Sometimes, The Floor Isn't A Bad Place To Be

Over the weekend, I had an epiphany. Or maybe it was indigestion. Whatever it was, it’s all thanks to a weird event that happened on Friday.

I drove out to Buffalo. I’d spent way too much time this summer stuck in my routines and my rut. It was high time that I got out of dodge. You have to understand that I was at a point where it didn’t matter where I went, so long as it wasn’t HERE.

As far as scenic destinations go, let me just say this: there are more exotic locales than Buffalo. Yes, Upstate New York where the men are men and the sheep are fearful. It’s enough to make you say, “You know, maybe ethnic cleansing isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

But enough about the psychological trauma I endured in college. Today’s post is about the trauma I endured Friday night.

I arrived at the house of a girl I know. The story of her and I is one of many twists, turns, flirtations and partial nudity. All that is really relevant to Friday night is this:

Over the course of a couple years, we’d made out a few times, talked on the phone once in a while, and there was a mutual attraction. Essentially, we both knew that my appearance in Western New York was guaranteed ass for both of us.

So I arrived and we hung out with a bunch of our mutual friends. I played guitar for a while and then I made jokes and told funny stories. I expected it to be a chill, low-key night…with ass at the end. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan on alcohol and morals.

She was nervous. I understand that. I mean, after about two years this was finally going to happen between us. What if I’d built up unrealistic expectations? Or what if I lost respect for her and didn’t call? There was any one of a thousand reasons to be nervous. Of all the ways she could have dealt with it, she picked the worst one: she started drinking. Heavily.

Six beers and six shots later, she decided she wanted to go out to the bars. Lofty ambitions for a girl who couldn’t even make it out her chair. She was completely hammered. So I rescued her as best I could.

“I’m actually kind of beat from the drive up. Is it ok if I take a rain check on going out? I think I’d rather just call it a night.”

“OK.” She cooed. “Why don’t you come tuck me in?”

No good deed ever goes unpunished.

Now, my “brilliant” tactical move had the desired effect of not having to carry her out to a situation where she was going to have to drink more and be hospitalized. Unfortunately, it meant that her and I were about to have a confrontation. Because apparently, I have those pesky things called “morals.” Who knew?

Five minutes later, I carried her up to her room and I was attacked. She was warm, soft beautiful, and all over me. And then I ruined everything.

“I can’t do this.” I said, pushing her away. “Look, you know I want you…but not like this.”

“Come on” she said. In one deft motion she whipped my belt off. “You didn’t drive all the way up here just to play guitar for me. I want to play something else of yours.”

“No.” I said more firmly. I sat her on the bed. “I want you to drink some water and get some sleep. I’m going downstairs to grab some shut eye on the couch.”

Fine!” she snapped. “Go. Get the fuck out of my room.”

Three hours later, cold, stiff and sleepless on the floor of the living room (the couch had been commandeered before I arrived downstairs) I realized that this was the perfect example of my life with women. My reward for not taking advantage of a drunk girl: the floor and no respect.

I recently read a book about underground seduction artists. They have a whole series of ploys and tricks that manipulate women into sleeping with them. Basically, through practice, patience and heartlessness, you can learn to pick up hundreds of women. Some of these guys approach a thousand women a night.

So here’s my epiphany of the weekend: given the choice between being able to trick girls into wanting me or sleeping on the floor alone, I’m choosing the floor. Think about how depressing it must be to be able to trick women into sleeping with you. If these methods work, I imagine that eventually women would become completely dehumanized.

The things I like best about women:

• The feeling of power when they cuddle up to me after sex. And how I feel deserving of that trust.
• Girls who see my faults and think I’m cute anyway.
• The way even the most coldhearted women can suddenly seem so vulnerable.

I don’t think I’d enjoy girls so much if it involved treachery. So women, keep hope. I hereby crown myself an eternal clown. Another pick-up artist has officially been thwarted for good. If anyone’s interested, you know where to find me: asleep on the floor.