Taking it to the Lionesses’ Den

This post had been removed after it caused a falling out with a friend. Here it is reposted, unformatted:

Last night was a late-night game. I got out of the pool around 7:30 pm and began to head home. Before I got on the T at Park, I made a few calls to see if anyone would like to join me for a drink. I needed to reward myself for completing two articles for the corporate newsletter that I edit. Game on. I called my friend J. She’s great. An ENTP (or J … I forget. I have a man-crush on Carl Jung…) and feisty. She can drink me under the table and still look good, wth? (I learned the secret to this metabolic miracle during the course of the evening: women, as I suspected, just don’t eat on nights that they go out drinking). J was already 2 bottles of champaign in at Ivy, a cool bar-bistro on Temple Place. In her defense, it was a champaign tasting night. The tasting was in the bar’s basement, and as I descended the stairs, all I could see were pairs upon pairs of stylish high heels. “This could hurt,” I thought; “Best just to have fun.” I began envisioning this as my opportunity to explain my philosophy on love: “‘If you blow chunks and she comes back, she's yours. But if you spew and she bolts, then it was never meant to be.’ Discuss.” I got there just in time to steal a glass from bottle number three, that our waiter (who J’s friends had generously nick-named “Dipples”) brought around. I dragged up a seat and squeezed in between J’s table of friends—D (somewhat engaged but with a raging appetite for ginger-love that I’d soon discover…), K (married, lucky guy), and K2 (seriously single, sexy, and self-assured)—and a table of two friendly older women out on the town. Following the drinks and hors d’oeuvres and Dipples, I was in clearly the main attraction, and I had to make an ironic effort to play it cool. So far so good. I got an update from J and then was corralled into conversation with the ladies to my right. Having just exited a relationship with a 43 year old (sure to be one of the loves of my life, sincerely), I was decidedly not going to try for a throw in the hay, and I tried to extricate myself. Thankfully, my cute companions came to my rescue. K, to my left, quickly informed me that she is married. No problem. Her southern charm was endearing, and we struck up a conversation about the importance of matching snowboard pants, boots, and jackets. One won-over, two-to-go. D., diagonally across from me, next to J., was a harder nut to crack. In fact, I’m not sure I did. She was all sass. The champaign was getting the better of her, and her first words to me were “Can I call you ginge?” (I cringed. Anything but that. Fire-crotch would have been an improvement.) “Sure” I said. That set the tone. J knew about my blog, and I was pressed to describe Game: On Boston to my new acquaintances. It went over well. I was very careful to lay out the ground rules: no vulgarity / cruelty / crudity, once-a-day impromptu talk to an attractive woman who you’d otherwise pass by, game-over if something comes of these conversations and things get serious. D. gave me mild grief, but generally didn’t put me into a bind. I’d neutralized her, and this was the best outcome I could hope for. We continued to drink, moving to the upstairs bar. I began to consider trying to cap the night with K2’s phone number. I’d have to wait and see how things progressed. Upstairs, another ginger and his friend were having a beer next to us at the bar. D. was in full man-eater mode, and repeatedly approached the guy to squeeze his muscles—returning to tell us that they felt like spaghetti-O’s al-dente (yes, you read that correctly … it’s meant as a compliment). D. threw up a few temporary hurdles, refusing to tell me what she did, except to insist that she “sold drugs and stripped.” The best way to deal with this sort of sass is to day nothing. It’s like avoiding getting mauled by a bear; you must play dead (or dumb: I asked her what she did a solid 5 times, knowing I’d get the same response every time). Hours after I’d arrived, D and K had stumbled home, and J, K2, and I were left talking at the bar. K2 and J are proudly independent, and we discussed their views on marriage (“not for us”) and boyfriend/girlfriend “titles” (to be avoided). K2 does have a guy, but she insisted she is single, and I liked that; what little I learned about her current guy lead me to think that I might have a chance of securing a great date with her (I’m repeating myself). J was the next to fall, and K2 thankfully didn’t need to have a friend as a crutch and stayed to talk about the economy and other exciting (seriously thought) big-picture items. As we were preparing to take off, she mentioned her college reunion approaching and suggested she might like the company. I said great and offered to see what else is happening in the area then. We exchanged numbers, and if she doesn’t regret it, I’ll call her to organize something. The lionesses’ den is the way to go. Thanks ladies ,).