It’s only been two months but I’ve already forgotten how it’s like to be in the middle of a sausage fest.
I noticed that Ferdinand has been stepping up his blog game recently over at In Mala Fide. I wanted to comment on a couple of his posts that caught my attention.
The first is Night Game Is Dead…
It’s time to pronounce the death of night game. After having its limbs hacked off and its genitals yanked out by the root for dog food, night game has finally shuffled off this mortal coil to that big swank discotheque in the sky. If you just discovered [the seduction community] and are reading up on the best shotgun negs to use on a HB7.5, you’re already behind the curve. The minute you step out of the cab, you’re going to get slaughtered.
He goes on to give an accurate assement of how it’s like to game in a modern club while taking a shot at Steve Jobs for being the “biggest cockblocker is human history.”
In the good old days when cell phones were overpriced walkie-talkies, people who went out on the weekend were forced to engage with the world around them. As late as two years ago, you could introduce yourself to a girl and be assured that you could carry on a civil conversation for at least fifteen minutes. You might not get the lay or even a number, but you could put in a decent effort.
No more. The minute the girlies get to the bar, they whip out their iPhones and start texting all their friends to tell them where they are. Then the whole gang shows up and they all turn a deaf ear to everyone else save for the bartender.
I agree with him in that I wouldn’t dare step foot into an American club with the intention to pick up. I don’t mind taking a date for some drinking and dancing, but the hurdles I have to face when rolling without girls are sometimes insurmountable. A club in a poor country is only marginally better.
My biggest issue with clubs is the high male to female ratio. Here’s a picture that a forum member posted from a night out in Ultra Bar in Washington D.C.
That’s an 8:1 ratio on a non-gay night in a big city club. This example is extreme, but even the 3:1 ratios that are just about universal in DC will kill your odds. The reason is that when a girl knows she is scarce, she puts on more cuntish attitude that makes getting laid much harder, regardless of whether the other guys in the club are approaching or not, and regardless of how good your game is. When I’m in a place where the ratio is equal, or where there are actually more girls than guys, I can feel the difference. Girls are looking more, smiling more, approaching more, spending less face time with their phone, and being much more receptive to even my laziest game. When a place is packed with dudes, the best “positive” outcome is to work your ass off to get with a 6. I’m not saying you can’t get laid, but I am saying that it won’t be worth it.
Another reason why club game has declined is because of the proliferation of bottle service. Here’s an email I received which articulates the problem:
The whole bottle service concept did major damage to my club game. I’m lucky enough to be a pretty good dancer, so nightclubs have always been good to me. But when the owners started dedicating much of what used to be a large central dance area, ideal for trolling and mingling, to seating areas for bottles I mourned the loss of a lot of great rooms. I live in South Beach (since 1997) and watched most of the best clubs around 2002 start to turn into meathead venues, largely for tourists and our version of bridge and tunnel types from metro Miami coming in who wanted to be posers with their “bros” and pretend to be big deals. What a shame.
The post Ferdinand wrote should really be titled “Club Game Is Dead,” because night game is still alive and well in bars, which are still the main way that Western girls have sexual relations. While of course some problems exist with bars, they are the easiest way to get laid in modern society. Once your game becomes competent, what matters most is venue selection. Every large city has bars where getting laid is no harder than it was 10 or 20 years ago, and if anything it’s easier, even when you account for the proliferation of mainstream game and smartphones.
Venue selection is an art, but let me share the secret: neighborhood bars. If the bar has a crowd of regulars during the week, then it’s probably a good venue to pick up. If the bar only packs them in on the weekends, like clubs do, then you’re going to run into a lot of amateurs who are less concerned with getting laid than being a dumb ass. You have to pick bars where the main goal of its patrons is to drink in a familiar place instead of showing off, stroking their egos, and getting together with a large group of friends. Once you identify these bars, the difference between them and clubs can make it feel like you’re in a different city. Personally, I’d have extreme difficulty getting laid in a club like pictured above. It’s an unnecessary challenge that would just make me hate myself.
Of course there are downsides to the neighborhood bar: the quality is lower on average, the girls are less likely to put more care into their appearance, and it takes a bigger time commitment to do solid approaches since there are fewer targets, but if you’re in the business of getting laid at night then this is the way to go.
If you’re having trouble getting laid at night, there are two things to look into. The first is your game. If you know other guys are getting laid but you’re not, then there are likely some things you need to work on. But if no one is getting laid, even guys you know who can get laid, then it’s venue selection. Commit to finding neighborhood spots out of your comfort zone. If the neighborhood spots don’t give you the type of girl you want, you’ll have to move to day game, and if day game doesn’t give you good fruit, then you may have what Ferdinand calls Roosh Syndrome…
There’s a new disease spreading among American men of intelligence, class and accomplishment, characterized by total disgust of the victim’s surroundings. The victim becomes increasingly repulsed by the pointlessness of his job, the venality of his co-workers, the stupidity of the people he meets on the street, and the boorishness and dullness of the women he is expected to date. He becomes sullen, forlorn, and anti-social, preferring to self-medicate with alcohol and commiserate with his trusted friends. Self-help books and prescription drugs either don’t help or defeat the purpose of helping by destroying the victim’s mind. Vacations to other places, particularly foreign countries, can temporarily ameliorate the symptoms, but every inch of progress made while away is undone once the victim returns home. The only way to cure the disease is for the victim to leave for good.
I’m calling this disease Roosh Syndrome. And I’ve got it.
Roosh Syndrome happens after you discover quality. Once you get a taste of an easier standard of living, a better way of life, better women, or better anything, it becomes impossible to erase those experiences and continue living in what is now a low quality environment. I’ve touched on this a million times in the past—especially in this video—where you become “permanently damaged” after rich experiences. Nothing short but prudent and methodical exploration of the new environment can alleviate the disease.
I couldn’t justify this self-imposed life of pointlessness any more. I couldn’t sate myself with promises of doing something about my life later, when I had more money or fewer worries. I had to take action.
I polished up my resume, punched up letters of introduction, and sent them both out to a million different places. I went to job interviews, shook hands, and BS’ed like I was back in high school trying to get into Fucknozzle U. And last month, I struck gold.
Living in America is like being a zombie, an endless torture for anyone who isn’t a mindless member of the Crowd. Today, I begin my journey back towards the world of the living. Today, I begin my new life.
The trend I’m seeing is not so much more men living abroad (men have always done that), but men with lessening attachment to the American way of life. More men are willing to admit that there is something wrong with the system that their parents rarely questioned (the mainstream acceptance of books like The 4 Hour Work Week is testament that today’s generation is not crazy about having a boring job with its nine-to-five stability). There is a loss of pride that is tempting men to open other doors, not only due to dissatisfaction with the women, but with the country’s future and place in the world.
Why work so hard for something that seems on an irrevocable decline? How can you not get curious when reading about places like Brazil, China, or Singapore, the rising stars of the world? Why can’t my country be rising? Personally, I wouldn’t mind being in Brazil as it achieves its potential—I’d adopt the country so it can give me the feeling of “national” pride that I don’t have for my own. Call be a bandwagoner, but like anyone else I want to be on the winning team, and unfortunately America has been at the bottom of my fantasy rankings for quite some time. I hope that changes, but I don’t see anything looming in the future that gives me hope. So I pack my bags.
After college a couple guys introduced me to a Baltimore spot called Hammerjacks. Now closed, it was a huge warehouse-style club that had an open bar for $20 on “college” Thursday nights. It was there I started my game journey, first with dance floor crotch-on-ass game. The large size of the club meant I could approach a million girls if I wanted to, and the initial successes I had in Hammerjacks gave me the confidence to transition to talking game in D.C. bars.
One of the reasons I stopped going to Baltimore every week was because the logistics were horrible. I didn’t have one-night stand game back then so it was pointless to drive an hour for a date to see a girl who most likely lived in a dorm. I still visited Baltimore monthly because the girls were definitely of higher quality than in D.C.
I can’t say that anymore.
I went on a Friday a few weeks ago to both Canton and Fells Point for the first time in over a year and was stunned and how huge, sloppy, and ugly the girls were. The only approachable girl I saw was waiting in line of a pizza place. I actually wished to be back in D.C., and I hate D.C.
The reason Hammerjacks kept me interested for so long was because those girls I was grinding my junk on were babyfaced teenagers who weren’t technically from Baltimore. While the area of Federal Hill may have some college cuties (I’m thinking of the bar Dirk McGerk), I completely understand why all the guys who email me from Baltimore say the scene is a wasteland. Without finding a niche I don’t see how I could be happy there. The city is dead to me.
I went to Cafe Citron with The Rookie on a recent Thursday night. It used to be one of the only Latin spots in the city, always packed with sweaty, aggressive Central American dudes, but so many new salsa spots have opened that it was barely half full this time.
There were three girls dancing in a tight circle near us, definitely the hottest ones there.
“I’m trying to think of my line,” Rookie said.
“Doesn’t matter, it’s a suicide mission right now. One girl won’t just stop dancing with her friends to talk to you.” I thought about it for a second and added, “A dancing approach could work.”
“I’ll just wait until one goes to the bathroom.”
“Or goes to the bar.”
One went to the bar. She was closest to me so I made a move. I tap tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around. “Excuse me but your salsa dancing seems like it’s from Colombia.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Just the movements. That’s how Colombian people dance to salsa.” I was making this up of course.
“No actually I’m from Brazil.”
Living in Brazil for six months has given me an automatic two minute conversation with B girls in the States, because they’re mildly curious about the where and why of my time there. I told this girl a few sentences in Portuguese and she’s smiling and asking me light questions, but I noticed her body was angled towards the bar, as if she wanted to walk away. To gauge her interest I said, “Sorry I didn’t mean to stop you on your way to getting a drink.” She was totally free to leave at that point without being rude. Instead she said, “No that’s fine.” I was getting ready to buckle down when her two friends simultaneously pulled her away from me in a coordinated attack.
I went back to my spot and was trying to understand the emotions I was feeling. It was a mixture of disappointment, annoyance, and confusion. Why would those girls do that? Didn’t they see she was having a nice conversation with a non-creepy guy? It’s not like I was trying to lead her to another part of the bar. I didn’t even start touching her yet.
It’s true I’ve been cockblocked in South America, but usually when doing throwaway approaches on the street or when talking to a girl who had a boyfriend I failed to spot. It has been about 14 months since getting assaulted with a cockblock of this caliber. Standing there with my warm Corona beer, I tried to remember back to when this used to be a common occurrence.
An hour later came closing time and the lights got brighter. I was walking out with the Rookie when he spotted the Brazilian leaving with her group. “I’ll try again,” I said.
I reapproached her in Portuguese. Before I could even finish my sentence, a new female friend wrapped her arm around her and led her away.
“Wow that was rude,” I said to the new cockblocker.
I don’t remember the exact words, but there were a couple tense back and forths where she told me to fuck off while I told her that her that she has no class.
We were out on the sidewalk so I expected a white knight to “save” her and get in my face, but I forgot that Latino men are not as pussified as American betas. One came up to me and said, “Stop talking to that bitch.” He probably got cockblocked by her earlier.
It’s been too long that I’ve gotten into an argument with a cockblocker, so my attack was not as strong as I would’ve liked (she definitely wasn’t about to cry and seemed to get a kick out of our little street battle). And then it hit me—I actually had a scripted counterattack to this problem.
If you get cockblocked by a girl, you need to respond by shaking her core so hard that she hesitates doing it ever again, like a mouse who hits the wrong lever and gets the shit zapped out of him. No jokes and no wit—you gotta get dirty.
This is what you must say to the cockblocker. Say it with a stern tone, like a parent scolding a child.
“Did you really just do that? I’m being friendly and respectful to your friend and you rudely interrupt. Did your parents teach you to be anti-social like that?”
Then shake your head and turn your back on her. Don’t engage her in a conversation or even act like you hear her response. She no longer exists.
It had to have been bad if I started an anti-cockblocking movement, and while from a sociological perspective it’s interesting how cockblocking is a cultural phenomenon, I’m ready to destroy the next ugly bitch that interrupts me while I’m talking to a girl that is obviously considering having this hairiness on top of her in the throes of passion.
South American girls don’t drink nearly as much as American girls. When I was in clubs down there I’d imagine how much easier my job would be if they didn’t nurse their drinks. How many more bangs I would have if they didn’t average only two or three for the entire night!
When guys asked me what the deal was in getting with foreign girls, I complained about their slow drinking and how it was harder to get down to business. But was I really getting more in the States because the girls there drank more?
I don’t like to make conclusions with looking at the data, so I reflected on circumstances surrounding the first times I had sex with American girls. First thing I immediately realized was that I never banged a girl who was trashed or shit-faced. This is probably because drunk girls are almost impossible to game. They can’t maintain a conversation, can’t stand straight, and are like retards in how they process stimuli. I believe guys perceive them as easy because they are nearly unconscious and will not be able to put up a strong fight on the way to a bedroom.
(If you want to look at how cockblocking evolved here, look no further than the drinking habits of American girls. If there wasn’t a cockblocking mentality then there’d be a million rapes every weekend because so many of these girls are too immature and stupid to ensure their safety by not drinking to the point of blacking out. They need to babysit each other like little children up until at least their late 20′s. But it’s when girls unnecessarily cockblock, which they do out of habit, that provokes annoyance and sometimes anger from men like myself.)
For my study I chose a sample size of five American and five South American girls I most recently banged and rated them on their drunkenness at the time of initial penetration. Here’s the scale I used:
1: Completely sober.
2: Two drinks. More outgoing and chatty.
3: Tipsy. More flirty with slower movements.
4: Very tipsy. Eyes closing, problems speaking.
5: On the verge of passing out or puking.
Let’s start with the American girls first.
American Girl A: She was drunk enough that The Rookie almost got some right after me. Score: 4
American Girl B: Mostly sober. She kept saying “I don’t usually do this.” Score: 2
American Girl C: She had a few strong drinks. I noticed her speech ability decrease slightly. Score: 3
American Girl D: Sweated out much of the alcohol by dancing. No obvious sign of intoxication. Score: 2
American Girl E: Just a tad tipsy, but otherwise very coherent. Score: 2
Average American score: 2.6
Now for the South American girls.
S.A. Girl A: She was very tipsy when I met her, but the night I hit she only had two drinks. Score: 2
S.A. Girl B: She walked nearly half a mile to my place without any difficulty. Score: 2
S.A. Girl C: We had a glass of wine and then fell asleep. We woke up a couple hours later, completely sober, and did the dirty for the first time. Score: 1
S.A. Girl D: I bought a lot of booze in the hopes of getting her drunk, but she didn’t even finish the first drink. Score: 1
S.A. Girl E: Did it the morning when we were completely sober. Score: 1
Average South American score: 1.4
My sample set says that, on average, American girls are twice as intoxicated as South American girls when I have sex with them. Since these aren’t standardized for time, I cannot firmly conclude that girls who drink more are easier (though I think it’s safe to accept), but I can conclude that American girls are more comfortable having sex under the influence. Alcohol is more of a sex lubricant to American girls while for South American girls it’s dancing or simply nothing.
South America was the first place where I’d kiss or fuck girls who were completely sober. Developing game in the United States I had a belief that alcohol was essential to intimacy, but I understand now that it’s a cultural phenomenon, albeit one that cannot be ignored. While you don’t need to get American girls drunk to fuck, you should drink to connect with them at night. You can cover your sobriety by lying about how you’re the designated driver or what have you, but truth is no girl wants to fuck the designated driver. In South America you can take a girl for a walk in the park and then hit for the first time. I’m not exaggerating.
Props to you if you can steal my drink without me noticing. My mind must’ve been elsewhere to not give a damn about the product of my hard labor. But if I catch you stealing my drink, and you double down, then we have a problem.
There is a bar in Rio called Ovelha Negra (Black Sheep) that doesn’t sell beer, wine, or spirits—just champagne. It was embarrassing for my Danish roommate when we went the first time and he asked for Skol, a cheap Brazilian beer you can get for $1.50 on the street. He realized the type of establishment he was at and quickly adjusted, adopting more of a nouveu rich accent that would have the King of Denmark proud.
The bar has only one room in the shape of a long rectangle. There are little tables on one side and then a big table in the middle where most of the action happens. Starting at 6pm the place packs with the professional happy hour crowd. Almost everyone speaks English and $1,000 jailbroken iPhones make constant appearances.
It can be challenging to pickup here because everyone is in large groups, but really it’s not because those guys with the girls are usually coworkers. Girls are looking to flirt, and Danish and I have done well enough that we’ve become regulars. The young bartender with the moppy haircut greets us with a thumbs up whenever we come in but I keep forgetting his name. I think it’s Thiago.
It was so packed one night that we ordered two bottles to ride out until closing. A lot of people go to a place like this and get the second cheapest bottle of champagne, or at least something that’s not the absolute cheapest, but we always get the cheapest (R$ 37). We don’t know the difference between a champagne and sparkling cider and we’re not going to pretend like we do. Is it making us burp? Are we feeling tipsy? Garçon this is great champagne!
My roommate likes to start his approaches with a cigarette angle. If we’re outside he asks for a light and if we’re inside he asks to bum a cigarette. He did this on one girl and she walked out with him to find smokes from a street vendor, leaving me with the bucket of two open champagne bottles. By now we had finished one and was about to get started on the other. As usual the bartender put a salt solution in our bucket, ensuring the second would be near freezing temperature when we were ready for it.
The bucket was on the communal table and I stood in front of it behind a high bar chair. To my right was a girl that looked cute from the back—I was working on getting facial confirmation—and to her right was an obviously drunk girl in a white dress. Sitting next to her was a guy petting her back, her boyfriend maybe, or at least trying to be for the night. Across the table were three more of their friends.
I’m standing there with my champagne glass, trying to act cool, when I see the drunk girl in the white dress reach over and grab the neck of our full bottle. Good thing I was watching it, I thought.
“No no no excuse me that’s our bottle.” I said it very loud, almost shouting, because I know how drunk people can be hard of hearing when it comes to things that hint at possibly limiting their alcohol intake. My face had not a hint of humor or generosity or kindness or anything to suggest I wasn’t serious. I was a father scolding his little girl.
The bottle was now out of the bucket, dripping with icy water as it very slowly traveled past the girl next to me and directly in front of white dress. It approached her glass. There was no time to think about specific actions. No time to devise a battle plan. The autopilot light in the cockpit burns bright orange and your belief system take over.
“Hey hey no, that’s mine and I’m sorry but you can’t have any.”
From the side of her face I could see a quick frown, but she kept going. Her right hand began tilting the bottle towards her glass. She looked at me, squinted her eyes, and then made the “just a little bit” sign with her left hand. She didn’t care what I said and was going to take whatever she wanted.
Slow motion. I’m moving. The weight of my body shifts to my left foot and then I take a big step with my right. I’m next to her friend now, touching the side of her body. My hand shoots like a rocket from my hip. It’s flying through the air across the table. I’m leaning. The back of my right shoulder hits the chin of the girl next to me. She scrunches her face and flinches backwards. White dress is beginning to pour, an entitled, upper-class smirk on her face. I make contact with the neck of the bottle. My hand muscles tighten. Death grip. My knuckles are white. I tilt it upwards. I’ve stopped breathing. Now I’m snatching and pulling. Pulling away. It’s raining champagne like New Years on my arm, on the drunk girl, on the girl who got sidearmed, on the guy who wants to get laid. Cheap champagne on the dark wood table, on professional work clothes. I’m pulling still, and bring it safely back to my side. I step back. Less than a second.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING YOU DON’T JUST STEAL SOMEONE’S FUCKING BOTTLE LIKE THAT WITHOUT ASKING WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE I DON’T BELIEVE THIS SHIT!”
I’m flailing my left arm in the air like an excited monkey. My right hand is still squeezing on tight to the cheap bottle of champagne. My arm and hand is wet and cold. Then silence.
White dress is beginning to cry. Her five friends are staring at me with their mouths gaped open. Half of the bar is looking at me. I’m the bad guy, the arrogant, angry gringo who doesn’t know the capitals of European countries and comes to Brazil only to bang prostitutes and do cheap drugs.
Fuck you all I don’t care what you think.
All her friends gave me the “calm down” sign, apologizing. I pursed my lips and nodded my head up and down. I took a deep breath then put the champagne bottle back in the ice bucket.
I looked at her glass. Only a few drops made it in.
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I was in a Brazilian club recently with a group of Brazilian guys. Most of them were in college, around 22-years-old, and I thought of myself as the wise elder of the group. To foster conversation and build rapport I asked them questions about Brazilian women that I already knew, pretending that I was learning information that was completely new.
A couple hours into the night the group scattered and I found myself with only one of them, a short but muscular engineering major at the local university. He overdrank a bit but overall I found him to be a good, fun kid.
Following him through the club, he opened a group of five girls, a tough approach in any country. Instead of dealing with the entire group he focused on the girl closest near him, a logical move since the music was too loud to attempt to engage everyone. About fifteen seconds into his approach, the ugliest girl of the group raises her hand into his face and makes a goodbye motion, telling him in so many words to fuck off and die.
Now if she did that to me then I’d accept it and move on because I almost deserve it for all the women I’ve used and abused over the years, but this guy was harmless. He only tried to have a conversation instead of going for cheap feel. He didn’t say anything sexist or mean. The ugly girl had no reason to treat him like trash.
I saw the ugly girl’s hand hanging in the air and my vision focused on her chubby fingers going back and forth in an undulating wave pattern. That bitch… who the fuck does she think she is? Does she think she’s better than him? I became enraged. I couldn’t believe that this undesirable human being would disrupt the normal flow of nature and prevent an attractive person from getting with another attractive person. Just because she can’t stop stuffing her face with Hot Pockets doesn’t mean she should interrupt the game of someone who can.
In one quick motion I put my hand on top of her wrist and pushed down.
You could only see the shock on her face for less than half a second. She quickly glanced at a far off spot in the club and started to dance again with a forced grin as if nothing happened. She didn’t look in my direction again. Of course the approach was over but I taught that bitch a lesson: do not disrespect a man who didn’t disrespect you. I guarantee you that for the rest of her life she will never do that again. Part of being a real man is teaching lessons to those who sorely need it.
Now imagine if all men would stand up to disrespectful women, whether it be cockblocking or just general bad behavior. Most of the problems that we bitch about would eventually disappear, all because we stopped accepting it. If we don’t punish what deserves to be punished, it will merely continue.
I have no sympathy for guys who always whine about getting cockblocked, because they’d remain silent if I ask them what they’ve done to stop it. Have you called out cockblockers? Have you made it uncomfortable for girls to continue cockblocking? Have you put the nasty fat bitches of the group in their place? Have you ruined her night by teaching her a lesson she’ll never forget? If not then as far as I’m concerned you’re part of the problem. You have done nothing to stop it so you don’t deserve for the problem to stop affecting you.
One night at a time, one girl at a time, we can change the world.
The first time I did it I was in Las Vegas. I lost all my money on the blackjack table and didn’t have enough cash for a drink. I was too proud to ask my friend for a loan until we got back to the room. I saw a bottle of Stella standing on the casino’s bar all alone, completely full. I looked around, grabbed it, and took a sip. It tasted fine, not warm but not cold either. I finished it quickly and placed the empty bottle back on the bar. What a rush! Mostly from the thrill of the crime but also from drinking on another man’s labor.
The following two months were especially rough. I had little money coming in. I wanted to go out but I couldn’t afford it. I remembered what I did in Las Vegas, and reluctantly went with it, perfecting the skill. I stole microbrew pints and brightly colored cocktails. I stole screwdrivers and champagne with lipstick imprinted on the glass. I enjoyed it more than I should have. It was addictive—the plotting and planning, the positioning of my accomplices, the feeling of my heart beat race from the fear of getting caught and pounded upon, and finally the confident grab. It’s all in the grab! Like an eagle swooping down on a defenseless squirrel, gone before you know what happened. The rush of stealing drinks was so great that one of my friends got addicted to it even though he was gainfully employed. Unfortunately he contracted a mysterious virus and had to stop.
I preferred the cocktail drinks with the skinny little straws. Not much backwash. I tossed the straws and drank from the glass. The more colorful the drink, the more it glows in the dark, the faster it went down my throat. Beer bottles are for amateurs. The rim is coated in another person’s mouth, perhaps a girl who just got finished sucking a dick in the bathroom. If it’s not full then forget it. The martinis are the real score. There is no fast getaway like that clear drink, only one-third consumed, its owner turned around trying to get into a beastly girl’s pants. Thick green lime wedge. Another gin & tonic. Not my first choice but I’ll take it. The liquid touches my tongue five feet away from the crime, and what a beautiful surprise—a gimlet! Perfect for the summer. Refreshing. I slam the empty glass on the bar and a satisfying burp erupts from my belly. The guy looks around for his drink.
I wanted to get good. I wanted to steal a drink in front of a man face and he will think it was mine all along. I wanted him to doubt himself, his being. I wanted him to be in disbelief that another man would perform such an act. But I already did it. It’s gone. Replaced by an empty glass. Buy another drink old man, this time not something so sweet. Then I got a job (bartending, ironically). I couldn’t live like that anymore. It was too dangerous, too shameful and pitiful. But sometimes I see a full drink, sitting unguarded, and my heart skips a beat, and I squint my eyes through the darkness, and I notice my friend’s glass is almost empty, and I take a deep breath, and…