Memoirs of a Wingman

It was about 10:30 in the evening, about 7 years ago. The night was misty, and there was a little chill in the air. We had just entered a club called the Mayan, back when it was actually good, back when DMK sponsored it. This club became a tradition, only emerging every 3 months. It had a hypnotic call to that era's 20 somethings. Even individuals who never usually graced the dancefloor amazingly took time away from their books or re-arranged their work schedules to partake in this tri-monthly ritual.

The energy inside was tremendous, everyone was hyped and the dancefloor was filled with bodies undulating to the sounds of old school hiphop. It was early so everyone was in a positive state, not yet tarnished by the scent of sweat and the effects of alcohol.

As usual, I was accompanied by my usual partner in crime, my college best friend. During this time, I happened to be in the midst of a tremendous clubbing streak. Unfortunately, my comrade in arms was not experiencing the same bout of luck I had been experiencing. We usually entered a club with both guns blazing, yet lately his luck hadn't panned out. This was unusual, because during these situations, he usually had more to offer the opposite sex. We had both just graduated from college, yet he already had a well-established job and a means of transportation. Lately though, he had resorted to living vicariously through my eyes.

I knew that this run of bad luck could not continue. Eventually, he would've been so discouraged that all desire to go clubbing would have been replaced by bitterness and the desire to be a hermit, forcing me to find another counterpart. That notion proved appalling to me after everything I've invested into this guy; the training, the syncronicity all for naught. We had the codes and signals down pat! I was the tracker and he was the blocker. It was perfect system, a system now in jeopardy. This night was when I was going to make a stand. I was going to control our intertwined destinies and end his proverbial losing streak. I was going to hook this guy up at all costs!

We began our usual circling pattern, not unlike lions circling a herd of gazelles, swaying back in forth in the savannahs of Africa. Our savannah was the dancefloor, and tonight I felt like we were going to make a kill. There was definitely no shortage of gorgeous women and the women knew it. This increased our odds exponentially because they knew that they weren't the only game in town. What a great night to be a heterosexual male! Typically, it was my role to approach a potential group or pair in efforts to ascertain interest. It was a simple process really. I made an approach, secured a dance, then brought in the cavalry. My partner was the cavalry. My job, no doubt, was the harder of the two, thus justifying my rightful claim of "first choice." Tonight though was different. He was unknowingly getting the rights in a collective effort to continue the legacy. The slump was going to end that night. I was going to make certain of it!

As we scanned the horizon, I made cryptic gestures in the effort to identify who he wanted. Success! From across the dancefloor, he identified one characterized to be "his type." She happened to be with a friend, so the situation met all criteria of a kill. In the midst of all the activity, blinding lights, smoke and pounding bass, I neglected to make visual confirmation of "his type's" associate. Only until we were within inches of the pair did I realize my folly.

His counterpart was an amazing sight to behold! She was beautiful, slender and had the smile that glowed. I had unknowingly agreed to dance with the pair without securing visual confirmation of my target. My female counterpart outweighed me by 60 pounds and had a suspicious attitude, and yes, she had been drinking. Apparently, she was under the notion that I was planning to "take advantage" of her...and she was all for it. Imagery of Homer Simpson came into mind as he loudly screamed a phrase he was known for, "doh!" The smell of nachos emanating from the general vicinity of her mouth did not help the situation. As i examined where the smell was coming from, I noticed a faint sight of what seemed to be fuzz growing from her upper lip area. Yes, a mustache.

This was my wingman's night, not mine. I had to constantly remind myself of the objective as my dance partner rested her hands in a cupped position, wrapped around each of my buttcheeks as she "freaked" me. What a great night for me to be the designated driver. If there was a night for me to drink, this was it. I hoped that her physical shortcomings would eventually result in her inability to continue dancing, yet she managed to dry hump me for what seemed to be hours. This guy owed me BIG TIME!

After about an hour, his lady was the first to tire. I would've lost that bet, and my dance partner seemed like she could go on forever. But alas! her friend needed her accompaniment to the restroom. Yes! As we headed toward the bar, i asked him of the likelihood of a number exchange. He concurred that the likelihood was 90%. Finally, the nightmare was over.

As we rested at the bar area, I chanced upon a gaze from a woman across from me. Her eyes were intense and she had the face of an angel. I motioned her to stand with us and offered her a drink. She agreed and we chatted for a while. She had an amazing laugh. She was a keeper. After 15 minutes of glorious conversation, I wanted to see if she would join me at the dancefloor. Surely, our great conversation laid the grounds for a dance.

As I mustered the words to ask her, I felt the sensation of 5 hotdogs tightening around my wrist. Then suddenly a quick jerk propelled me toward the direction of the dancefloor without my angel. The girl I had previously been dancing with had grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the dancefloor. Cock blocked! The enthralling conversation had distracted me of the fact that the previous 2 women had returned and wanted a second bout on the dance floor. By the time I realized it, my bar companion was gone. We had a connection and she was gone. All I had to look forward to was a couple more hours of nacho breath and dry humping from miss mustache.

Ultimately, my associate managed to acquire the digits that guaranteed that our clubbing nights weren't over. Despite everything, he failed to acknowledge the sacrifice I had made on his behalf. Did he even know? Was he even paying attention? Regardless, I did my job, I took a hit for the team. There were numerous times after that night that I again took the hit, but that was my job. I was a wingman.