Several weeks ago, I was out with some friends. What started out as a small group grew and grew, as more people called friends to join us. It was a top notch night out.
Or rather, it almost was. Between shots, I discovered a new voicemail on my phone from L. "Amanda, I'm going to make it after all. I'm on my way and I'm bringing you a man." If there are lovelier words to hear from a friend, I certainly can't think of them right now.
Later the same night, B approached me with the news that his handsome** friend was on the way with the express instructions to make out with me and not ask for my phone number. (**I'm editorializing here; my friend didn't use the word handsome.)
Two handpicked men? What an embarrassment of riches! My night was looking up! Surely one of these men would put his face on mine! My post-breakup dry spell would be over! (Also, YES I do have the greatest friends.)
I am not one to brag, but you guys...I was on point. My flirt game was strong that night. I spent good amounts of time with these men (separately, thank you), stopped drinking before I was in danger of being sloppy, and my hair was in full cooperation.
L showed up early, friend in tow. The man in question had a great face and was positively charming. We danced and he saved me from a creeper. Things were looking up. Until he disappeared.
However, my designated makeout arrived shortly thereafter. We hung out for the rest of the evening. I was feeling pretty confident, despite the disappearance of the first guy. Did I mention that my game was on point? A panel of judges would have given me at least a 9.8, and the internet would have contested such a low score. Women in the late 90s would have been debating my Sex and the City likeness. (Sure, I would have rolled my eyes so hard they were in danger of sticking, but it would have happened.)
All was not well, though--because of course I can't come out of something like that unscathed. DM abruptly announced his departure, hugged me, and left. Without following through on his mission. I stood in shock before turning on B. "I THOUGHT YOU SAID--" "I know. I'm going to kill him."
What went wrong? How could I strike out twice, and with my eyeliner so even that night? Surely these men missed the point of their attendance that night, as neither man made a further move of any kind.
On top of all this, my struggle brings up another question entirely: Are we done with making out in bars before going our separate ways? Must it be all romance and intimacy and last names? Where are the reckless men of my early 20s? If it's all exchanging phone numbers and defining the relationship, I don't have time for that. SURELY I'm not the only person left who occasionally just wants a man to kiss her. I'm not prepared for that reality.