Sex With The Least Attractive Girl At The Bar

Photo by Charles Dawly

I haven’t had a girlfriend in three and a half years. Needless to say, I’ve become worryingly familiar with one night stands. While my batting average is remarkably high, my love for stiff drinks in short glasses makes quality control almost nonexistent. By almost nonexistent, I mean I once took home a girl my friends thought was a male bouncer; I feel that misconception says as much about her physical build as it does about her dress sense. Given I usually fling with ladies (I use that term very loosely) other guys wouldn’t even notice, one could argue the bouncer-babe was one of my better efforts. I’m not in a position to deny that. The following morning I refuse to pay the cab or even walk them out. I try not to make eye contact. Looking like a complete dick far outweighs hinting any signs of longevity in the never-to-be relationship.

In the beginning I’m sure my habits were just a way of rebelling against conservative culture, and the equally conservative people I was surrounded by. Like all addicts however, things got progressively worse. I went from thinking I was a wild open-minded night pirate, slaying audacious wildebeest instead of tamed ponies, to acknowledging I was an ugly 20 something on the fast track to a positive HIV diagnosis. I’d like to retrospectively conclude that something complex motivated my love for unkempt and willing women of the larger variety, but I think it was just my lazy self taking the easy route. Taking home the least attractive girl at a bar or nightclub was remarkably easier than taking home one of the better looking ones, and both options were easier than trying to make something last longer than a night. In short, I was fucked.

One of the first times I came face to face with my own demise was with a girl named Sasha. I’m sure ‘Sasha’ wasn’t her birth name, but rather a stripper alias her old pimp bestowed upon her. I couldn’t care less. She was a Ritalin riding rocker draped in a hot pink boob tube with tattooed muffin tops and stringy blonde dreadlocks, all tangled together in a weave of $5.00 beads. I found her in the depths of a pub; it was the kind of pub families wouldn’t walk past, fearing their children would witness something unsavory. It was 3:21am and she was eating beer nuts and throwing back cheap shots. She would occasionally glance across at me, suggestively smiling and looking at my cock. In the end, no exchange of words was necessary. We just waltzed out and got in a cab. I don’t remember the sex, but I’ll never forget the sounds she made coughing up a few packets of Winfield Reds in my studio’s bathroom the following morning. She probably had lung cancer, but she wasn’t the type to care. If she could afford a car, her bumper sticker would read ‘live fast, die hard’.

Moving forward from Sasha, it was more of the same. I met a girl named Kirsty who actually came back for a second round. Her repeat visit wasn’t indicative of my sexual stamina or insanely large penis, neither of which I have. She was emotionally unstable. I guess she just wanted company. She spent an hour telling me about how her ex boyfriend attacked her with a Swiss Army Knife. I’m not sure if it was true or not, but my hungover state left me incapable of responding in a manner that was even remotely comforting. I’m pretty sure she stole a few Xanax out of my bathroom draw too, but that didn’t really bother me. Her hollow eyes made me feel terrible, like the sex we’d had just contributed to her declining facade.

Drifting in an out of consciousness in cabs at 4am with girls who’s vaginas smelt like rotten tuna tartare was commonplace. I couldn’t count the amount of times I rolled over in the morning to find what I was sure to be a man in my bed. What I now realise is that each and every one of those women were just as dissapointed in me, and rightfully so. Any possible justification for my nonexistent standards was as nonexistent as the standards themselves, but the women I’d been with had exactly the same dilemma.