you think the designer of this bar was trying to make us feel like we were in the belly of a pirate ship?"

Yeah, I went out on a limb with that one. But the wooden panels on the walls really did speak to 16th century sea voyages.

She didn't laugh, but she did reply with a studied glance at the walls and a few words in the affirmative. It wasn't a dismissal.

Now that we were on a pirate ship together, I succumbed to the corny joke and told her it was ironic that they didn't serve rum at the bar. An idiotic thing to say, but she smiled anyway, in spite of herself. She probably had a good relationship with her dad.

The music was loud. I had to keep moving toward her face when I talked, and made an effort to breathe ever so slightly into her ear while speaking. I always liked when girls did that to me. It was a good sign that she didn't back away.

Too lazy to get up on her tippy toes, she pulled my earlobe gently down to her mouth. The touch was nice. She told me her name: Morgan.

Stupidly, shamelessly, it was on.