“The night will not end this way. I will not allow it.”

A Sweet Young Douchebag at the bar had just asked her if she was a lesbian. Prior to inquiring about her sexual preferences, he complimented her breasts.

One can understand how that combination of comments could put one in a foul mood.

Then the Douchebag said to her, “It looks like my friend (Sweet Young Soccer Player) and your friend (Sweet Young Mela) like each other, and they’re going to be talking all night. You’re going to be really bored.”

You can see how we decided it was time to leave, and how one would not want the night to end on such a note.

Fortunately, that’s when the Hollywood Producer showed up. He was warning us to clear the way, as he was so drunk he thought he was going to fall over the railing outside the bar.

We found that to be quite charming.

“Wait,” she said. “What cologne are you wearing? I’ve made out with that cologne before. Can I smell you?”

Things progressed nicely from there. We both smelled his neck and debated the scent. I for one had never made out with that scent. She decided to make out with the scent again, in order to determine if she had,  in fact,  made out with said scent before. It was a very important bit of recon.

Plus, my Sweet Young Soccer Player spotted that we hadn’t actually left yet, and he came over and made out with my scent, which I found to be interesting, as I wasn’t wearing a scent. But he didn’t seem to mind.

I asked said Sweet Young Soccer Player why his douche of a wingman said such bullshit things to my wingman, he answered, “I don’t know. Maybe he thought she was a lesbian ’cause she works for a women’s organization.”

He was really sincere when he said it. Bless his darling little heart. It was just so precious.

Not really.

But his blonde-haired, blue-eyed, soccer-player-for-Mississippi-State, Southern-accent-that-caused-him-to-say-the-Fourth-of-JOO-lah-little self made it quite precious. And his hands in my back pockets. That also helped. And his upper body, which was oddly very well-developed for a soccer player (red flag, we discovered later). And that when he put his hands on my waist it made me feel really skinny, because they were big hands. All those things helped the preciousness.

Let’s be honest, that last one helped the most.

When we left (which we had to do because Scent-Man claimed he produced the Oscars, in addition to revealing his criminal record), his attempts to have text-sex with me until 5 a.m. were less precious. I don’t put out on the first text and I don’t have unlimited messaging, so not only were my morals being compromised, but he was running up quite a phone bill for me.

It was even less less less precious when he picked up where he left off at 1:30 p.m. the next day when he woke up. Seriously. At 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I’m not going to be giving any text blow-jobs or anything.

These are the things we will put up with from a soccer player.

Except that according to Google, MISSISSIPPI STATE DOES NOT AND NEVER DID HAVE A MEN’S SOCCER TEAM.

I said, MISSISSIPPI STATE DOES NOT AND NEVER DID HAVE A MEN’S SOCCER TEAM.

Is this the new M.O. at bars? Because if that’s the case, my wingman has pointed out that we could have some kick-ass dating personaes. Like we could be FBI agents who chase aliens and explore paranormal activity. Or nurses from Seattle Grace Hospital in town for a conference. And at the end of the night, we could drive ourselves into the Grand Canyon.

But only if it means we can make-out with soccer players and Hollywood producers. Because I’m not driving myself into the Grand Canyone for anything less than that.