Hunting Urban Prey

Part the First: Introduction

There is a dumb book on the market about how affairs are OK, and one should be allowed to pursue their own happiness.  I think there should be a good old fashioned book burning and ban, but whatever.  The fallout is that I’m single.  At 39. I think this is what Robert Frost would refer to as “the road less travelled.”  In an effort to move on, be strong and otherwise pretend I’m not so pissed off about being single, I went out.  The goals on these adventures are confusing.  

The overarching goal is to hunt and capture an equally single male.  The camouflage isn’t the traditional leaves and ugly green. It is a lot of skin showing and mostly black plumage.  Face paint is referred to as “make up” an it is applied with a heavy hand.  Scent is equally important, thus we douse ourselves in eau of whatever to boost pheromones in the unlikely event one of those elusive males give us a second glance.  Weapons for the hunt are shoes.  Most of us show up in some sort of spiky heel with a platform to give our height a boost.  Since this isn’t a solitary hunt, the height is required to compete with the other huntresses who are naturally tall.  In the event of emergency, the spikes could double as a real weapon.  Any intelligent hunter will give the cammo and weapons a test run.  My test run was over to the neighbors under the guise of “outfit check.”  I did so well, my awesome neighbor gave me a beer.  

The beer is the key to the other goal.  As a friend said: “You’re getting fucked up, bitch!”  For some reason, this lingo isn’t offensive but hilarious--even hours before the first libation.  Now we have two goals:  bagging a male and chemically altering our reality so that our inhibitions and decision making skills are lowered almost to the point of illness.  I find this highly confusing but still participated.

Part the Second: Hunting Urban Prey

Our chosen hunting ground is a “country” bar. This must be said in quotes because it is as country as New York City.  A few mounted heads, print of the famous John Brown painting where he is brandishing a Bible and rifle, and an American flag doesn’t make a real country bar.  But whatever, I’m with a group and there are rules about this.

When we arrive, I’m two beers in and winning in the race to get “fucked up.”  First stop is the bar so that the others have an opportunity to catch up.  Another beer for me and some standing around while one of the group texts a different group that we’re going to meet up with.  This is all a part of the pre arranged plan, and the other group isn’t competition since they all have diamonds advertising that they bagged a male at some point in the past and left him at home for the evening.  This is excellent, as the percentage of huntresses in the vicinity just went down.  

Two beers in means that I have to go to the bathroom.  Already, and we just got there.  I head off.  I find the women’s room in this place fascinating.  First, all the toilets are automatic flushers, so that our drunk asses won’t forget, miss the handle all together, or injure our drunk selves while trying stand on one spiked heel and flush with the other one.  Totally genius.  There are also posters on the backs of the stall doors.  The hottest males in the whole place adorn the posters hanging in the bathroom walls.  I text my neighbor with this revelation.  After making sure the automatic flusher works, the sink is totally awesome.  This is a huntresses’ temporary lair to repair the face paint and fluff hair.  It seems like every woman stands in front of the mirror to make sure her hair is a rat's nest like one has actually been riding in the back of the pickup on a country road. Never mind the nearest gravel road is 25 miles away and there isn’t a real truck in the whole parking lot.  Again, totally confusing but I participate in hair fluffing to blend in with the surroundings.

I locate my group back.  For some reason, we hunt in groups.  There are more rules to follow that are unwritten and equally confusing.  First, you stay with your group.  Second, you don’t go pee without letting your group know that you’re leaving.  If you lose a member of the group, the evening halts until she is located and everyone is assured of her safety.  The groups are kind of like wolf packs.  There are Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.  The Alphas of my group and the group that we met up with are still trying to align themselves and work out how the evening is going to go.  By now I’m two and a quarter beers in and kind of bored.  The music is modern country and I’m not familiar with the songs. This isn’t my scene, but I’m here and draw on my yoga lessons to “be in the moment.”  This calls for a drunk text!  

Several months ago, a friend texted her colonoscopy results to her whole contact list.  This text went across the nation and possibly to the CIA stating the results were clear and she never has to have another one.  Nearly midnight in a bar is a perfect time to text her.  Nothing better than a sweet drunken revenge text that includes a lot of beer icons.  Message away!  I don’t hear back from her, nor have I heard from her at the time of this writing.  Oh well.  We have hunting to do.

By now, I’m two and a half beers in and hit a philosophical phase.  Apparently, we’re not “fucked up” enough to hunt.  Back to the bar and shots.  This may be one of those rituals to bond our group and the group with met up with together which means a prime opportunity to observe the Alphas in action.  But really, I have to go because of the don’t leave your group rule.  I’m standing at the bar observing my surroundings and trying to locate a quarry. No luck in the quarry department, but a glass is shoved into my free hand.  It is dark and reddish and smells like NyQuil.  Then, I’m part of the group and there is a photo op.  Crap.  I tip my glass up and take a sip.  It tastes like NyQuil as well.  The gag reflex kicks in, the photo op is over.  Then I’m instructed to drink it.  I try again.  Nope.  No way am I drinking more than half a tablespoon of NyQuil.  Then I’m informed of another rule:  If someone buys you a shot, then you’re obligated to drink it.  Crap.  Another rule that I didn’t know about.  I broke that rule.  It was for the safety of those around me.  Shooting that much NyQuil would have caused an instant “Eject! Eject! Eject!” message in my stomach, and the body would have instantly purged itself of everything in the fastest way possible.  And no one wants that to happen while hunting.  I passed the remainder to another group member on the sly so that it looks like I did drink.  Problem solved

After the whole NyQuil fiasco, I was up to two and three quarters of beer to get the NyQuil taste out of my mouth.  Things get a little hazy here.  The bass is thumping on songs that were never meant to have that much bass, there’s a lot of standing around and lost observations since inhibitions and decision making skills are now crap.  One of the group managed to attract male attention for a while.  He was somehow known to the group.

By now I’m three and a quarter beers in along with some NyQuil.  Things are really hazy.  There are frequent trips to the bathroom with lots of hair fluffing, not much hunting, and some dancing.  Dancing mostly consists of running out to the dance floor when a non-country comes over the speakers.  It is here that I put my yoga practice to use that it isn’t meant for.  I can twerk.  Yep, two years worth of cursing the pigeon pose, throwing my ass up in the air for downward dog, and working out means that I can look equally dorky while going lower.  In heels.  I still don’t have any rhythm or form, but I have much much more muscle tone than I did in high school.  

Last call finally came.  It is a bit hazy, as the forth and final beer of the night nearly did me in.  I quit drinking way before then, but  things don’t metabolize the way they used to.  The women eventually quit fluffing their hair in the bathroom.  Faces started glistening from the sweat of dancing or the alcohol or the combination of both.  The plumage didn’t look so fine and our sober driver was leaving. The other group headed out at some point before us.  The lone male that one of us managed to snag for a short while was seen on the dance floor with some other chick.  We made our way as a group to the car and headed to the nearest McDonald’s for some much needed salt and grease.

Part the Third:  Conclusions

While it was all fun and games for a short while, the truth is, I won’t be going back.  The amount of prep time vs the number of eligible males vs the number of other women on the hunt looks something like 1-1-infinity. I would have a better shot at attracting a transvestite at Hamburger Mary’s than I did scoring in a “country” bar.  The odds weren’t in my favor.  “Country” really isn’t my thing.  Sure, the music was OK, but the only two songs that I knew were “Baby Got Back” and “Friends in Low Places.”  Both of those songs are over 20 years old and were playing when I was in high school.  Thus:  I’m too old for this shit.


These events took place last spring sometime. I forgot to date the post.