Last night, I was propositioned by a couple. It started with a blonde woman sporting bottomless cleavage sidling up to me at the bar. I’d seen her come in behind an aging frat boy in a backwards baseball cap. Her guy took up a post on the opposite end of the bar. Slurring from the start, she opens with a diatribe about how she is much smarter than she seems. I smile and nod. To further convince me, she describes specific aspects of her appearance and assumptions people make because of it. I listen with sincerity, knowing all too well the plight of being pretty with big breasts.
I successfully mask my sarcasm so she interprets empathy as attraction. At least, I think that’s why she proceeds to whine in my left ear about how bad her boyfriend is at pleasuring her. Indignantly confessing that she’s never had an orgasm during sex, I question her commitment to the cause. Some part of her body is pressed against me for the majority of this exchange so I’m diligently avoiding eye contact. I gently imply that lack of gratification is a good reason to not have him as a partner but she giggles at the thought. “He’s got a little dick but I’m still going to fuck him tonight,” she states proudly.
My opinion expressed and refuted, I present an upraised palm and exclaim, “You go girl. That’s the spirit!”
Visibly perplexed, at least she doesn’t leave me hanging. I optimistically consider our conversation over and turn my attention elsewhere. Boobarella, far from finished, blurts, “Have you ever been in a threesome?”
A Cheshire grin spreads across my face and I nonchalantly reply, “Yes. A few.”
She lights up eagerly. “Really?! What kind?”
“Mostly devil’s three-ways,” I say, adding, “I make a pretty good male-to-male adapter.”
The joke flies right over her head and clatters to the floor. The boyfriend starts making his way around the bar. Her voice gains a note of urgency, “Uh, okay. Do you want to come back to our place,” she casts out suggestively.
I finally look her in the eye and politely decline using a tone I mostly reserve for plausible panhandlers, “I’m sorry, no.”
Her eyes reflect a mix of hurt and angle that tells me she’s not used to getting turned down. “Why not?”
“I usually prefer guys that are good at sex.” I explain.
“Wait, you’re not a lesbian,” she sputters.
Just then the boyfriend walks up and greets me with a proffered hand. I reluctantly reciprocate the introduction and his massive paw clasps me up to the wrist. I force a smile and try to pull my arm back. He doesn’t let go, adding his other hand to the grip. I let my right arm go limp and turn back to her, “No. What makes you think I am?”
It’s not the first time someone’s made that assumption – just the first time it’s happened in Seattle.
“Well, the hair,” she replies weakly.
I take a minute to absorb the irony and decide to not mention I’m bi-sexual. Not only would it reinforce her misguided inferences about short hair but I’d also have to explain why I still don’t want to be their third. The boy lessens his grip and I thankfully yank my hand back. Blondie pats him on the arm and snaps, “This isn’t going to work. Let’s just go.”
Slower on the uptake, her partner-in-crime smiles back at me and grunts, “Come hang out with us.”
“No, but thank you,” I iterate.
At this point, the woman starts to drag him toward the door. They get to the sidewalk, clearly arguing about what the next step it. She stalks down the street and he stumbles back into the bar. No one pays much attention and at the same time we all have an eye on him. He stays glued to his phone, slightly swaying with the effort to stay upright. Five minutes later the girl reappears to tug on his arm, “Can we just go have sex,” she pleads angrily.
“Yes, listen to her,” the bartender mutters.
Eventually, he does leave. Whether they had sex is debatable.