Now to clarify, college bars are not simply just bars in a college town; college bars are the couple places where you’re always screaming over the music and the floor’s perpetually covered in a thin, sticky film of spilled sugary booze, back sweat, and lowered standards. These are the places where if you’re twenty-one you’re older than half of the people there, as cover charge and ID, state-issued or self-issued, stating you’re twenty-one is enough to get you in. So come on, Forty-Five-Year-Old in a Denim Jacket Lurking in the Corner, this isn’t your scene. This is a place for the college-aged to grind up against each other in a frenzy of slutty trouble, not a place for you to creepily offer to buy drinks that you “swear will taste like a vodka cranberry and not date rape” for girls who were born in the same year you turned twenty-five.
It’s painfully obvious that this mid-crisis man is here for the sole reason of attempting to convince an intoxicated, whorish college girl into letting his paunchy body wriggle around on top of her in the least romantic way possible tonight. On the one hand, he could just be completely clueless about how this scene works. Perhaps he’s just got out of prison or an asylum and now he’s oblivious on where to go to meet women. Eventually this guy will go Summer Sanders and Figure it Out by discovering bars for people his age, meeting someone through a friend, or coming across the ever-reliable Craigslist’s Casual Encounters section.
The other alternative is that Stranger Danger is just completely delusional. Over the last twenty-five years, he’s fabricated memories about the frequency and the passion involved in his sexual encounters. He’s remembered himself as the former alpha-champion pussy poacher while repressing his actual reality filled with countless nights of coming home alone to eat an entire pizza and rub an easy one out while watching a rerun of The Rockford Files. The college bar scene was his arena at one point, but, much like Muhammad Ali, whatever game he had has now passed him by and he’s left not thinking straight. Unwilling to accept his past or present reality, he’s chasing the dragon. In his mind he’s just one more drink or off-hand compliment away from being waist-deep in pure, unadulterated college puss.
Ladies, don’t give in. No matter how many drinks he buys you or how many dollars he throws at the DJ trying to get him to play Whitesnake. Rubbing his aged meat log in and out of your fun zone is like feeding a seagull—you don’t do it because they’re just going to keep coming back. Think, ladies, if he had money would he be in this bar? If he weren’t just a dirtbag straight trolling for moist holes right now would he be here, hitting on girls less than half his age? Consider it, and consider that going home with him could play out like a bleak look into your potential future, where every surface of your lover’s skin feels like a sweaty carpet and neither party takes their shirt off to have sex.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays and some Tuesdays usually. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
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