6.9% ABV from a bomber
My Lesbian Wingman
We were hitting it off amazingly. We agreed on everything, had the same likes, and, more importantly, the same hates. The same ideals, beliefs, hopes, dreams, and favorite songs. We were soon inappropriately dancing dirty in the stuffy pub. Then even more inappropriately groping and making out in a corner booth.
Then, she told me she was a lesbian.
It was Sunday night and I had been drinking for twelve straight hours.
The day began early with some brunch, beers, and college hoops. I enjoyed Stone’s Cali-Belgique belgian IPA, a beer I’d been searching for forever due to my immense love for Stone but which I’d eventually become disinterested in as it continued to get middling reviews. I shouldn’t have been as it is another stellar Stone offering. Gorgeous yeast aroma with a similar creamy taste, just a hint of citrusness and hops. I have no idea why this beer has gotten such lackluster reviews as it is absolutely delicious.
As darkness overcame the city, my friend and I headed to the Gramercy area for a charity benefit for another, older friend. There, as drunken fortysomethings mingled, my friend and I polished off some of the best sliders in the town.
After scarfing down enough appetizers to sate an offensive line, we set our sights on some women, specifically a troika at the booth adjacent to our’s. I began running the numbers in my head, making prisoner’s dilemma (seducer’s dilemma?) calculations on which of the three to go after, throwing all the variables into my algorithm: best looking, most interesting, the one I have the best rapport with, drunkest, most apparently transgressive, and countless other factors you have probably never even considered.
I couldn’t help but be enraptured by the second best looking of the three, a 4’11” fireball named Rebecca. Though she was doing the least talking, she had a mischievous look on her face, a scheming glint in her eye, that made me reckon we would soon be friends. However, my finely tuned gaydar* was blipping a little, a fact I shouldn’t have ignored though instead quickly dismissed in my drunken state. And, the mere fact that the energy between us was palpable seemed to tell me all I needed to know.
I slid into the booth beside Rebecca and we began to play a little game of “Do you like to?”
Do you like to get drunk and belligerent?
Do you like to be the center of attention?
Do you like to mock morons and castigate idiots?
Do you like to throw pint glasses?
Do you like to get thrown out of bars?
Do you like to carve your own hilarious path through life?
She liked all these things! In fact, she liked all of these things far more than even I did. She was my doppelganger, and being a clinical narcissist, I was obviously in love with this hyper-aggressive dynamo.
“Rebecca, do you want to be the Bonnie to my Clyde? We’ll lay waste to this island, going from bar to bar like dangerously bibulous satyrs, throwing alcohol down our gullets and wreaking havoc on the fools in this town.”
She noted that she had never seen the movie** but got the reference and enthusiastically agreed. I was incredibly excited.
I took off the hat I’d been wearing all day to reveal an epic case of hat hair. Rebecca told me I looked like Robert Smith of The Cure. I’m happy-go-lucky but I still love The Cure and grabbed Rebecca’s arm, taking her to the jukebox where we ordered up some “Just Like Heaven.” Soon, Rebecca was showing me, showing me, showing me some lascivious tricks in the corner of the bar. We were groping, fondling, kissing, and disgusting our friends.
We sat back down in the booth were she continued to kiss me and flatter me. And, then she stopped and retracted. She grabbed both my hands, looked me solemnly in the eyes, and…
“I am so sorry, Aaron.”
“I think you’re great, but I’ve given you the wrong impression…”
Histrionic pause like we’re in a soap opera.
“I’m a lesbian. I’m so sorry.”
Sorry?! I was ecstatic.
I told her she had nothing to apologize, this was great! I instantaneously had had an Archimedes “Eureka!” moment and seen the future. My future. Our future. On the spot I improvised a plan whereas she would be my lesbian wingman and me visa-versa. We would travel from bar to bar, seducing women from all ends of the spectrum, sometimes for threesomes, sometimes just to help each other out. It was a brilliant plan, a devious plan, and she loved it. I thought new ground was for sure being broken and so did she.
Having great male wingmen is one thing, but they still come with issues, jealousy, competition, and too much testerone. An opposite sex, opposite persuasioned wingman would negate those errors.
Rebecca and I decided to meet again to fully hatch our plans. However, though we did get together a few other times, the partnership never fully came to fruition, was never full realized or put into action.
But I still love the concept. And I still want a lesbian wingman. So I’m now accepting application to be mine. Please send your resumes and headshots to theviceblog [at] gmail.com. Please, no fucking PDFs.
*I don’t know why I have such good gaydar. Perhaps it’s due to living in Manhattan or maybe I’m just a bigot who likes to stereotype people.
**She should see the movie. It still stands as one of the most significant contributions to 20th century film.