The G-Rated Seduction
NOTE TO MY READERS: This is an atypical story here on the Vice Blog. It does not involve debauchery, perversion, transgression, or sordidness. It is nothing more than a sweet story about a gal. And a guy. And another guy. And, yes, another gal. (But not like that you sicko.) So if you come here to live vicariously through my Red Sea of sleaze, you best sit this one out fella.
“Boy, Philadelphia has a lot hotter women than I would have guessed.”
My friend Mookie had picked me up at the Princeton train station around noon and driven us into the city for a day of vice.
“Well look at that girl right there.”
As we sat at a crosswalk, the cutest little blue blood WASP of a girl walked by. Flawlessly put together, perhaps even a little overdressed for a lazy Saturday of shopping. She wore a “It’s a girl” pink-colored blazer. She wasn’t a ten out of ten or anything but she was so damn attractive, so damn enticing. Unforgettable.
Several hours later and several miles away, Mookie and I were enjoying a cigar in Rittenhouse Square when who should vamp by but pink blazer girl. Our jaws dropped to the pigeon shit covered cement.
Then, another hour later, as Mookie was putting some money in the meter, who should walk by again but pink blazer girl. This was getting ridiculous.
That evening, Mookie and I hit up the Smith & Wollensky bar for some early evening steaks and cocktails. Conversation was completely devoted to pink blazer girl. Damn! It couldn’t have been coincidence. How did we run into her in three separate places today?! Even if it wasn’t anything more than coincidence it was still crazy. Dammit! Why didn’t we stop her, talk to her, make her our dual girlfriend? Had she even noticed us?
A group of elegant old ladies dining beside us heard our story and were soon part of our circle. I was convinced–convinced!–that the fates wanted us to be with pink blazer girl. I was certain we’d see her again that night. Certain that later in the evening, at some bar, at some tavern, some watering hole, our beautiful pink blazer girl would walk in and we’d dance, we’d flirt, we’d make her our dual girlfriend.
If and when we did see her again, Mookie and I swore to ourselves that we would finally stop her.
By now, more people at the bar, including the surliest bartender in the world, had become a part of our story, debating whether it was coincidence, fate, were we being stalked? Or maybe we were just liars, complete fabricators of this tale? Men that go into classy bars to spin yarns, test out their raconteurial skills simply to win over crowds, become the center of attention, maybe get a free drink bought for them or something?
Pink blazer girl walked into the restaurant.
Twenty feet away, the bar erupted, like Ryan Howard had just hit a walk-off.
But pink blazer girl didn’t notice as the maitre’d quickly whisked her to the upstairs dining room. Leaving the bar in stunned silence.
“Was that her? No! It couldn’t be! Is this a joke? Are we on a hidden video show?”
The bar was buzzing.
“Mookie, what should we do?”
“What can we do?”
“We have to do something.”
The bar echoed like a Greek chorus: “You have to do something.”
I nodded at Mookie. “We promised ourselves. We have to do something.”
As if we were the quarterbacks and the rest of the conveniently set up bar-in-the-round was the huddle, we discussed our options.
Walk upstairs and introduce ourselves?
Naw. Too brash. And who knows who she is with. A husband, a boyfriend. We’d start a steak house fight.
Wait for her to exit and then flag her down?
Too risky. We could miss her. Borderline creepy too.
The bar sat in quiet contemplation for a half-minute.
“I got it! Let’s send her an old fashioned junior high note.”
“I love it!”
I asked the surly bartender for some paper and he begrudgingly handed us a blank receipt, it’s back completely blank.
We quickly judged that Mookie had better handwriting so he became the stenographer as a note was dictated, the rest of the bar oohing and ahhing with each choice of words:
First we saw you at the crosswalk at __ & __. Then, you walked by us in the park. Later, you passed us on the sidewalk as we fed the meter. And, now, the fates have brought us together here. We know you are stalking us. Come downstairs, show some courage, and introduce yourself. Signed, the two guys you are stalking.
“What if she has no sense of humor? She won’t get the jokes?”
“She’ll get ‘em.”
“What if she doesn’t know who we are?”
“Then, we’ll draw a map.”
And, thus, Mookie added to the bottom of our note a sketch of the bar, and two X’es marking the spots where we sat.
“But how to pass it on?”
“We’ll need a ‘grease man,'” Mookie noted, a regular Danny Ocean.
Why was everything so difficult in the game of childish seduction? We debated how to pass it on. None of our friends at the bar were willing to act as messengers. A Mexican dishwalker walked by. “How’s your Spanish, Mookie?” He shook his head, “No.” “He’ll bungle it.”
“Then, we’re gonna have to have the maitre’d do it.”
“He’ll laugh in our face.”
“No, go to the female hostess. Girls like playful games. Girls like matchmaking.”
Mookie wasn’t sure.
“Then hand her a fiver.”
Mookie still didn’t think it would work and, “Hey, why do I have to do our dirty work?”
I explained: “Because you’re believable. I have a look about me, a certain look, maybe it’s my devilish eyebrows, perhaps the constant smirk on my lips, that makes people think I’m up to something. Which, admittedly, I usually am. Conniving, scheming, plotting. It’s worked well for me in many facets of life, but not here, no. But, you, you have a kind, truthful face. And your patter is so smooth and believable as well. It’s why you’re a good salesman.”
Mookie nodded. He knew I was 100% right.
He walked over to the female hostess and I saw him speaking to her, gesticulating, giving her his skillful patter. She was laughing, laughing hard. Very good.
Mookie returned. “It’s a go.”
While the hostess was gone, we debated what was going to happen. About half the bar thought pink blazer girl would come down, the other half thought she’d be creeped out and just slip out the back door.
The hostess returned to us. What had happened? She explained that pink blazer was dining with her parents and the three of them had giggled when she got our note. But would she come down? The hostess was unsure.
I ordered her back to her hostess stand lest she ruin things. She complied.
You see, I was now certain pink blazer girl would soon be downstairs. I explained to the rest of the bar that parents get a huge kick out of seeing their children do things they don’t want to do. Things they’re scared to do. Trying out for school plays, speaking to adults, going to the neighbors’ house to ask for something. My parents certainly got a kick out of watching my sisters and I squirm. And so would her’s. So even if she had no interest in dealing with us–which she probably did–her parents would goad her and implore her and then finally force her to go downstairs and speak to us. Older people have learned that one must do things they don’t viscerally want to if they are to live an adventuresome life. Or maybe they just like to order their progeny around.
I explained that it was taking so long because this “I don’t want to, mom and dad!”/”No, you have to, honey” debate was going on concurrently. They probably told her they’d drag her to the bar themselves, embarrass her further, if she just didn’t up and do it herself.
And then, after about ten mintues, pink blazer girl came downstairs and over to Mookie and I. We played it cool.
“What took you so long?”
She was shy, damn shy, she could barely look us in the eyes. Younger than we reckoned too, probably a college sophomore or so. She clearly had not dealt with many men in her life. She thanked us for the note, said it was sweet, and, yes, she had remembered us, even noticed the coincidence too. She coyly remarked that the note was, in fact, the cutest thing a guy had ever done for her.
It had made her day.
Oh, and before you go back to your parents, what’s your name, darling?
“Blakely. My name is Blakely.”
“Have a good evening, Blakely.”
“See ya, Blakely.”
That’s all we wanted.
And she left, Mookie and I backslapping and high-fiving. “Blakely! What a perfect name!”
The hostess came over with a huge smile on her face. It was then that I noticed that she was even better looking than Blakely. She was the ten out of ten, a movie star perfect button nose and flowing golden locks.
“You guys are the cutest! I wish some guys would do that for me.”
“Thanks for making my day.”
Batting two-for-two on that front.
“I’m Briton by the way.”
Blakely and Briton.
Briton and Blakely.
We didn’t kiss them, hug them, or certainly hook up with them. And we didn’t exactly want to. That would have spoiled things. 99% of the time seduction is a means to an end, but in the case of Blakely and Briton, seduction was the entire game.
We never saw Blakely and Briton again and that too is perfect as they now live on in our minds as two unflawed beacons of womanhood. Both G-Rated seduced by two masters of the rarely practiced art form. It felt good to make their days.
But, I won’t lie, I still would like to run into them one day in the future. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Uinta Fifteenth Anniversary Barley Wine
Barley wine is probably my favorite style of beer and being that it’s a fairly under-created style I’m always anxious to try new ones, pretty much picking up any I see. Same goes for anniversary releases. I can’t help but purchase them. Which is weird because I haven’t heard anything about Uinta brewing for its entire fifteen years of existence and now I’m eager to celebrate with them?! Kinda feels like a stranger coming up to you on the street: “Hey, I just turned 25 today, buy me a present.” I found this barley wine decent but unspectacular, far too much scalding booziness which is the problem I find with most middling barley wines. Still, at only $2.99 it was worth a shot and, hey, my first career beer from Utah!