13 Steps To Becoming A Barslut, And What Happens Afterward

After I moved across the country from the town where I’d spent my college years, where I’d acquired a network of friends, in my new city I was understandably lonely and depressed. I found a bar down the street from my new apartment, a metal bar — as in a bar where metalheads hung out and Ozzy played either with Sabbath or not continually over the speakers. There I ate bacon cheeseburgers and drank no fewer than thirteen PBRs a night. I became what they call a regular and the other regulars and the bartenders pushed Jaeger and Strega shots my way. I bought grams of coke and keyed it in the bathroom stall. One night I got so drunk and high that when I passed out at home I slept for two days and woke at sundown, thinking only the day after that night had passed and I went right back to that bar and got messed up again and only learned about my missed day because my boss left messages on my cell phone and in my inbox railing me for my no-call no-show f-ckup. Oops.

I gained thirty pounds, pushing my way to 270. And worst of all: I got no pussy.

After an Xmas photo revealed to me the extent of my double chin I decided that this no pussy-getting depressed lifestyle really sucked. I cut out drinking except for one night a week. Every morning I ate a bowl of cornflakes with skim milk. At lunch: an apple and an orange. Dinner: baked boneless skinless chicken breast with fat-free baked or black beans. I still walked to the train to get to work and the sweat dripped off me and so too dripped the weight. I was a melting candle.

Every day, especially when coming home from work, I walked past the sports bar (a different bar than the metal bar down the street from my apartment, but I frequented this place, too) and I could feel the tug of the beer and chicken wings on my throat, but I pushed on.

I slept a lot.

On that single night when I allowed myself to drink, I also allotted whatever food I wanted. But my stomach had shrunk. I’d order a pizza and pop a Netflix movie into my computer and after a slice I sat there feeling like I’d eaten another human while Val Kilmer went to Mars. I would have also picked up a six pack of Sam Adams, and I’d nurse a solitary beer until midnight.

Then, after midnight, like some lame Clapton song, I went to the bar: that metalhead bar that on weekends filled with more than metalheads, and there I trolled for strange.

I had a system worked out:

1: Arrive at bar sober and after midnight (as described above).

2: Stand — do not sit — at bar and nurse PBR.

3: Wait for drunk girls to come to bar to pay their tabs.

4: Attempt casual conversation w/out caring if they reciprocate.

5: When they do: bonus.

6: Keep cocaine use to minimum (see, “effects of cocaine” below).

7: Ask the girls who start a conversation lots of questions. Act (and sometimes genuinely feel) very interested in them.

8: When, after ~20 mins of chitchat, girl puts bar receipt into purse and says, “It was nice talking to you, but I should get going,” look surprised at bartenders shoving glasses into dishwasher as they ready to close and agree that you also must be getting home.

9: Just before girl walks away, say, “Hey, would you mind if I got a ride home? I literally live right up the street.” This, of course, turns out to be true and does not seem at all predatory or unreasonable.

10: If girl says sorry but no, smile, say, “No problem, it was good talking to you.” If girl shrugs, says sure, bonus, but not there yet.

11: In girl’s car, instruct her up the street half block to outside of apartment building where, conveniently, there’s no shoulder or parking space to pull into. Instruct girl to drive around block to your off-street parking. This, you remind her, is for her own safety.

12: Upon drop-off offer: “I’ve got a couple drinks in the house, if you’d like one.”

13: If girl says no thanks, see 10 above. If girl says yes: cha-ching. Done.
By this method of restrictive diet plus calculated luring of women into one-night stands, in a period of six months I destroyed my depression, boosted my self-confidence, and bedded no fewer than thirty different women.

I wanted to be a slut. I rarely had sex with the same girl more than once. Sometimes I’d run into former hookups at the same or another bar. Only once did a former hookup give me that you motherf-cker look and approached while I was picking up yet another woman to say, “So, who’s this?” (introducing herself to the new girl), and after a few awkward moments of the former hookup trying to make it obvious to the new girl that I had banged her and never called her afterward (and she made this perfectly obvious by saying, “You never called me. What the hell?”) she walked away, and the new girl didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, I think that might have made me even more desirable, because some girls are into guys who are dicks.

Effects of cocaine: This was another reason why I sometimes didn’t sleep with the same girl more than once. Cocaine did not help my dick to work at all. I’ve had friends who said that when they got hard and they were all geetered out their boner never went away and they weren’t going to sleep, so it was just screw all night long. Not me. So I learned to curb the coke if I wanted the pussy.

Sometimes, I didn’t care if the girl had an orgasm or even had a good time at all. It was me time. This also contributed to the slew of random chicks.

So what happened? What happens when you’re a barslut? It eventually gets really, really old. Usually, the sex is pretty mechanical. While I could be a dick who didn’t care whether or not a girl came, I wasn’t a total jerk, and I treated these women kindly and respectfully. I was a tender lover. I didn’t smack their asses or come on their faces. For one thing, in a hookup I was actually somewhat vulnerable. I didn’t want to reveal too much of myself for fear of turning a chick off or scaring her, so I played things fairly safe. And most people who have been in relationships know that the sex only gets better when you get to know someone.

I experimented: what would happen if I tried really hard to make every girl I took home come, and come hard? I had girls blowing up my cell and showing up unannounced at my apartment. One girl actually followed me in her car for thirty miles when I drove to a friend’s place who lived north of the city. When we stopped, in front of this friend’s driveway, she said, “I just really wanted to see you.” What do you do about that?

But what really happened is that I met a girl I liked. I was in the midst of this orgasm experiment, and when she came, I knew I wanted to make her come again, because she was sweet, and she believed in democracy because she was going to become a lawyer, and I liked the way her brown hair curled around her little ears. And we kept at it and I still like her hair even now that we’re married, and I don’t do coke anymore.