‘Twas another date night with my bourbon rocks as I was wedged between two groups of girls-night partiers with their cute sashes and crowns. They giggled and teased the bartender. I watched the Padres get another thumping.

One princess was dismayed because her nipples were a bit too playful. She asked the bartender if he had any tape. He complied. I side-eyed a glimpse to see if she was actually going to lift her top and tape down her Jujubes. Nope. She grabbed a pair of beer coasters and taped them to the outside of her top. Creative, but perhaps defeating the purpose of not attracting attention to her mammarial doorbells.

I exhale and coax another chilled ounce from my sweaty glass.

Girls definitely talk a lot more about guys than guys do about girls. It’s practically obsessive. If I had a sip every time I heard the names Connor and Justin, I would have been … well … all right, I was drunk regardless.

Little Miss Nipples figuratively wed herself to the bartender. Then, the party to my left ordered fancy shots. The jealous ire of bar-wife arose. She complained to the bartender that he was giving the coven far too much attention. She was breaking up with him.

(Strike three. Jesus fucking Christ, what are you swinging at, son? We’re down five runs late in the game. We need baserunners.)

I was paying enough attention to keep my testosterone from drying up.

She called the bartender over and said, “You know what, bar-hubby, I’m divorcing you.”

Then, she pointed (with her finger and, yes, her nipples) toward mois and continued.

“I going to go home with this guy instead. At least I won’t have to train him.”

Well, goodie for me.

“Yeah, I know it’s not in your bellybutton.”


“You won’t need to train me on how to find your love button. That’s what you meant, right?”

“Ha ha ha. El-Oh-El. Yes, exactly.”

“I see you also come with two fine places to rest my beers whilst we mate. That’s thoughtful of you. You may be a keeper.”

This is where the confident, strong young woman becomes creeped out by her weird Uncle Phil. Look, I realize I have no shot at paving her walk of shame. Why not enjoy a little Tom Foolery and chicanery, right? When a love button is hidden why not press emotional buttons? It’s how I do, yo.

Needless to report, I was ignored the rest of the evening. That was fine by me and my golden glass of faithful companionship.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.