DC isn’t the drab monoculture self-important New Yorkers think it is. While the Hill shitlappers, K St parasites, and Georgetown madras shorts-wearing douchebags are justifiably emblematic of much of the shriveled soul of DC, there are niche ecosystems of funky offbeat social scenes that deserve just as much contemptuous mockery as their conformist brethren. One such scene are the unisex hipsters/cokeheads/IT suburban renegades/rich chick freaks that are fixtures at places like Black Cat and Rock and Roll Hotel where people who like to imagine they’re bleeding edge mavericks sticking a finger in the eye of DC’s stifling conformity go to cohere into tight-knit cliques to backslap in self-congratulation and sneer at those outside their circle jerk of retardation. I love it.
I sometimes roll with this crowd which means my insights are not only true but also revealing of my hypocrisy. This is OK. Hypocrisy is the new irony.
Their version of the backyard BBQ is the underwear party. It’s where people of a similar mental derangement go to bond and engage in good neighborliness over Sparks, PBR, toilet seat snorting, sticky club floors and designer boyshorts. I was at one of these and the first thing you notice is the ratio of girls to guys to gays. For straight men looking to get away from the dick farm that is DC on a typical weekend night, you can’t beat grimy clubs in shithole parts of town undulating with a fleshy wave of slutty chicks in panties falling over themselves in coked-out bliss. I’d say the ratio was at least 2 to 1 in favor of girls. And of the guys, at least half of them were gay. The other half were straight but you’d hardly know it — there wasn’t enough testosterone in the joint to kick a vending machine that ate your dollar.
If you are a guy with trendy (by “trendy”, I mean something besides BR or Ken Cole you tool) fashion sense, sly but not overpowering game, and natural cool, you will do well in this environment. The trick is to know people in the scene because gatecrashers are virtually ignored like so much shitty local talent art hanging on the walls.
The girl I went with was a tasmanian devil, twisted into a knot of pure energy, and sexier than a concubine at a Roman feast. When she spoke it was as if her whole body was putting on a Broadway production, hands in perpetual motion, eyelashes batting, hips swaying, jumping, spinning, then stopping to whisper in your ear. Her sultry yin was locked in mortal struggle with her dynamic yang. She was my polar opposite in some ways, and I think she digged that. So did I.
I knew what I was dealing with the moment I met her. Let a girl talk for 1 minute and she’ll hand you enough material to tailor your game perfectly. Once she confessed “I don’t know why but I’m attracted to strangers. I like the thrill of winning them over”, I had her pegged. She craved the chase, she needed the challenge. She wanted to see me making out with other chicks, getting their numbers, always tantalizing her with the dread of loss. She desired men who were desired by other women. Breaking it down in double helix terms, it was my sexy sons she wanted. I’m a natural romantic at heart, but when ass that I want more than all the gold in the world is on the line I can turn ice cold calculating in a heartbeat.
I had my perfect foil in another girl at the party who was interested in me. I had laid the groundwork at the pre-party, teasing her, fake-mocking her, flirting. Bonus: she was a friend of my primary target. The jealousy plotline was set.
I wasn’t the only one playing this game. The girl I went with was younger, but just as skilled in the crimson arts. She had invited boys, lots of boys, along with me. She was a grade A attention whore. But I knew she was into me, so all I had to do was stay cool and amuse myself with her provocations. “That guy you’ve been talking to is your type. I can see you two together. He’s been asking about you all night.” Then, later, making sure the line of sight was clear, I left the building with her friend for a smoke outside. It didn’t take long. She followed us outside and asked if I was ready to go. “In a minute.”
I go on and on about how hard it is to find good girlfriend material in DC, and it’s true, but let’s face it… these edgy sex-drenched fly-by-night girls who’ll break up with you on Valentine’s Day are a major turn-on. Although it was inevitable, I hated to see her leave my life. But I would’ve hated it even more if she had never been a part of it.
