There are few things worse than a woman’s token tagalong. Don’t get me wrong, taking a friend out is in no way offensive in and of itself. However, when her friend has the emotional fortitude of Eeyore and derives her personality solely from the bad hand she’s been dealt in life, it’s time to find a hot coworker to take along instead.
“Letting loose” is a phrase these tagalongs heard maybe once in passing during high school, having overheard the running back peer-pressure the head cheerleader into performing her titular role. In fact it’s a phrase they not only haven’t lived but refuse to let themselves live. In a vacuum this person would have no impact on anyone outside of their immediate family, but rest assured they’ll pull every string on the marionette to guarantee whoever they’ve glommed onto doesn’t have the chance to live the life they’ve never even considered living.
True, you can engage them both in conversation. You can ask both of them questions you really only intend on being answered by one. Done right, this does a lot to impress the person you’re interested in. Come the end of the night though, her harpy tagalong is going to talk her friend into leaving just the two of them due to the her raging penchant for girl dates. When in the company of a woman and her tagalong, separation is key.
Wingmanning is a true art, one of the finest objective arts left in this world of monocolor paintings and shit-stained canvases. When women aren’t out making a mockery of public decency, they’re inside galleries hocking their craft as the pinnacle of enlightenment. And they ain’t foolin’ me. Enlightenment art was a strict exploration of man’s ability to fuck with nature. When I say “man’s”, I actually mean “men’s”. I don’t believe I’m wrong in saying that women were not the forefathers of leeching and bloodletting or of operating theaters and astronomical observatories.
True art arises from festering undiscovered talent and is wielded almost exclusively, at least initially, by the modest. Wingmen embody this fully. They understand by nature that separation breeds success. This is not an innate assumption held among a social species and is reserved only for those truly selfless in their actions. A wingman is a hype-man by definition, sure, but so much more.
When a man’s interest has a parasite cling-on, a wingman knows that mere distraction is insufficient. They understand that their sacred duty is to pacify. I’ve seen men shoot well above their weight, rather well below, by sheer allowance of a kind bystander pacifying the attention of a tagalong. This kindness is typically a thankless endeavor among strangers.
This kindness is one I myself have tried and failed to perform on many such occasions, one I’ll openly relay here.
After a long day of shaking off the remnants of the night before, I found myself at a bar designed from antiquity in a recently gentrified part of Dallas. Two Lone Star Bois and I were staring down the barrel of numerous rounds: primarily Maker’s and diet.
After much banter and cheer, a pair walked in and sat nearby. A short Jewy girl and her friend, an uptight woman visually older than the first and blonde in everything but carefree spirit. One of my boys had immediately hit it off with the dark haired girl. It was then I made my first mistake. Instead of hyping my man up, as I’m wont to do, I drunkenly decided to try my hand as a proper wingman.
The two women sat between us, the blonde closest me.
“Hey, what you drinkin’?” Small talk. For what it lacked in chutzpah, it seemed to me a sure bet.
“I hate your glasses,” she retorted in a revealing non sequitur. I recoiled.
“That’s fine but what are you drinking? You’re at a bar, you’ve gotta be here to have fun, right?” In my assuredness, I’d never been more wrong. I can’t remember the exact details of our exchange but I’m sure she responded with all the cold and bitter resolve of a traditional Irish banshee.
Genuinely taken aback by her unwillingness to let go, I took a swig of my Maker’s and diet and offered her some. Fresh off my lips, tainted only by whiskey breath, she declined.
“If I drink, it’s gonna come straight from the bartender and it won’t leave my sight. You could slip something in there.”
Fuck. Was she being coy? I chugged down the rest of my glass and brewed on the escalation that had just taken place. Our brief conversation had crested and any notion of successfully serving as a wingman took a dive off the precipice of an already tenuous conversation. Free of my bounds, I plummeted with as much tact and grace as a man could. She was a lame ass and I wanted to put that fact on display.
“I mean I wouldn’t and I didn’t, but I hear you. Have you ever actually been roofied?” To me, this as a decent chance to bring attention to her outstanding ability to be a massive buzzkill at all times. Statistically, this should have worked.
After a moment’s pause, she responded indignantly “yes, actually, I have.”
Without missing a beat, having chose to dispose of all etiquette, I asked sharply, “oh yeah? How was it?”
To that, a look of disgust and a conversation buried deep into a place of no return. Not only was she a lame ass, she was a definition tagalong. She was not there to have fun with anyone but her friend, a friend who was happily engaging my boy in the meanwhile.
Pleased with myself but ego deflated, I resolved to continue drinking.
Personal responsibility and safety aside, my inability to wingman and pacify a stranger aside, this was probably the worst trainwreck of a conversation I’d ever had. And it got me thinking… Who the hell turns down free drugs?
If I had drugs on me at the time and I wanted to share, I wouldn’t bother drugging some lame ass. I’d be sharing those drugs with someone who appreciated them because getting off is easy but getting off and both parties forgetting everything because you were so fucked up is special. The prey mindset this blonde had is a mystery to me just as much as the sexual predator’s. Equally on both sides with no deviation, a waste of a good time.
Besides, drugs are expensive. What am I, made of money? I bet they cost Cosby a pretty penny, he couldn’t even afford a decent lawyer by the end of it. If I spend money on something, you best be sure I’m partaking in it too.
Unfortunately I never did get an answer about the roofies. If you’ve ever been roofied please let me know, how are they?