I’m in Austin raging my nuts off for Austin City Limits Music Festival. I don’t usually partake in events subjecting myself to be crammed in with a bunch of 18-year old kids getting high listening to bands like Rebelution, however this five-day trip is a well-paid excuse to go out every night on East Sixth Street, or as the locals refer to it, Dirty Sixth (I am here to tell you that name is every bit as fitting).
Entering Dirty Six, I look around with glee at the swaths of young, even collegiate level, inspired female faces ready to take on the world, or for the time being embrace Dirty Six and enjoy it’s rows of rooftop bars and welcoming gentlemen such as yours truly. One particular night, I lose my friends I am staying with and start heading back to the hotel (by lose I mean ditched them in pursuit of some other interests, failed, and was thereby reduced to return home as the bars close). I owe it to the Dirty Sixth to make a greater effort, so as I am walking back I approach a nice blonde girl, lured in by her wonderfully convex buttocks. I open with some generic yet non-threatening bullshit and she becomes mildly engaged. We start walking in a general direction together (coincidentally towards my hotel) and get to know one another on a deep, interpersonal level until she interrupts me to order a chili dog from a street vendor. The guy hands her the greasy-ass dripping chili dog, where she then looks at me with a face that says, “What, you thought I was going to pay for that?” I already hate this girl but I can’t crush my chances with her over a six dollar chili dog. I begrudgingly hand over my credit card so we can move on with MY life. We take two steps from the cart until she stops me again:
Her “Did you tip him?”
Her “How much?”
Her turning back to the chili dog man, “Did he tip you?”
Him calmly picking up my receipt and looking at it, “No.”
Her back to me, “Give him a tip.”
Me with as much contempt as I could possibly muster, “How much do I tip for a fucking hot dog?”
Her “Give him three bucks.”
I continue to quarrel with her but to no avail. A $8.50 chili dog later we resume ambling back towards my hotel. Promptly noticing my quiet frustration, she loudly retorts, “Oh I’m sorry. You thought you could buy a bitch a chili dog and then get laid. Sorry Honey, it’s not that easy with me.” As we are walking back, she rotates between making me hold her chili dog, her purse, and her phone to orient her belongings, but mostly to flex her high maintenance muscles. I actually despise her at this point, but with the end in sight I trust it can only get better. Wrong.
After a drink at the hotel bar, we finally arrive up to my floor where I kindly escort her to the the mini room that connects the hallway to the staircase (I didn’t want to take her to my room and impose upon the three other people I am sharing the room with – my best friend from college and two female friends.) I try to make a move on her but she quickly realizes that this is my ultimate destination for us:
Her “What is this? Let’s go to your room.”
Me “I told you we can’t go to my room, I don’t want to be rude to my friends.”
Her “So this is what you had in mind!?”
Her taking a moment to collect her emotions, “I feel so disrespected that you thought I would be okay with this.”
Me thinking to myself, “Well shit, the girl last night was cool with it, though in fairness that girl was a bit of a lower hanging fruit (in every possible way you could conceive that phrase to mean). How is ChiliDogGirl above the staircase bang; is this what they refer to as self-respect and dignity?”
She continues down this vein to the point of no return, so I walk back to my room and try to slide my key through the door before she can observe my swift retreat. Not swift enough, she comes out of the staircase room and starts to follow me, so I keep walking towards the elevator to bait her in away from my room. She stops at my door and announces, “Is this where you are staying?” I stand 10 feet away paralyzed as she proceeds to bang on my door. My buddy comes out and does his best to placate her, smiling at me as I hold my head down in despair. Despite his best efforts, she persists with her charged indignation. My girl friend pops out from the room to come rescue me and alleviate this shitstorm I have placed onto them by repeatedly proclaiming that I am a “good guy” and other such self-flattering falsities. Apparently hearing from the female perspective is enough for ChiliDogGirl.
Finally ChiliDogGirl abates and walks away. I rush into my room to end the torment, but my female friend who saved me turns to me:
Her “You can’t just leave her out there like that! Go apologize!.”
Me “You have no idea what I have been through (I had to buy her a chili dog, WITH tip!!). She is the devil, I am telling you.”
Her “I don’t care you have to go apologize.”
Defeated, I saunter back into the hall muttering out, “Devil come back to me.” I approach Devil as she’s waiting for the elevator:
Me unenthused, “I am supposed to apologize to you.”
Her “Fuck you.”
Me “That’s what I figured.”
I wait to make sure she safely steps into the elevator (I would never just leave her high and dry, what kind of monster do you think I am), and return to my room.
Life Lessons Learned
- Despite my interest in efficiency and simplification, it is in fact true that purchasing a woman some variation of a hot dog does not necessitate her having sexual intercourse with you.
- Not all women are comfortable hooking up in the same places. Some are morally bound to the confinement of the hotel room, whereas other more…freethinking…women are willing to accept the “adventure” as long as you inform them 20 minutes prior that you will be “going on an adventure” to rationalize your unconventional hookup venue.
- Read the signs, connect the dots, pull your head out of your ass, and any other metaphor bearing similar meaning to not being a complete idiot. If a girl expects you to buy and hold her food within 10 minutes of meeting her, it’s a safe bet that she won’t subscribe to the staircase bang session. She wants to be treated like a lady, and for reasons inexplicable, hooking up the first night upon meeting in a derelict room of a 4-star hotel apparently does not constitute courtship.