​“Haaaave you met Jim?”

 

My best friend turned her toward me and walked away. I didn’t ask to play this game; I was forced into it. Halfway into my senior year of college, the months ticking down until the start of adult life, I still hadn’t picked up a girl at a bar. But Chris constantly assured me that it would be my night, despite the spontaneity of our bar crawl that had started forty minutes earlier. There we were at a country bar in a not-so-country place–Washington D.C.–the blaring music making my ears ring and forcing me to scream just to hear the person in front of me. 

 

“If you’re not gonna ride the mechanical bull,” Chris had said, “we’re gonna go and get you a girl.”

 

A mechanical bull was not an option with my knee problems, so girls it was.

​

“Hi. I’m Jim.” I eagerly stuck out my hand to the unlucky woman Chris had picked for me. Although I may have looked the part with my recent weight loss, I couldn’t spit game to save my life.

 

“Michelle,” she replied callously, loosely gripping my hand and avoiding my gaze.

 

It was clear that she didn’t want to be bothered–she would rather spend the night dancing with her girl friends than conversing with a guy she’d just met. But there I was, in an awkward semicircle, her two friends drunkenly dancing around her. I intended to drag out the conversation so that Chris couldn’t give me shit for not trying.

 

“So, where are you from?”

 

“Chicago.” 

 

Her reply was terse, colder than the frigid December air outside. She was wearing a black tank top; perhaps I’d missed the coat rack.

 

“Oh, cool, I–I love Chicago.” Stammer like an idiot in front of women–typical Jim. I wondered if Chris could sense her disinterest from where he was standing. I glanced in his direction. His back was turned; he wasn’t watching us. A minute longer and I could make a smooth exit.

 

“What brought you out here, Michelle?”

 

“School.”

 

I’d read somewhere that girls like it when you address them by name, that it makes them feel seen, like you’re paying attention. But Michelle couldn’t give two shits if I knew her name. She just wanted to get out of there. And believe me–so did I.

 

“Me too. What school do you g-go to?”

 

“GW.”

 

“Oh, nice. I go to Georgetown.” At least I didn’t stammer on that line.

 

She turned around. I pitifully bobbed my head up and down, bending and unbending my knees in a pathetic attempt to look like I was dancing. If Chris was watching, he wouldn’t have been fooled. 

 

I trudged over to Chris in defeat, tapping him on the shoulder and explaining my feeble attempt at conversation. He nodded in silent understanding that it wasn’t my night–that I wasn’t the smooth talker he wished I was. Even though a massive sigh of relief escaped me, a wave of humiliation quickly took its place. Michelle might’ve only been one girl, but to me she represented every woman in the bar that night–waves of women I neither had the courage to talk to nor could chat up even if I did. And for every plastered party girl whose face caught my eye–whether drop-dead gorgeous, freakishly hideous, or entertainingly faded out of her mind–a pang of embarrassment welled up inside me. I kept my feet planted to the ground, not even trying to talk to them as a social experiment to improve my conversational skills, if anything, especially when their guards were down from the overpriced shots and dizzying mechanical bull rides. I left the bar not just defeated, but with a degraded sense of self–that I wasn’t worth a damn if I couldn’t muster up the courage to strike up a conversation with a woman, especially in a situation with no consequences.

 

That blisteringly cold night was over four years ago, but it weighed heavily on my mind yesterday.

 

 It wasn’t the coldest of nights, but a slight breeze made for perfect sweater weather in Houston. I parked on 18th Street next to a patch of grass outside a random house, one other car ahead of me. I walked the half mile to the first destination of what I called Degenerate Night– an encapsulation of everything I thought that douchebags did. It was really a representation of what I couldn’t do four years ago, nor on any other day for the past twenty-six years: pick up a girl at the bar. 

 

I’d gone out sporadically over the years, but nothing like a bar crawl, where women were so accustomed to sleazy men hitting on them that they barely reacted anymore–letting him slur out a few words before turning him away, or being pleasantly surprised when he could hold a competent conversation. Degenerate Night wasn’t about getting so plastered that I could barely walk; I had to drive home, after all. It was about forcing myself to overcome my fear of approaching women in public, to spark a conversation that could lead to something more. 

 

It would hopefully boost my lackluster dating life, which my friends had run laps around while I was still stuck in the intro phase. They were honing their preferences after years of fooling around; I’d barely dipped my feet in the pool.

 

The bouncer opened a heavy brown door to Peacock, an ostentatious bar with ridiculously priced cocktails. I walked in and found my buddy Larry on the left side, dressed in an oversized green polo and jeans beneath his dark brown jacket. Larry was a few years older than me, a little out of shape, and reserved until you got to know him. But he exuded an uncanny confidence that made you feel like you could run through a brick wall. He’d assured me millions of times that he could walk into a room and pick up a woman–assuming the right conditions, of course. Inspired by his stories of hollow bravado, we’d agreed upon a string of public outings designed to get me out of my shell by doing exactly what I’d spent years putting off: striking up conversations with random women in public. That night marked the first outing–meeting women at the bars.

 

Larry stood up from a high-top to greet me. “What’s up?” He tried reaching in for a dap, but I simply shook his hand.

 

“We don’t need to do the dap anymore man. A handshake is good.”

 

He gave me a solemn look, his brow furrowed. I’d been trying for months to put Larry on the dap, like I had with my smoother friends. But Larry wasn’t one of those guys. His socially awkward self was someone who I didn’t want at group hangouts–I’d actually been relieved when he bailed on meeting two of my new friends. Yet Larry was the main impetus behind me getting out and meeting women. It was all we talked about: relationships, dating, red flags–you name it. For a guy with no game, he sure had a lot to say.

 

“What’s going on with your week at work?” I asked. You’ve only spent the last few days bashing your twenty-one-year-old coworker.

 

“Oh, she’s just annoying.” He shrugged it off like a bug on his shoulder, despite his vitriolic tirade he’d texted me about how she only got the job due to pretty privilege.

 

“You were saying she has no degree?”

 

“Yeah. She’s in an entry-level accounting job with no degree.”

 

“I bet she knows somebody. That’s how everyone gets jobs these days.”

 

“True. Or it’s her looks.”

 

“Is she cute?”

 

He paused, then sighed. “Meh. She’s not ugly.”

 

“But is she cute?”

 

“If you saw her from a distance, she has a pretty face. Up close–not so much.”

 

I nodded, out of words to say. His remarks lingered in the air. I scanned the bar. In the corner stood a DJ under a disco ball, wearing a black sweater and pretending to spin a beat. His phone plugged into the speaker wasn’t fooling anybody; even from afar, you could see his Spotify open. Men in suits and women in elegant mini-dresses walked in and out, mingling near a walled off side with tables marked “Reserved” under dim lighting. The only well-lit area was the bar across the room.

 

“Wanna grab a drink?” 

 

I shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not?”

 

He bought a cocktail. I ordered a fruity drink with no alcohol. I suggested he cover the tab and I’d get the next one, which he emphatically shut down. Stingy and gawky did not make a good partner for the task at hand.

 

Two attractive blondes sat at the bar right in front of us, martinis in hand. Larry didn’t even glance in their direction as we grabbed our drinks and headed back to our table.

 

“What about the two blondes at the bar?” I asked.

 

“They looked older.”

 

I let out a deep sigh. In weeks past, there were always excuses, despite my phone lighting up with ten messages at once about how he could easily pick up a woman if he wanted. Last time, he wasn’t dressed properly. The time before, he was way too tired from moving. Always a reason we couldn’t meet someone. Always an excuse.

 

“Did anything pan out with Alice?”

 

Alice was a woman from the speed dating event we’d gone to last week, which Larry barely even attended. He left early for a last-minute family thing but convinced the host to let him shoot his shot with the one girl who caught his eye. Unfortunately, she was about fourteen years older than he was. The broad range for these events worked against us–two young men in our twenties trying to meet women organically after COVID. 

 

He took a sip of his drink. “Nah, nothing happened. I saw from her Instagram that she’d been to a bunch of other events. If she’s been to that many and hasn’t found anyone, she must be trash.”

 

I scoffed. “Or it just didn’t work out with the people she met.”

 

He shook his head. “Dating is so much easier for women these days. If a woman can’t find a man, something’s wrong with her.”

 

Clearly you haven’t read the research on how men are struggling. Not women. Men.

 

“What about a man who hasn’t found anyone?”

 

He threw his flabby arms into the air, nearly spilling the drink in his hand. “The world is so much harder for men these days. If you approach a woman and she doesn’t like it, that’s sexual assault. Guys swipe on dating apps and get no matches, but women have all these options. If they don’t like someone, they can ghost him and move on cuz they’ll have ten other guys in their DMs. Me? My phone’s dry as hell.”

 

He leaned forward. “I’m a high-quality man. I have a job, I’m successful, and I know what I want. These women just wanna stroke their own egos, so they get on these apps and swipe right on guys and toss them to the side when they get their ego boost. But I’m different. I’m looking for a real relationship. I want a woman who–”

 

I squirmed in my seat, wondering if Larry sensed my discomfort. I racked my brain for how to change the topic, anything to avoid more of Larry’s commentary. I looked away for a few seconds, then back at him. His mouth was still moving, spilling out his requirements. “Goes to the gym. Makes good money. Isn’t too emotional. Cooks and cleans. Hasn’t been run through. Likes boba. Covers up in public.”

 

I was pretty sure that Larry didn’t meet half of those criteria, but I didn’t feel like starting a fight.

 

The music grew louder. The lights dimmed further. My virgin drink made me feel like I’d been run over by a truck. I stood up to stretch my legs. Larry kept going, lambasting modern women for not making it easier for men to hit on them.

 

Eventually he stopped, slumping back in his seat. The tension was palpable. I swirled my glass and gulped the rest down. Larry chugged his.

 

“Wanna go somewhere else?” he asked.

 

“Sure.” Anywhere but here.

 

He went to grab his car from the valet–ironic, considering his parsimonious nature, and despite my insistence that he could park on 18th Street for free.

 

I stepped inside his car for the first time. The leather seats were worn out and covered with trash: Chick-Fil-A wrappers, wrinkled receipts, nearly-expired condoms which I’m sure infuriated him. How a self-respecting woman would want him inside her, I’ll never understand–I guess that’s why the condoms were unused. I almost laughed out loud, but his aggressive voice snapped me back.

 

“Where we going now?”

 

Blacken was more my vibe. A massive rectangular bar sat in the center, glass bottles lining the walls behind it. Stools surrounded the bar, offering clear views of TVs playing football and basketball games, whose scores I would otherwise check intermittently in the bathroom. Booths lined the walls, most filled with groups of people laughing and sharing food. 

 

I spotted two women in a corner booth–a blonde and a brunette. Would this finally be my moment?

 

“Those two girls are cute,” I told Larry. 

 

He shrugged. “I can’t talk to women on an empty stomach.”

 

I sighed. He ordered grilled cheese and a plate of nachos. We’d agreed to eat beforehand–I’d quickly scarfed down my dinner so I could meet him there at eight, a time which he’d picked because it was the guaranteed “golden hour” to meet women, instead of the well-known, established time of nine-thirty which multiple bars along the strip acknowledged was peak. But what did they know? They weren’t the experts on women–Larry was.

 

He savored his grilled cheese like it was his last. The minutes dragged on. Five turned to ten, ten to twenty. I kept stealing glances at the girls. No guys with them. They ordered food, laughed, and awaited another round of beers. 

 

Did they notice me staring at them? Did they want me to come over and say hello?

 

I turned to Larry, who wiped breadcrumbs off the edge of his lips, locked in on basketball. Someone either forgot the task at hand or didn’t give a shit.

 

“You’ve had your food. Why don’t we talk to the girls?”

 

 He looked over. “I don’t know if it’s the right environment.” 

 

Larry. It’s a fucking bar.

 

“They could be with someone,” he added meekly.

 

“They’ve been here twenty minutes. No guys.”

“Well…they got food. It’s probably a girls night.”

 

I slumped my shoulders in defeat. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

 

I stared at the face in the mirror, looking deep at the acne scars above the lines of my jagged beard. Fifty pounds gone, sixty-dollar haircuts, my most chic outfit, dragging myself to a bar on a Friday night when I’d rather be at home watching football–for what? To still have the same confidence issues from over four years ago? I looked myself in the eyes and decided to no longer be afraid. When I walked out of the bathroom, I would march straight to the corner booth and start chatting up the blonde.

 

When I walked out, the girls were alone. I took two steps, one foot in front of the other and then, PANIC. My heart fluttered like an electric shock. I froze where I was, my feet unable to move. I stood planted on the ground, helpless as a few seconds later, a group of fratty white boys with thick mustaches and mullets swaggered over, gestured to ensure the seats were empty, and slid their asses in the leather booth, cracking line after line that made the girls laugh voluminously. One guy even put his arm around the blonde. 

 

I returned to Larry in defeat, tapping him on the shoulder and pointing. “Look.”

 

He turned away from the TV. “Oh.”

 

“They were single.”

 

“No way for us to know that.”

 

How could you be so stupid? If they weren’t single, they would’ve shooed the guys away.

 

“It’s so hard to hit on women at a bar. Speed dating is more appropriate.” He brushed another crumb off his lips.

 

“Yeah, I like speed dating. I’ve actually gotten a few dates from it.” They were largely unsuccessful and didn’t lead anywhere, but worked wonders for my confidence. My first match called me cute, and I went on a three-hour date with the second. Neither worked out, but they proved I could get a girl’s number and hold her attention with my charm. Speed dating was simple: introduce yourself, ask a default question, let the conversation flow. I always asked if she was a Houston native or a transplant like me, which got us talking about our backgrounds, the city, and what we liked to do. Easy way to get her talking. Easy way to spark a match.

 

“Good.” He nodded, like a father proud of his son. “It’s a better place to meet women than the bars.”

 

“But I thought you didn’t wanna go anymore since the women were too old for you.”

 

“I don’t. But it’s easier there since everyone’s looking for the same thing.”

 

Coming to the bars was your fucking idea, Larry.

 

Still, he had a point. If the bars were as easy as speed dating, Degenerate Night wouldn’t exist. I spent years not knowing when it was appropriate to approach women or how to do it. Instagram reels and YouTube videos convinced me that the best approach was spotting a woman or group of women without men around and simply going for it. The dating coaches and pickup artists always used variations of the same line: say you noticed her, introduce yourself, ask her name, then ask her something about herself. If I could get to the last part, it would be just like speed dating. That is, if I could get there.

 

Hi, I noticed you from across the room and wanted to come over and introduce myself. My name’s Jim. What’s yours?

 

A commercial interrupted the game. Larry turned to me, his face bearing no expression.

 

“It’s hard to get to know someone over speed dating. You only get five minutes.”

 

You clearly don’t get the point of speed dating.

 

“Right, but that’s enough time to get a girl’s number and ask her out.”

 

“Yeah, but you don’t get to know her character.”

 

“That’s what the date is for.”

 

He rubbed his hands together. The wind wasn’t howling, but the open-door setup brought a chill into the room. He put his hand on my shoulder like a father revealing the ways of the world to his pre-pubescent child.

 

“You gotta be careful on dates, man. You can’t tell her too much about your problems or else she’s gonna leave you. Women want a strong man, not someone who complains all the time. They don’t want that weak shit.”

 

Oh God. Not this again.

 

I wouldn’t let him sound off. “They want men to be emotionally available. I agree that we shouldn’t just complain about all our problems, especially on a first date. But we can’t hold everything in–that’s just not healthy. It’s also a more traditional view of masculinity that men can’t open up. Women want men who are willing to talk about their feelings. It’s a sign of strength, not weakness.”

 

Larry took his hand off my shoulder and swiveled in his chair. The man I saw then was someone I didn’t like. Who was this poorly-dressed overweight blob, who’d never talked to a girl in his life–despite bragging about his game–telling me how to have a successful relationship?

 

“You’re still young. You’ll learn in time that women want a strong man who can protect them. Not some weak bitch who cries about his feelings all the time.”

 

“They don’t need your protection. They want your respect.”

 

He waved his arm flippantly. I stood up from my stool, scanning the room to avoid conversation. A few groups of two women, none attractive. My legs shook beneath me.

 

“We should talk to some girls just to warm up.” Desperation welled inside me, as if walking out of Blacken would condemn me to never approaching a woman for the rest of my life.

 

“I’m not talking to someone I’m not attracted to.”

 

It’s not like you’re a male model or anything. And it’s just a warmup.

 

“Okay, what about her?” I pointed to a cute girl behind a pillar holding up the bar.

 

“She’s with a guy.”

 

He was right. “My bad. I couldn’t see over the pole. Why don’t we try somewhere else?”

 

“Sure. I don’t care. But if we don’t find anyone, we should go home.”

 

Calling it quits without talking to anyone isn’t exactly what we planned on.

 

“Let’s go to Argyle’s next door and see what happens.”

 

He stood up and I followed behind. I passed the girls on the way out, their laughter and jubilation like screeches in my ears, daggers to my heart. That should’ve been Larry and me next to them, but his lack of concern and my lack of initiative kept my twenty-six year streak of never having talked to a girl at a bar very much alive and well.

 

Argyle’s was a bust, not a single woman in sight. My constant prodding somehow convinced Larry to walk the strip with me. There was one bar at the end of the strip that I wanted to hit, and I promised Larry if it didn’t work out, we would call it a night. He reluctantly agreed, but wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.

 

“Bars aren’t great places to meet women. We should go to a mall or a boba shop.”

 

I stopped in my tracks. “Dude, you literally bailed on our mall trip last week because you thought it was too dark outside.”

 

“I had a family thing.”

 

“Yeah, which ended at six-thirty and was at the mall. We could’ve easily met up at seven, like we planned.”

 

“No–it wasn’t the right time to do it. The mall is better on Saturdays in the afternoon.”

 

An awkward silence filled the air. I kept walking.

 

He continued. “Women who go to bars tend to be lonely, or desperate, or slutty. They just wanna hook up.  We’re not gonna meet the love of our life at a bar.”

 

Why agree to come out if you were just gonna complain the whole time?

 

We poked our heads into a few other bars on the way to our destination. Most of them were empty, which was expected at nine o’clock at night on a Friday, before the action really picked up thirty minutes later. Every failure elicited another groan from Larry, another ill-informed remark about how, “women don’t wanna be hit on at bars,” or, “we should go home and hit the mall another day.” But I refused to give up, at least not until I reached the one bar that was on my mind for weeks.

 

After a few more minutes of Larry’s annoying complaining, we finally reached Lancaster Lodge. Outside was a small patch of gravel with a few dilapidated wooden benches, not what you’d want for Degenerate Night. But when we stepped inside, the energy hit immediately.

 

The place buzzed with activity–voices overlapping, glasses clinking, music humming beneath it all. Groups of women crowded booths and stood near the bar. It was bright enough to see faces, but dim enough to forgive imperfections. Within seconds of walking in, the Blacken flutters vanished, replaced by a wave of unfounded optimism, a confidence that I could talk to any woman in that bar despite my twenty-six year history.

 

Two women caught my eye–a blonde and a brunette at a corner booth. This time, the brunette had my attention. Her face was masked in the lighting, but she wore a long-sleeve red sweater perfectly cut into an oval to expose substantial cleavage. She made the blonde next to her look frail by comparison, and her long, luscious brown hair enhanced my infatuation. 

 

I dragged Larry to the bar and pretended to look for a place to order, sneaking glances at the brunette. Did she notice me, or was she engrossed in conversation with her friend? I couldn’t tell, but I wanted her.

 

Then it happened–the heart flutter returned. The room spun around me, my feet froze, and I found myself struggling to breathe.

 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I hastily muttered to Larry, briskly going before he had the chance to reply.

 

I checked the score of the football game; a blowout, so I hadn’t missed much. I took another look at the man in the mirror, ashamed at what I saw. I didn’t see the handsome young man with muscles that bulged from his sweater and a neatly-trimmed beard that shaped his jawline. I didn’t notice the voluble hair, whose middle part separated its perfect flow in both directions. I saw the coward of twenty-six years, who missed his chance for the one thing he came for that night, whose constant failure entrenched the belief he wasn’t good enough to approach women, contrary to the thousand Larrys with the courage he lacked. 

 

There was only one way to change the man in the mirror. I couldn’t let fear rule me any longer.

 

I marched out of the bathroom, found Larry outside, and grabbed his arm. “That brunette is attractive. I really wanna talk to her.”

 

“Then go.” His reply was laconic, but said it with no hesitation. With conviction.

 

“Will you come with me and talk to her friend?”

 

“Mmmmmm I don’t know,” he replied. “It might be intimidating if we just walk up to them.

 

“But there’s two of us and two of them.”

 

“I know, but if you want the brunette’s number, you should just go for it.”

​

I looked through the window. The girls were still talking amongst themselves. No guys.

 

The self-doubt crept back up. “I don’t know man. It feels weird going alone.”

 

“Just have some confidence.” Larry was right. How this unkempt man could have so much of it, I did not know. Though he’d been a drag on our entire night, there was nobody I would’ve rather had by my side right then.

 

“You won’t come with me?” My eyes looked at him pleadingly, like a child begging his father for a toy.

 

He shook his head. “No. This isn’t the right place.” Another fucking excuse. “But if you wanna talk to her, do it. I’ll be waiting here.”

 

I let out a deep breath. Twenty-six years of hesitation had led to this moment. The awkwardness, the pounds which plagued my appearance for most of my life, the months of Larry’s incessant rants and underwhelming machismo, the shitty bowl cuts, the failed acne treatment, the years of unruly facial hair–I had overcome them all, and they had brought me here. And if I couldn’t summon the courage to do what I came for, it would go down as a series of fleeting moments in a pathetic attempt at life.

 

“Okay. I’m gonna do it.”

 

Larry patted my shoulder. “Good luck bro.”

 

I walked back inside the bar; the women were still alone. No one else stood in my way.

 

Hi, I noticed you from across the room and wanted to come over and introduce myself. My name’s Jim. What’s yours? 

 

If she introduced herself, I was in, and it was just like speed dating from there. 

 

Are you a Houston native, or a transplant like me?

 

I thought of the line a few more times, and a heart flutter momentarily kept me frozen. But when I said the line aloud, so softly that only I could hear, something else shot up inside me. Whether it was a sudden wave of confidence, or simply the urge to stop standing in the same place, I did not know. But I pushed the flutter down, picked up my feet, and found myself making a beeline straight for the brunette’s booth.

 

No guys. Just the brunette and her friend.

 

I stopped and looked directly at her. If she was in the middle of saying something, I interrupted.

 

“Hi.”

 

She turned toward me. I had her attention.

 

“I noticed you from across the room and wanted to introduce myself. My name is Jim. What’s your name?” 

 

A few words differed from the script in my head, but it was too late. I stuck out my hand.

 

Her eyes softened, her expression unchanged. “My name’s Clara.” She took my hand and shook it.

 

“Nice to meet you Clara.” My eyes stayed locked on hers. “Are you a Houston native, or a transplant like me?”

 

Suddenly, I was acutely aware of her friend sitting next to her. Shit. The blonde. 

 

Clara opened her mouth to speak, but words frantically escaped mine first.

 

“I’m so sorry–I’m being rude,” I stumbled. My heart dropped. Was I already screwing this up? Would Clara hate me for not acknowledging her friend? Did her friend already hate me? 

 

“I’m Jim. What’s your name?” I awkwardly reached my hand out to the blonde.

 

“I’m Holly.” Her hand quickly met mine, and her blue eyes lit up as she smiled from ear to ear.

 

“Nice to meet you Holly.” I quickly turned back to Clara. “So, are you a Houston native, or a transplant like me?”

 

She adjusted in her seat, her eyes still locked on mine. “Kind of sort of both. I came to Houston when I was eleven, so I’ve been here for many years. I left for school and came back for work. That’s actually how we met.” She pointed to Holly, breaking eye contact for a second before looking back at me.

 

“That’s super cool. Do you guys still work together?”

 

“Nah, not anymore. She moved to another job three years ago.” She briefly talked about her work and then Holly’s, neither of whose details I cared about at the time nor remember now. Then she stopped, and no one was talking.

 

I couldn’t tell if she wanted me to fuck off or ask her another question. Speed dating was five minutes; I figured I could try for the same here. 

 

“How are you liking Houston?”

 

Another adjustment in her seat, eyes still locked on mine. “It’s not too bad. I really like the weather, and the low cost of living is super nice.” Her shoulders slumped slightly and she leaned back, occasionally breaking eye contact as she described why she left for school and ultimately came back. At least she was more natural and free-flowing, though not fully loosened up.

 

I turned to Holly to avoid excluding her. “What about you Holly? Are you from Houston or are you a transplant?”

 

“I’m from Houston, born and raised!” The excitement in her voice made me giddy.

 

“You know, a ton of people I know have been in Houston their entire lives, and I gotta ask, what’s kept you guys here?” My gaze turned to Clara, then to Holly, then back to Clara.

 

Clara started. “More family than anything, but also the low cost of living. I’ve constantly told myself I’m gonna move to New York, but that was ten years ago and I’m still here.” She giggled and then smiled at me, but only for a moment.

 

I turned to Holly, letting her speak.

 

“My entire family’s here and I’m a really big family person. I also couldn’t afford a house in New York, but I have a nice house here. All four of my sisters have houses in the suburbs, and I really like all that space for myself.”

 

She stopped for a second to twirl her hair. I noticed her toned arms, a huge turn-on for me. “Where did you say you were from, Jim?”

 

This part would be easy. I finally relaxed. “I’m from Las Vegas, went to school in D.C, worked out there for a few years, and then came here for work a year ago. I didn’t know anyone when I came out here, so I’m still tryna get the lay of the land. I still have to use Google Maps to get everywhere. Do you guys still use maps?”

 

Clara nodded emphatically. “Yup, I still need maps even after all this time. It’s not so bad out here because I live around this area. But other than that, I need it to get everywhere.”

 

It was time to line up one of my default jokes. “So you made it here without using Google Maps?” She nodded. “I have a question for you–what’s it like to be better than everyone else? I genuinely wouldn’t know.”

 

Her face lit up and she laughed heartily–the most expressive display of emotion I’d seen from her all night. Holly laughed as well.

 

I continued. “Not to brag or anything, but I can get to a few places without maps as well.”

 

“Oh really?” Clara asked, leaning in. “Where can you go?”

 

I began counting on my fingers. “I can get to the grocery store, my local neighborhood bar, and the gym, but the gym’s at work.”

 

They nodded. Holly emphatically chimed in, bending her arms inward to emphasize the lean muscle; had she caught me staring? “If the gym’s at work, are you a personal trainer or PT?”

 

“Nah I wish. I’m a regular finance bro. I just happen to have a gym at work.”

 

Holly’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool! What kind of company do you work for?”

 

I smiled and slouched a little, the load lifted off my shoulders. The conversation flowed smoothly, no awkward pauses.

 

“I work for a billionaire. She owns a bunch of things like luxury resorts, an ATV company, fashion magazines, basically whatever she wants. And I pretty much manage her bank accounts. Push a few buttons and make money move around every day. It’s not too bad, it pays the bills.”

 

Holly locked eyes with me and didn’t break contact, smiling the entire time as she twirled a finger through her hair. “That’s so cool. Do you think you’ll keep doing it for a while?”

 

We talked for a few minutes about my job, both women engaged. Clara kept the conversation going and showed genuine interest in what I was saying; her own responses were clearly more than filler. But it was Holly who I clicked with more. She was enthusiastic, her eyes stayed on mine the entire time, she slowly reached her hand closer to where mine sat, and she always asked me to elaborate when I spoke.

 

“Have you made a lot of friends in Houston?”

 

“I like Mexican food too! What are some of your favorite taco spots?”

 

A few minutes passed, the conversation flowing at full strength. Truth be told, I wanted to sit next to Holly and get to know her more, maybe ask for her phone number. But it was Clara who I’d approached, and it didn’t sit right with me to hit on her and switch to her friend–especially if Clara was interested, which I couldn’t tell if she was. There were no signs like a brush on the arm or anything, but conversationally, Clara was picking up what I was putting down. It was fifty-fifty whether I could’ve gotten her number, though I didn’t want it.

 

There was a pause in the conversation. Gotta know when to fold ‘em.

 

“It was nice to meet you Clara.” I stuck out my hand, and she shook it.

 

“Nice to meet you.” A warm smile graced her cheeks, though her overall demeanor remained stoic.

 

I stuck out my hand to Holly. “Nice to meet you too, Holly.” 

 

“Really nice to meet you, Jim.” Her blue eyes sparkled, her face lit up with a grin, and her fingers lingered on my palm as I withdrew my hand.

 

I waved goodbye and headed back outside to Larry leaning against the wall, vigorously typing on his phone. He noticed me from the corner of his eye and looked up.

 

“How’d it go?” he asked.

 

I couldn’t hide my smile. “So good man! I walked up to them, chatted them up, the conversation was flowing–”

 

“Did you get her number?”

 

“Nah, I wasn’t interested, in fact I was more into her friend. But I couldn’t ask for her friend’s number since she was the one I approached.”

 

We headed back down the strip toward Blacken, where Larry had parked. The streetlights shined brightly, illuminating our walk. A slight breeze blew in our direction, refreshing against my sweater. Crickets chirped rhythmically along our path, greeting us as we made our way.

 

“You could’ve asked for both their numbers.”

 

I laughed and looked over at Larry, expecting a facetious expression on his face. But he was stone cold.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You said it went well with them, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And the brunette, was she into you?”

 

“I couldn’t really tell. She was interested in the conversation, but I wasn’t sure if she was into me.”

 

“You think she would’ve given you her number if you’d asked?”

 

“Fifty-fifty shot. I was more into her friend.”

 

“The blonde?”

 

“Yeah. But obviously I couldn’t ask for hers.”

 

Larry came to a halt. “Why not?”

 

“Cuz she wasn’t the one I approached.” 

 

“So?”

 

I stuck out my arms. “I approached her friend, I couldn’t just ask for her number.”

 

Larry firmly grasped my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin. “Dude, of course you could’ve asked for her number. With women it doesn’t really matter.”

 

I blew a breath into the chilly winter air, hoping I could see its white puff before it faded away. But I couldn’t.
 

“What do you mean it doesn’t really matter?”

 

He took his hand off my shoulder and paced back and forth, like a professor at a lectern. “Women want a man who’s direct and aggressive, right?”

​

Direct, yes. Aggressive, no.

​

“Sure, right.”

 

“And you wanted the blonde’s number, right?”

 

That part was accurate. “Right.”

 

“So you should’ve asked for it.” 

 

“But it would be unethical because I’d started hitting on her friend. If I’d approached the blonde first, it would’ve been fine. But since I approached the brunette, it would’ve been weird if I moved away from her completely and asked for the blonde’s number. I was interested in the brunette, after all.”

 

He stopped, looked me directly in the eye, and pointed out a finger. “Let me tell you something about women. They sit there at these fancy bars in their skimpy little outfits, hoping that guys’ll buy them drinks so they don’t gotta pay for anything. You go up there and have a conversation with her, you buy her a drink, she owes you her number if you ask for it.”

 

She owes me? Does he realize how ridiculous he sounds?

 

“It’s a game for women. They can have a night out on a man’s dime simply by looking pretty. But as men, we gotta make all this effort. Look nice, flash some cash, chat them up, buy them drinks, and for what–a chance to get her number and take her on a date? What happened to the good old days when you could take a girl by the arm, tell her what you do, and she’s head over heels in a week? Easy to get her, easy to fuck her, easy to wife her. That’s how it should be.”

 

“What about all the creeps who hit on women?”

 

He insolently waved his hand at me, the dismissal apparent. “It’s only a few bad apples. Most of us are good men who just wanna have a conversation, get to know her. There’s nothing wrong with a conversation, is there?” 

 

I shook my head. 

 

“The blonde–she chatted you up, maybe gave you a few signals, and here you are empty-handed. Surely she could’ve given you her number–she owed you her number since you made the effort to talk to her. I’m telling ya, we’ve regressed as a society, letting these hoes run amok, exploiting these good men for free drinks–”

 

“I didn’t buy her a drink.”

 

“But you get my point. These girls, they’ll run up tabs and don’t even put out, or in your case don’t give you her number–they’ll give out a fake. Lead you on, make you think you’re in, when in reality you’re behind ten other guys tryna get with her, and you never even had a shot. She can use and abuse you all she wants. And because women have all the power these days, because they have so many more options, it makes you desperate, so you stick around even if she treats you like crap. But I won’t do that. If she’s for the streets, I’m not about to chase.”

 

I was simply saying that I felt uncomfortable getting a girl’s number because of the circumstances of my approach. BAM! Another diatribe against women.

 

My attention shifted to the sound of my footsteps on the pavement as I consciously tuned out Larry’s words. The man had coached me up on talking to women all night, yet hadn’t spoken to a single one, which went against the goal of Degenerate Night. For all that came out of his mouth about how women weren’t shit and how great he was, there was nothing to back it up. The extra pounds on his stomach might’ve concealed some deeper insecurity about his inability to talk to women; perhaps he was finding ways to justify his lack of social skills. In all the time I’d known him, most of our conversations had revolved around women–how to approach them, what to look for in a partner, and why we were better than most men in the dating market. But despite constant efforts to get him to put himself out there, nothing ever came of it. An early exit at speed dating, bailing on meeting girls at the mall, his half-hearted excuses that he couldn’t go out because he was, “too tired from moving,” or “not dressed well enough,” perhaps revealed his true character. Maybe incel is harsh, but it’s hard to turn a blind eye when a man shows you what’s on the inside. 

 

As the lights faded from the strip into the Blacken parking lot, so too did my pride in calling this man a friend.

 

We reached his car, Larry still rambling on about something fitness-related, of all things. He ran his hand smoothly along the chipped paint of his Nissan, whose paint job he insisted he “still hadn’t got around to.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and told him goodbye, ready to walk back to my car on 18th Street. Before I could pick my feet up off the ground, he grabbed me by the shoulder and twisted me so that I was looking in his eyes.

 

“It wasn’t really my night tonight, ya know? Rough week at work.”

 

When is it ever your night, Larry?

 

I nodded in faux solidarity. “Yeah, I get it.”

 

He smiled for the first time that evening. “We should hit up the mall next week, meet some women at the boba shops there. Friday night at the mall–they’ll be lining up to talk to us. What do you think?”

 

My face stayed impassive despite the infuriation inside. “You literally told me that Friday night was bad for meeting women at the mall since it’s too dark outside, now here you are saying we should meet them on Friday night. Is it too dark, or is it the perfect time to meet women? Make up your goddamn mind.”

 

He stood completely still for a moment, as if contemplating the secrets of the universe. I folded my arms and began tapping my foot impatiently. After another awkward silence, he spoke.

 

“Let’s go next Friday. Whaddya say?” He stuck out his arm for a handshake.

 

I looked down at his hand, then back into his eyes. My arms stayed by my side.

 

“Nah, I’m good.”

 

I turned and quickly walked away before he had a chance to say anything else. A few feet later, I remembered Larry’s frustration at how men always got ghosted by the women with ten others in their DMs. Although I didn’t really care what he thought of me, I preferred to avoid ending up in his death note. It wasn’t just that he knew where I lived–it was a simple matter of character. Even he deserved the courtesy of knowing that he was getting cut off, that my axing of our friendship bonds was final. 

 

I turned back around and looked him in the eye from afar.

 

“Goodbye, Larry.”

 

He tilted his head downwards, like a man resigned to a despicable fate.

“Goodbye Jim. Take care.”

 

I resumed my walk to 18th Street, the cool wind elegantly blowing my hair back as the lights brightened my way.