#11: Wingman Chronicles Part III: Lap Dances and Emmy Award Nominated Accidental Wingmen

Oprah calls it secreting. Religious types call it praying. Psychologists call it delusional and put you on meds. I call it common sense: ask and ye shall receive.


Wingman Red, she of blues-singing sexual dalliances, casually mentioned a few months ago that she'd never been to a strip club and would like to go, unknowingly sending that request into the universe on an Oprah-shaped comet in the process. Fortunately, I was standing close enough when she did this it to be included in the return.


A personal note on strip clubs:


1.) I love 'em. I've never denied my significant other the right to go and ogle some boobies, with our without me there. Though I will say they have more fun when I'm there, because girls have more fun at strip clubs than guys. Period. Guys, if you don't believe me, bring your two most fun-loving, sexually secure wingwomen to the club next time and see how different the experience is. We're like a vagina-ed bridge between you and your fantasy, because no good female wingman will let her male counterpart be a creepy customer while she's around, and strippers know it. They will flock like sequined moths to an Alabamian bug-zapper in mid-July.


2.) I, personally, can't get behind the feminist argument that ALL strippers are being degraded. And I'm not getting into that argument here, so moving on...


3.) I may or may not have brought Alex to the strip club for his birthday several years ago and ended up onstage with a bottle of champagne giving him a special birthday dance with the help a stripper named Violet who I kind-of-sort-of-maybe-hooked-up with in the bathroom for half and hour while Alex swigged beer and watched. May. Or may not have. Done that. 


Alex may or may not have called it the best night of his life. This is all hypothetical.


4.) As a former Hooters girl, one who never felt degraded by her job (except the scrunchy-socks part of the uniform--any adornment that gives even the leggiest women cankles should be illegal), I'd be a hypocrite to turn and bash anyone whose sex appeal has contributed to a paycheck.


Personal note on strippers over.


Red and I met up at an innocuous Irish pub for a low key evening--minimal primping, no expectations. Beer, girl-talk and bar banter. We were about two drinks deep when QB walked in.


Now. What to say about QB? QB is a very well-known and lusted after TV actor. We call him QB because he's a chiseled hunk of Quarterback-looking manflesh grown in the woods of Maine, topped with a Ken-doll style head manufactured at The Hot Professional Athlete Manufacturing Firm of America (affectionately known as HPAMFA, which is coincidentally the sound many women make when QB walks into a room). At some point this tall, square-jawed piece of magazine-worthy Americana decided life as an athletic all-star didn't offer nearly enough immediate fawning gratification--so he switched to acting. Successfully. He is very pretty, very loaded and very unfortunately has a tattoo of a jungle cat on his shoulder.


He is also very much not my type, which is why we hit if off on a non-fuck-me level after working together on a freelance gig, settling instead into the kind of random dude-banter that tends to be my base form of communication with any guy I am not trying to bed. He is very fun to get drunk with, if you happen to run into him--which you will not, knowingly, because I'm not stupid enough to tell you what TV show he's on.


I gave him an appropriately obnoxious "Whatssup, playa playa!!" from our corner of the bar (yes, I'm a real lady), signaling he should come sit with us. QB smiled, then tripped over the two bridge-and-tunnel-bimbos who were already trying to suck his dick.


Soon our quartet (he had a wingman too) were having many brews while he sucked down many vodka-sodas. Red kept giving me the well-concealed but still entirely hilarious "OMG WE'RE GETTING DRUNK WITH _________ FROM THAT SHOW ________!" look. And I was shooting her "Don't get too excited" looks back, because QB is married.


QB is wedded to one of those scorchingly hot antelope-women with three miles of leg and Sahara-flat torso, one that has no right being as legitimately talented as she is when she's already been given other assets for social leverage. (She's also a TV actress, because that's what you do when God makes you an antelope-woman with no visible pores.) To the best of my knowledge, they both have industry-standard marital vows, which means they occasionally cheat with their co-stars but genuinely love each other. And have really photogenic make-up sex.


NO, this is not the post where I check "sleeping with a married man off my list," so untwist your panties and keep reading.


Anyway, we're all drinking. QB's wingman ducks out to go home to his wife, but QB is a "bachelor for the weekend," all by his lonesome while honeypie is out of town filming. So we all keep drinking. The conversation goes the only place it could foreseeably go: Canada.


Canada is known for its waterfalls, that song from the South Park movie, syrup...and strippers. Why strippers? I dunno. Probably because the native tundra-like temperatures mean the stripper's nipples are always more alert and appealing than that of their southern, American-grown counterparts.


As a connoisseur of strip clubs, I get off on a stripper tangent with QB ("I once sliced my cornea on a rogue piece of body glitter." "Yeah? Well I hooked up with the stripper at my ex-boyfriend's birthday." pause. "And he didn't marry you?" "Well, see...."). Finally, Red looks at QB with subtle but palpable feminine wiles armed.


"I've never been to a strip club. Ever," she says, casually stirring the foam on the pint glass rim with one finger.


God I love this woman.


"Really?" QB replies, hooked. "What, you're some kind of feminist?"


"No, not at all. I'm a grad student. I can't afford a train ticket home, let alone a strip club," she laughs, Irish eyes smiling. Grinning even. I pick up the slack.


"Yeah, it's true. She's never been. God, isn't it so sad this pale, pink, porcelain skin has never been baptized by the cleavage sweat of a Ukrainian undergrad in a pink thong," I sigh, placing my head against her bosom for effect.


"Yeah. This is sad." QB's eyes are distant, thoughtful. And he is not pondering the economic implications of the proposed Obama health care plan.


"Well, c'est la vie! Another round?" I ask, waiting to see if he'll take the bait.


"We should go," QB says, eyes on us again.


"Go where?" Coy. Play coy.


"The strip club. We should go. Red, we should pop your cherry."


"QB, you are a married man," I say, resisting. "You'll get in trouble."


"I am a bachelor for the weekend, my wife is trashed in some bar in Houston with a bunch of production assistants trying to sleep with her and she loves strip clubs," he replies before swigging the last of his drink and placing the glass decisively on the bar. "We're going. Red, get your game face on."


We plan a totally pointless, semi-elaborate ruse where Red and I pay and exit first, meeting QB a few minutes later at the side door of a conveniently located strip joint so no random photogs snag shots of QB leaving a bar (or entering a strip joint) with two random girls who are not his wife. The VIP bouncer, clearly fresh off his win from the Ving Rhames Look-a-Like Contest, ushers us in covertly, whisking past the red velvet rope and into the thumping, subterranean lair of sin and glass surfaces below.


We're led around the carpeted manse, eventually escorted to a dimly lit banquet near one of the stages, where a smiley blonde with black-light reactive white panties is showing everyone how firemen get from Point A to Point B when the elevators are down. Only she's doing it with her back arched like a Slinky down stairs, both hands free to wave at two drooling Neanderthals at the base of the stage.


After a brief visual sweep of the floor, which is littered with black leather lilypad-like risers topped with gyrating lap-dance blossoms, we pick our preliminary favorites and proceed to kick it classy:

12 bottles of Coors Light and $300 worth of lap dances.

What? I said he was from Maine. He was paying, so it was his choice.


Two hours, many, many slurred words, and the lifestory of a girl named Zora later (she, of course, took a shine to Red, bonding over their shared love of Chekov no doubt), it was time to go. We were crossing into that drunken no-mans-land where hormones and alcohol bring parties invloved dangerously close to sleeping with people they shouldn't. Though I was far more interested in leaving with Anya, the pixie-brunette who kept putting her strawberry lipgloss all over my neck, than I was with QB, just to set the record straight.


We thanked QB profusely, sprung for his next lapdance, and left him there with what I am convinced is a totally average boner. (Sorry, but God just doesn't give that much pretty a massive wang too. Djimon Hounsou is the exception to this rule.)


"What just happened??" Red asked as we made it outside, sudden gust of wind blowing her mane of red hair around and making every guy, and even me, stop and stare. "I mean, like. WHAT. JUST. HAPPENED?" Her eyes were wide and incredulous and glazed with lust and cheap beer.


"You just had your virgin strip club experience, loved it, may marry Zora, and that guy from that show you love treated you to it." I lit her cigarette, and we started hand in hand down the Avenue, Brooklyn-bound.


"This stuff doesn't happen in real life," she said on the exhale.


"It does if you have the right wingman."

#53: Equal Marital Rights, aka, The Sanctity of Marriage Myth (with a Lady Gaga cameo)

It went down Sunday. The National Equality March hit Washington D.C., and both my Hitch List and personal belief that equal marriage rights are in line with, and mandated by, the foundation this country was built upon meant I had front row seats. I try to avoid cloying sweetness and melodramatic sappiness on this blog, so I need to be careful with this one--because it was the type of day that made even my cold, cynical heart race with hope. And pride. Marching was cathartic. But a picture is worth a hundred words. So here are a few highlights:

After a 5 hour bus trip, D.C. was so beautiful that everything looked like a Hollywood backdrop.

We were at the front of the march. Just before the crowd began moving, a rainbow appeared in the sky overhead. There was no rain, and no clouds.

People filled the streets--literally. City blocks spilled and overflowed with bodies, people, signs, chants. The air buzzed with energy, both spoken and silent.

On the way to the Capital, we passed this. It was a good motivator.

This is the front. It took over two hours for the back of the march to join us at the Capitol.

Pundits had declared no one cared. They said no one would show up for the rally...

...they were wrong. This picture was taken a 2pm, when thousands of activists hadn't even made it to the west lawn yet.

Matthew Shepard's mother, Judy, was one of many speakers. My voice caught in my throat when she was done.

Lt. Daniel Choi, a war hero dishonorably discharged after years risking his life for his country, entered silenced by black tape. Tape pulled, he started a chant: "Love is worth it."

Lady Gaga. Lady FREAKIN' Gaga, who gave a poignant and effective speech, sans pokerface. Plus. Cynthia Nixon. Hugging it out. Amazeballs.

After 18 hours on our feet in the sun, everything post-rally was a blur. I'd do it again tomorrow if I could.

Opponents of the march called it a waste of time, saying that the only thing the event "put pressure on was the grass." And, logistically, they were right. Marches rarely (if ever) scare government into action. If 100,000 (as some sources are reporting--an official number has yet to be released) protestors had spent the day at home lobbying their government by phone and written word to repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell and legalize gay marriage, maybe something tangible would have been accomplished sooner. 

But the naysayers overlook something more valuable. Nearly every protester I met was young. They weren't all old hippies looking for a return to radicalism. It was twentysomethings, thirtysomethings, artists, businessmen, students, doctors, all young...and committed. 

If a single event can galvanize thousands of members of Generation Apathy into action, then it's worth it. A successful march is the sort of tangible kick in the ass the next generation of activists needs in order to take the passed torch firmly between their palms. We're an immediate gratification nation full of easily distracted minds, and the experience of standing shoulder to shoulder with 70-year-old lovers still unable to marry on one side and 17-year-old-heteros fighting for strangers on the other is something we need. Because without that experience, its too easy to get distracted and get back to beer pong. 

And let me clear up some myths.

I have had it with the "Defense of Marriage Act," and the arcane argument that the very "sanctity of marriage" is at stake in this gays vs. government fight. Let me break something down for you: marriage, as "marriage preservers" know it, is a fallacy. I'm not talking about that Disney ideal---I'm talking about a cult of ignorance that believes, in the history of the world, marriage is, has, and always will be a profound union between man and woman.

It's time to get real about so-called "the sanctity of marriage" which some people feel the need to "preserve." Here's some fun facts: Around the time of the New Testament, marriage was an almost informal agreement. No ceremony. No flowers. No TV specials. No vows before god. A pair of mates decided to cohabitate, and that was pretty much it. They were married. Live long and prosper.

Flash forward to the last 200 years. In Eskimo cultures, married couples frequently participate in co-spousal arrangements, where two sets of married couples share resources, friendship and sexual contact. Their children are raised as spirit siblings, and share a special bond. The community accepts all as members of the same family.

Across the globe, non-Mormon polygamy exists with such regularity that it's no wonder people don't give a shit about HBO's "Big Love." The Cheyenne Indians of the 1940s took many wives, who worked in tandem to preserve their family unit. In Botswana, polygamous wives invented the saying "Without cowives a woman's work is never done," railing against the supermom standard and working as a team. 

In China, a good wife treats her husband like "an honored guest," never showing outward signs of affection, and vice versa. For hundreds of years, wives used a secret language only other women knew so they could bitch about their marriage or swoon over their husbands without getting caught.

The Ancient Romans had absolutely no taboos placed on homosexuality whatsoever, and did not believe heterosexual marriages were sacred. In sections of Tibet, India and Nepal, women may marry two or more of their husband's brothers, having sex with all of them and serving as their wife--and sexual jealousy is seen as gauche. 

In West Africa, there are societies in which a woman can choose and marry a female, while certain Native American cultures allow male-male unions.

The point is--WHO exactly has the audacity to think they can protect "the sanctity of marriage," when the union, by nature, is as malleable and specific as the regions and people who practice it? Here' another one: WHO exactly gets to define what a MARRIAGE is? 

The Defense of Marriage Act serves one purpose: Proving how ignorant the author and his supporters are about what marriage is. The law protects what is, at best, an isolated social norm specific to the US, Canada and parts of Europe...one which, given the divorce rate, doesn't work so well. 

The DMA is an act of allegorical abomination--it's like penning legislature to prevent the evolution of a biological organism. I'm just suuuuure the organism will listen too. 

Crap. I think I put a dent in my soap box. I gotta lay off the gelato.

Look, I don't mean to alienate those who believe in traditional marriage. Wed, make babies, buy dogs, join the PTA. Live, love and live some more. I pray for it all one day. But for those people arguing that marriage must be protected like a frail virgin from the godless unions of heathens? Try doing some research. Then put down the porno mag, head into the kitchen, and tell your spouse you love them. And do it quick, before the gays beat you too it and love has to be rescued from the fires of hell as well.

Ms. Syllabick Goes to Washington, aka, POLLY GOES GAYING

We interrupt your previously scheduled continuation of the Wingman Chronicles for this announcement:


Polly's going gaying.


Tomorrow is the National Equality Rally in Washington D.C. Since the blogosphere's been atwitter with news of the movement for weeks I won't bore you with rhetoric or start waxing poetic about the Million Mo March. For those of you living under a rock, it's a major event bussing, training and trekking tens of thousands of gay, lesbian, straight, bisexual, transgender and sympathetic individuals, as well as many other civil rights groups, to the capitol to make some pretty basic demands: equal rights for everyone of every sexual orientation and skin color. You can bet your sweet assless chaps that gay marriage will definitely be a hot-button issue, running neck in neck with the military's archaic "Don't ask, don't tell" policy.


Anyone who has read this blog is well aware of my mercurial feelings on the modern institution of marriage. While it may or may not be right for me, I feel no upstanding and law abiding man, woman, drag queen, drama queen or kid on Eight Ave. in hot pants with a penis popsicle in his hand deserves to have a "democratic" government dictate whether their commitment for the person they love is legally legitimate or not. 


And so I march, very proudly, alongside the thousands of others whose voices should be heard. 


For the ubergay readers, I respectfully request that you dress yourself in the most offensive lingerie you have, toss on a feather boa and run up and down the capitol spraying anti-gay protesters in the face with a penis-super-soaker water gun. That's what you call having a good offense.


For the defensers, I'll be right there with you. People going, just Direct Message @pollysyllabick on Twitter and maybe we can join forces. @pollysyllabick will be live tweeting throughout the day as well, and my tweets will be WAY cooler than those of, say, the New York Times. Maybe not as informative, but cooler. 


Pictures and tales from the front lines to follow. The Wingman Chronicles will continue soon thereafter.


Wish us luck!

#20: The Wingman Chronicles Part II: Playing the Ivy Leagues

The second rule for wingmen to remember as we hit Part II of the chronicles: Karma.


Alright, karma's not really a rule, but this is hardly the blog for discussing religious doctrine and I'm really bad at writing intros, so screw off. Point is: Be an attentive, unselfish wingman and the pendulum will swing back in your favor.


Having successfully wingmanned my lady Red a chain-smoking, blues-singing rocker, I was feeling...good. I was back on the scene after years missing in action, had helped a dear friend score and had only stepped marginally closer to lung cancer (note to self: corner next prospect in Whole Foods, not on a smoking patio) in the process. But how hard it is to help a model, one who swigs Guinness in dive bars, get laid by a rock star? Wingmanning Red is like winning the Special Olympics when you have both...nevermind. What I mean is, I had to test my success and make sure it wasn't just luck.


It was time to draft Ariel.


Ariel is my original wingman. I learned the definition of the term from my exploits with this girl, a kinetic ball of energy blessed with the gift of gab, a contagious staccato laugh and a pair of perky C-cups which have not moved so much as a centimeter south in the last decade. (And I know "Ariel" is an asinine fake name, even for a blog. But for eight years it's been her bar alias...and dudes buy it. Not one man has ever called shenanigans on that ricockulously fake name, stolen from either an animated mermaid, a Shakespearian nymph or a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, depending on how highbrow you like your pop-culture references.)


If Red and I are a perfectly balanced yin-yang of feminine mystique, Ariel and I are the Boondock Saints of wingmanning--a rogue team of petite, busty, hustling vigilantes set loose on an unsuspecting world. We've infiltrated the West Point Military Ball, commandeered an entire winery and its reserve stock for a private tasting, talked our way into a closed party for a cosmetic surgery mogul we did not know to drink $300 worth of his champagne, used the infamous "one phone call" to dial up the other from jail...in short, she's that friend.


We picked a nuetral, unassuming bar to meet at for a night of tactical planning. Our only mission: celebrate both being single (at the same time!) and discuss battle plans for the following weekend's Wingman Reunion 2009. I even wore a scrubby hat to keep booty at bay.


Ariel and I had been sitting with our pints, planning animatedly, for about half-an-hour when a pretty, square-jawed, tall and wholesome type with a full head of thick, chestnutty hair and bright blue eyes sat down at one of two empty stools at our table.


"Hi," he said.
"Hi," Ariel said.
"Hi," I said.


We all stared at each other for a moment. "Good talk," I finished.


His mouth spread into the sort of sweet, Mentadent white smile that can only be grown (organically) in midwestern fields. I had been ready to fire a dismissive snark-barb at him as soon as he sat down, but the genuineness of that smile disarmed the table. Ariel pulled a thick cascade of hair over to one side of her face, using the movement to flash me the "he gets five minutes not to say anything stupid" look. 


He did not say anything stupid. His name was Tommy (-2 points for not dropping the "y" after college); he was a Yale (+5 points) graduate (+10 points), in the city for a long weekend (+5 points) before returning to his job as a landscape architect desiging parks for a community improvement firm (+50 points). He loved Aimee Mann (WTF?? -5 points), black and tans (+1 point) and the journalistic stylings of Matt Lauer (no points either way). His wingman for the night was a pixie-girl named Tracy, who bonded with Ariel in three minutes flat before buying them both a beer. At the bar. Leaving Tommy and I. Alone.


Three brews, one shot and two hours of conversation later, Tracy and Ariel still hadn't returned. I could see them at the bar over Tommy's shoulder, heads pressed together like sleeping marsupials. Plotting. They're plotting.  Tommy cupped his hands over mine and I didn't pull them back. (What? They felt nice.) Ariel appeared a few minutes later, collecting her purse while whispering into my ear.


"Full report: great guy with history of monogamy and chivalry. Has been talking to Tracy about needing to meet you since you walked in. Monday he goes back to his house, which he owns, upstate, so you won't have to see him again if you don't want to. He will not try to rape, murder, kill, or fuck you if you go with him to Tracy's apartment, which is two blocks away. My spare keys are in your bag and the phone is on loud case you need to eject at the last second," she spat sotto voce while pulling on her coat.


"Where are you going?" I hissed back, watching as Tracy also whispered something into Tommy's ear while pressing a set of keys into his hands.


"Downtown with Tracy to meet her boyfriend, who she is staying with for the night so Mikey can ask you back to her beautiful Hell's Kitchen apartment with a balcony," she replied. "Just say yes." And just like that, Tracy and Ariel were gone.


Which is how I found myself on a balcony with a pretty Ivy League grad who designs parks for underprivileged families kissing all over my face, whispering how beautiful I was in spite of my truly epic hat-hair. True to Ariel's report, there was no sex pressuring when the night officially ended with an exhausted collapse into Tracy's bed. No "just the tip," no casual boob-grazes--just my weary head on a pillow. Next to a full-blown, domestically-raised adult male sharing the bed who didn't try and cajole himself into any of my orifices. (Gay, or just good? The Aimee Mann thing threw me.)


Tommy woke me in the morning (remembering on his own that I had to be up for a heinous Saturday morning meeting at work) with a text message from his side of the bed: "You are breathtaking in this moment." I still cannot decide whether this was a ripe slice of cheddar or the sweetest thing ever.


Then he made me breakfast.


I walk-of-shamed it to the office, survived the meeting, went home, tried not to think about how kissing Tommy didn't feel like kissing Alex, and crashed. Sunday night, my phone lit up with another text from Tommy:


"You are my New York. Thank you."


I texted something, but not to Tommy: "Well played, Ariel. Well played."

#19: The Wingman Chronicles Part 1: Taking Home the Rock-Star

I start the Chronicles with a rule for wingmen to remember: If you force things, the condom breaks.


Wait, wait, that’s not right. Well, technically it is right, but it’s not the point I want to make.



Ah, I remember now...ahem: Always go with the flow. Chose good copilots, and go with the flow.



For night one of wingmanning, I chose my copilot carefully. Back on the singles scene after five years with an emo crybaby (one with bangs and a bizarre germ issue that meant he didn’t perform oral), Red is 5’9” of lithe, ginger-maned lioness. She’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of music, unfairly perfect porcelain skin and feminine ease with a pint glass. She is, in flirting style and visual “type,” pretty much my opposite, making her an excellent yin to my yang--and we’re different enough that we rarely aim for the same target. Except hot targets with full sleeves of well-drawn tattoos and/or accents, in which case it’s every goddamned woman for herself and Red’ll tell you that herself.



Red and I spent Night One in a downtown music hole with only one purpose: go with the flow. Hear music, have good time. We grabbed a drink and did some catching up. Then, fifteen minutes in, he took the stage.



Young, wild-haired and working angular, fox-like eyes, The Vagabond (the name of the song he was singing, of course) opened his mouth from behind the mic and let out a soulful riff, riding the back end of a blues growl until every vagina in the room was pissing cerulean. Red’s pheromones blew out the front of her dress and knocked my drink out of my hand en route to the stage.



“Dibs on--,” she started moaning.
“Yours. Got it,” I concurred.


I know, it’s an obnoxious cliche: Brooklynite she-bitches, gunning for the dirty-cute-hipster-rockstar. Whatever. I’m not ashamed.



Anyway, flash forward to midnight. Through a set of mutual friends, we ended up at the same Lower East Side (ugh, of course it was the LES. Maybe I am ashamed...) watering hole as The Vagabond and his band-mates. We weren’t there solely for the boy. The company was laid back and warm, the Guinness pints only $5 and the flowing spirit of the weekend Gods had delivered us there. 


But the boy didn’t hurt.



The ensuing mission was smooth and organic--no planning, just an on-the-fly series of non-verbal cues and tactical maneuvering.



At some point, The Vagabond separated from his pack of buddies and headed to the corner of a deserted smoking patio outside the bar’s open windows. Red saw, wordlessly pulling out her cigarettes and following outside to a position near, but not facing, her target. I stayed seated inside, watching for his reaction. He checked her out once from behind the cigarette, then again on the exhale. Roger, we have confirmation of interest. 



Behind me, three busty blondes noticed The Vagabond’s vulnerable position and furtively began plotting their own move. (He's the lead singer. Tough life.) Outside, Red was striking up conversation like a seasoned pro, and he was going for it...but she’d be out-gunned against three. Having confirmed mutual interest, I immediately commenced defensive activity.



I bolted (casually) to the patio, smiling and bumming a cigarette off Red before faking the death of her lighter. I turned to Vagabond for a light, introducing myself while cutting off his line of sight with the incoming trio of big-breasted bogies, now on the patio and closing in quick. Red, sensing the threat, turned her body perpendicular while I stepped toward her, effectively penning the Vagabond in his corner while still giving him ample personal space. Shut out, the bogies eventually finished their Newports and left.



With the patio cleared, Red eyed Vagabond’s almost empty pint glass, gave me the look and exited. Vagabond pulled out another cigarette (chain-smoking blues singers. It’s a veritable storm of cliches today, folks), and I bummed from him (and smoked the damned thing. Right after the one I’d just had. The things we do for friends....), playing the mutual acquaintance card to keep him in position for a few minutes longer. (“No way, you know Mike too?)



Red returned with two icy beers, one for her, one for him, and we all toasted his stellar performance. I then excused myself back to the bar, watching through the windows again while Red skillfully wrapped their chat, gave him a solid piece of body contact (the classic “I’m-laughing-and-touching-your-arm”) and rolled off to come “find” me. The seed has been planted.



An hour of random socializing later, I spotted one of the blonde bogies from earlier making her move. Houston, we have a problem. Vagabond look uncomfortable, eyes all over the bar, looking for something. With Red MIA I did a slow fly-by in, listening for the opportunity to cock block. (Is it still cock blocking if you do it to a girl?) Vagabond and Bogey were playfully arguing over which of two bands I don’t give a shit about were better. Bingo.



“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to eavesdrop.” Except of course I do. “But I couldn’t help hearing your argument and I totally have to take her side,” I told Vagabond.


“SEE, I TOLD you,” she crowed. Targeting Bogey...


“What is it with guys? They never appreciate the genius that is...um...that band,” I tried. Really lamely tried. That's right--come to Mama...



“Omigod, riyyyyght?” she said, shifting her body toward mine. “I saw them at the Bowery Ballroom last summer, and they were soooooo f-ing amazing, they came out and were....”


And then Red appeared. Vagabond grinned at her immediately, locked in. He'd clearly been looking around the bar for her. KABLOOEY, bitches. 


Vagabond ended up following us home to my place, where one roommate was conveniently out of town for the weekend. He stayed for a 3am night cap, a 4am discussion of music and a 5am anatomical study of Red.


My co-pilot had to scoot out to a modeling shoot the following morning. (Of course. I should rename this post “Of-Fucking-Course.”)


I cooked The Vagabond breakfast from scratch (because he was genuinely cool) and listened for half an hour while he told me how amazing Red is (duh, I know dude). Then, I tossed him out into the bright world and stripped the sex sheets off roomie’s bed before he got back, informing him (as was right to do) that his room had been used for wingmanning purposes upon his return. He was proud of us both. 


Red's not looking for anything serious, but she and the Vagabond have had several casual dates since that night.   


Mission accomplished.

#19: The Wingman Chronicles Begin

Just how important is a good wingman in social and urban dating culture?


Important enough that the word "wingman," as used outside the world of aeronautics, has its own Wikipedia page. 


Enough that socially awkward troglodytes now have their own Match.com to pair them with wingmen.  (PS: Dudes? Hate to the the bearer of bad news, but if you need this service just to find a guy to hang out with, the entire cast of Ocean's Eleven and a fresh bottle of roofies won't be able to get you laid.)


Enough that even these rejects from your high school prom can toss on some guyliner, recycled carpeting from The Moonlight Bunny Ranch crafted into an oversized asshat and some Chanel nailcolor in LookHowEdgyIAm and make bank with their own television series. 


And enough that, in using this Hitch List as a codependency cure/way to reprioritize my life, I had to come clean about being a shitty wingman and social participant in recent years. A recap from a post this past July :

Far worse is that I blow off friends as soon as the signing bonus on new relationship goes through. I’m nesting. I’m sexing. I’m entwined with my lover, happily absorbing their nuances like a sponge, purring and lolling about in togetherness like an overweight cat in a featherbed. I become defined by the relationship, which leads to monophobia outside of the relationship.

Think this all just a trite little blog subject from some former-fawning-girlfriend, something with no real social applications? Well, the Fulbe people of northern Cameroon don't (they appreciate me. So there.) To quote Marriage, a History again:

The Fulbe people do not see love as a legitimate emotion, especially within marriage. In many peasant and working-class communities, too much love between husband and wife is seen as disruptive, because it encourages the couple to withdraw from the wider web of dependence that makes the society work.

Now, I don't agree that love within marriage is an illegitimate emotion, but I do believe that living as broke twentysomethings in a recession world, plane flights away from most of our families and years away from reasonable salaries, our little social bubbles classify as "wide webs of dependence" where life is better when we're propping each other up as a group. (Go ahead. Call me a Socialist.)


And I don't know about the Fulbe, but one of the things that makes our little mini-societies work is getting laid. It keeps the women glowing, the men high-fiving, the gays fabulous and everyone from bitching about how horny, ugly and lonely they are.


With all that in mind, I've recently dedicated serious time to reconnecting with the social web and wingmanning, alternating the roles of Goose and Maverick with a select handful of seriously attractive, witty, formidable partners. I'll be spending the better part of the next few posts detailing the success of those missions, which include everything from an all expenses paid trip to the strip club to a doting Ivy Leaguer with a stable job(!) to a plate of midnight oysters.


As you go forth into this, the first wild weekend which feels and smells of Fall, I encourage you all to Goose and Maverick it up....and report back if any missions are accomplished.