“No” Doesn’t Mean Anything on a Friday Night


So Chelsea, Emily and I go out for a few drinks Friday night, celebrating something, who really cares. After margaritas at a Columbian restaurant, we head to a bar we like. But there’s a cover for some crappy live music, and everyone in there looks like they have fathered many children, so we move on.

Next on our list is the Half-Penny Pub in Sayville, which has a cool setup and a lively atmosphere. The bartender is busy, but fun, attentive and good for a suggestion. We’re having a good time just the three of us, observing, drinking, chatting at the bar.



Enter Vinny and Frank. Vinny is an older dude. Frank is a younger, much drunker dude. The matchups have been decided – Vinny vs. Emily. Frank vs. Chelsea. Kim vs. The World.

To get right to the good part, Vinny buys Em a shot despite her saying, “I’m okay, got a full beer right in front of me.” (I decline the shot, I’m driving.) After the shot and some chatting, Vinny thinks he’s being slick when he leans behind Emily and begins his play with, “So, hypothetical situation-”

“A guy at a bar thinks this girl is cute, buys her a drink, and wants to get her number, but really wants her friends’ approval first.”

I made him repeat himself, because doesn’t that always piss you off? When you think you’re being cool and someone doesn’t understand you? “Wait, what?” So he repeats himself. And during his second run through Emily starts grabbing my knee, so the end game here is clear. This is my favorite part – where I get to be a bitch and there will be no repercussions. If I do a good job at being a bitch, I even get thanked for it. What could be better?

“I think if I guy isn’t creative enough to get a number on his own, that’s pretty telling.”

Good job, bro.

Good job, bro.

BAYUM. Suck it. Love Kim.

“This? This isn’t creative enough?!” Vinny is appalled, and wants confirmation that he is, in fact, a master pickup artist. “What do you think?” he asks Emily.

“Uhhhh, I’m going to the bathroom.” She bailed.

While she’s gone, Vinny instigates conversation with me – establishing my mama bear status. I inform him that I am an unbiased observer. I’m not giving Em my “approval” or opinion because she doesn’t need it. I will not encourage or discourage her to give you her number. I will however inform you that you need to be better at reading vibes and reactions.

“What?!” he asks, total perplexed.

“Her negative reactions, you’re not getting it at all.”

“What do you mean, negative reactions? What did I do?”

“When you asked for her number–“

“I never asked for her number!” Oh, fuck that.

“Dude stop, you did, it was not subtle. [insert herp derp voice] If I wanted to get a cute girls number but I want her friends approval. You did, you tried, it’s fine.”

He gives me an, “Ahhhhh, nahhhhh.”

“But what did she do?”

“What?” Ah, he would like me to repeat myself. Prick.

“When you asked for her number, what did she then do?”

He smiles while squinting his eyes, a little confused.

“She went to the bathroom?”

“Yea, dude. She went to the bathroom.”

Nothing registers with him. He starts asking why I think he shouldn’t hit on a pretty girl, to which I respond that he CAN hit on pretty girls, if he wants. There’s nothing wrong with that. But that he needs to both learn to read reactions AND respect them when he gets a negative response. He can walk up to a girl at a bar and tell her he thinks she’s pretty, but only if he accepts that she has every right to answer with, “I’m not interested in you.”

Meanwhile, Frank is behind me getting closer and closer to Chelsea. I don’t know if he doesn’t have a good concept of personal space when he’s sober, or if he thinks leaning on her will get her to suddenly jump his bones, but that’s what he was doing. Just, standing against her. She couldn’t move backwards, there were other people next to us, and I’m sure didn’t want to roam away from me and Em. Chelsea’s recounting of the tale goes something like,

Frank: “Do you wanna go outside?”

Chelsea: “Outside? No I wanna stay right here.”

Frank: “But like, just for a minute.’

Chelsea: “No, I’m going to stay here, in the bar, with my friends.”

Frank: “But like you should give me your number.”

Chelsea: “My number? No.”

And so on. So when Emily comes back from the bathroom, Chelsea stats kneading my back with her knuckles. Vinny is starting to chat with Emily, and I take a quick moment to turn around and literally yell, “FRANK YOU’RE JUST VERY CLOSE. WHY.” It takes him a few seconds to register the sounds coming out of my mouth as words, but his eyes open a little and he takes half a step back. Then stumbles a full step forward, once again connected to the entire left side of Chelsea’s body.

Since Emily is grabbing my knee, and Chelsea is knuckling my back and they both hurt and I have again told Frank he is too close and he’s not responding to me, I’m done. I chug my beer, I command Emily to finish hers (sorry hun) while I distribute our coats from the back of my chair. I am unresponsive to Vinny’s observant, “Ah, ya leaving?!” because Frank is now demanding Chelsea’s number. Without so much as a word to either man, I stand up, grab my wallet off the bar, and walk outside. With the first burst cold air on our faces, mine and Emily’s outrage and simultaneous laughter are cut short, because we don’t hear Chelsea. I STORM back into the bar. Chelsea is blocked from the way to the door by Frank’s hulking figure and, she told us later, that he didn’t want to let her go without getting her number. So I grab her hand and pull her past him and out the door.


Some people would go home right about now. But we’re not really tired, and we want to recap in full detail what just happened. So NO, the night doesn’t end here. Hang in there, readers.

We head to a pub right by Emily’s house and find a few other small groups of people there. We take some empty spots at the bar and gossip like some old hens. Already it was a big joke, but the whole situation is still bugging me.

When we decide we’ve had a good time, and want to grab a bite at the diner to sober Chelsea up a little, so I attempt to pay the tab. Which means distracting the bartendress from her less-than-engrossing conversation with group of less-than-strapping gentlemen taking over the corner of the bartop. The boys take this opportunity to interact with us, because doing it on their own was too difficult. They can’t believe we’re leaving after only one beer! (Wrong.) Despite incessant negative responses from me, we keep getting told it’s lame that we’re leaving, that we absolutely have to stay.

Let me tell you that I am going to drink as many or as few beers as I want and your opinions on the matter mean jack shit. So stick your nose back in your Miller 64 and your gaze back on the bartender’s rack, while I down the rest of my Guinness and leave me the fuck alone.

And as we left, their mature commentary ended with “The No must be driving.” Okay, so yea I was the driver, but oh MAN, just go fuck yourself! Maybe I don’t want to hang with some lame fucktards at the bar who, even when you put your four meatheads together, couldn’t get the person serving you to even feign interest.

I am unable to even. I have to admit, that overall I had a good time Friday, because I was with some of my favorite girls and we all made it home without a scratch. We even got to see our favorite waiter at the diner, S, so it was a nice end to the night.

But you have to understand my outrage! How many times must a girl say no before her wishes are respected? Apparently more times than any of us said it that night.

Here’s the deal – If a dude’s goal is Get girl’s number, and the girl’s goal is, Not give guy number, when a guy is told NO, and keeps pushing the matter, that is him saying, my goal, my wants, my desires, matter more than yours. What you are attempting to gain from this conversation (which is dude leaving her alone) is secondary to what I want to gain (which is her number.)

I could go on and on about my thoughts on this whole night, but because my wee fingers are already tiring from just recapping, I will leave you with a simple summation of my feels for the men we met Friday night –


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