He won because I lost

“Hey, let’s hit the dance floor,” I said.

“Should we go up to two girls who are dancing with each other?” my friend Mike asked.

I refuse to do the wingman thing seriously. I can’t comprehend how two girls can fall for the buddy system shtick.
My mom and grandma raised me during the 80s. I ironed my clothes at two years old. I cooked eggs at eight years old. I made bracelets from thread at ten years old. I never nailed pieces of wood together to make a birdhouse. I never changed my car’s oil. Actually, I have never flipped through a car magazine.

Women see two guys approach them, and the women think the guys are after sex. It does not matter that the two guys in this situation want to dance. How many times have we seen the movie where two guys work their game on women at a club? How many times do guys watch those movies and think that actually works?

“No, I’d rather just dance on my own. Ya know there’s going to be a girl dancing by herself,” I said.

* * *

“There’s the Captain Morgan girls. I bet they are giving away free drinks,” I said.

“Let’s go over there,” my friend Cyrus said.

We walked to the bar area where a man dressed as Captain Morgan posed for pictures with patrons. Team Morgan consisted of two other girls. One girl took pictures from a Polaroid camera, and the other girl would go to the bar to retrieve Captain and Cokes to give to the patrons.

“How do you get free Captain and Cokes?” I asked.

“If you take a picture with the Captain, we will get you a free drink. But here’s a starter,” she said.

I took a drink.

The other girl placed Cyrus and myself next to the Captain, and she took a picture of us. The first girl gave Cyrus and me another drink.

“Thanks, that was really awesome of you,” I said.

“No problem. This place is running Captain specials all night,” she said.

“That’s really cool, but I like the idea of free drinks, ya know,” I said.

“Let me see what I can do,” she said.

Two minutes later, she brought Cyrus and me another drink.

“If I keep posing for pictures, will I get more free drinks?” I asked.

“Yeah, do you want to take another picture?” she asked.

“Well, it would be cool if I had a copy of the picture,” I said.

Seven progressively drunker pictures later, I had my alcohol fix for the night. I spotted my friend Mike at the other side of the bar.

“Hey, let’s hit the dance floor,” I said.

“Should we go up to two girls who are dancing with each other?” he asked.

“No, I’d rather just dance on my own. Ya know there’s going to be a girl dancing by herself,” I said.

* * *

“I’m not a p-nazi. Are you kidding me? I just like being in pictures, you dork,” I said on the phone to my friend Monika.
Dirtyscottsdale.com categorizes a p-nazi as a guy, who takes a shirtless picture of himself in the bathroom or at the gym.

“Fine, fine. But you’re in every picture I took. You just pop up somehow,” she said.

“I don’t turn down a free picture,” I said.

So you’re hitting the clubs tonight?” she asked.

“Yeah. I feel like breaking it down on the dance floor,” I said.

“What are you wearing tonight?” she asked.

“Button down shirt, those brown funktastic pants, no tie, and purple contacts,” I said.

“How’s the hair?” she asked.

“I’m growing it out,” I said.

“No, you need a haircut,” she said.

“Ya know, fuck the pretty boy image. I’m a rock star,” I said.

“Yeah, sure you are,” she said.

“Oh, come on now. You know I am,” I said.

* * *

“I’m going to dance with that girl over there,” I said.

“Go for it,” Mike said.

Every step I took toward her matched the Kanye beat. Her blonde hair screamed, “I used to be a brunette!”

“Yes, I know,” my fake black hair said back.

“Hi, I’m Ryan,” I said.

“Devra,” she said.

“Devra?” I asked.

“No, Sarna,” she said.

“Sarna?” I asked.

She laughed. “No, [totally inaudible],” she said.

“Oh, okay, cool. Nice to meet you,” I said.

The Bel Biv Devoe song played, and I threw out steps that Stomp The Yard couldn’t match.

* * *

“You know, I can go off campus for lunch,” I said.

“Oh, mister big high school senior and his off campus pass,” my friend Tara said.

“I’m just sayin,” I said.

“Why don’t ya?” she asked.

“I like to hang with the people sometimes,” I said.

“So we’re the people?” she asked.

“Yeah, you know, you’re the commoners, and I’m reaching out to ya,” I said.

I enjoyed hanging out in the newspaper room with Tara, Amy, Patty, Erin, and Kim. We had this thing called ‘Girl Talk.’ The title doesn’t really make me seem manly, but I learned how to be a man from the talks. I would talk about a girl I was dating, and they would offer me advice. Logically, I figured getting advice from girls was better than getting advice from guys.

“Wanna dance?” Tara asked.

“What is this? Nsync?” I asked.

“No, Backstreet Boys,” she said.

“Sure, let’s do it,” I said.

“Okay, follow my lead,” she said.

* * *

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump knees. I’ve had a little bit to drink,” I said.

“That’s okay. You dance unusual,” she said.

I’ve taken sober notice at guys’ dance moves at clubs. Some guys are just tremendous. Other guys look like their whole body from the knees to the neck is wrapped in a hard body cast. The head bobs in motion. The knees bend and catch some beat. And their ankles must be sprained or something. I’m trying to figure how the Wobbly Chicken became the dance craze of my generation.

I don’t dance professionally. In fact, film coverage of my dance moves would confuse Napoleon Dynamite. I like to have fun, and I know that movement is fun. I incorporate swing, ballroom, and bump n grind in my routine.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a fan of swaying. Save that for a Coldplay concert,” I said.

A man approached -what’s her name- from behind. He started dancing and holding on to her back hips.

“I think your boyfriend is getting jealous. I should leave,” I said.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.

I spun us around, so now my back is facing him.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s been bothering me all night,” she said.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“He’s my friend, but he’s been trying to get with me all night,” I said.

“And you’re not interested?” I asked.

“Nope, just a friend,” she said.

“Apparently, he doesn’t grasp that concept,” I said.

She kissed me.

“I’m going to get some water,” she said.

“Alright, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick,” I said.

* * *

“I made you this bracelet,” I said.

“Oh, cool. It’s FSU colors,” Melissa said.

Melissa sat in the front of my row in my 5th grade social studies class at St. Jude’s elementary school in Florida. I didn’t have any feelings for her, but at the same time, she didn’t have cooties. She made a bracelet with Gator blue and orange colors for me one day. I thought bracelet-making looked fun so I bought a bunch of thread and a case at the store.

Bracelet-making: the new game boy.

Other boys and girls from class picked up on this activity. I considered myself the Susan B. Anthony of bracelet-making.
Later that day at recess, I did the Too Legit To Quit moves with a couple guy friends. The dance consists of a lot of arm and leg movements. The original Tae-Bo. After the dance, I backed up to fall on the mulch for the grand finale. However, I backed up into a bigger sixth grader.

“Don’t touch me,” he said.

“Sorry man, I didn’t know you were behind me,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter. You touched me. A fifth grader touched me,” he said.

“It’s cool, dude. I’m sorry. No problems,” I said.

He pushed me.

"Don't push me," I said.

“You’re not going to fight me? Are you a pussy?” he asked.

“I don’t fight,” I said.

“Look at this pansy. I totally won,” he said to a couple friends.

"What did you win? Where's your ribbon? I don't see it," I said.

"What?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course you don't get it," I said.

* * *

I came back from the bathroom, and -what’s her name- stood by the corner with her head down.

“Is everything cool?” I asked.

“I guess,” she said.

“Let’s go dance,” I said.

She didn’t move.

“Come on. It’s The Backstreet Boys,” I said.

She just looked at me.

“Tell me why! Ain’t nothing but a heartache. Telllll me whyyy,” I sang.

She smiled. We danced.

Her friend noticed us dancing. He came over, hooked his arm around her shoulder, and took her away from me.

“Come on, dude, what are you doing?” I asked.

He didn’t respond. I decided to go look for my friends. I couldn’t find them, so I called Mike. He said that they were outside, and they would wait for me. I walked around the club to find my dancing partner so I could tell her that I was leaving.

I saw the guy drag her towards the exit.

“Hey, it was really cool meeting you. I’m going to leave, but let me give you a hug,” I said.

I went to give her a hug. The guy pushed me.

* * *

I almost fell to the ground, but I maintained balance.

“Hey, you fucking idiot. What the hell was that for?” I asked.

“You think you can take me?” he asked.

I took a swing at this guy’s nose causing my knuckles to bleed. My skin didn’t break, but rather I caught the blood streaming
down from his nose. I then tackled the mother fucker to the ground.

“Hey, you bitch. What? Did you think I didn’t have it in me?” I taunted.

I punched him in the face again and pinned him to the ground. Club security then speared me to the ground. Nearby police officers quickly followed with handcuffs around my wrists and behind my back.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked.

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent,” the police officer said.

“Man, it’s impossible to keep me quiet. Fuck that. That idiot pushed me for no reason. He pushed me because he needed to validate his manhood. He pushed me because the girl liked me,” I said.

“And you elevated the incident,” he said.

He took me near his horse and phoned a patrol car.

“Why are you riding a horse? That’s just ridiculous,” I said.

* * *

I almost fell to the ground, but I maintained balance.

“That’s not cool, man,” I said.

He looked at me.

"What? You got nothing to say, so you have to push me?" I asked.

"Maybe I'll push you again," he said.

"Okay, that's fine. I'll be calling her tomorrow and we'll have a good laugh at what a prick you are. Really? A muscle shirt? Doesn't that require muscles?" I said.

Club security saw the push and escorted him out.

“Do you have another ride or something?” I asked.

“Yeah, I actually came with them,” she said pointing to two guys, a girl, and another girl dancing with a guy.

“Hey, that’s my friend David dancing with your friend,” I said.

“That’s cool,” she said.

“Well, hey, I’m going to get going, so I hope you have a good night,” I said.

“Yeah, definitely. Call me sometime,” she said.

I walked out of the club and met up with my friends.

“Can you believe what just happened? I totally got pushed from some jealous dude,” I said.

“Did you push back?” Cyrus asked.

“No, you know. I was thinking. That guy was so insecure about himself that he had to push me to validate his manhood. I didn’t need validation. I got the girl,” I said.

David walked out of the club and approached us.

“Hey, we’re the big winners tonight,” I said.

* * *

I almost fell to the ground, but I maintained balance.

I was so upset. I just looked at him. I walked outside and found Cyrus.

"Dude, this guy in the club totally pushed me," I said.

"What guy?" he asked.

"See that girl?" I asked.

"Umm, I think so," he said.

"The guy next to her. He pushed me. God I just want to go over there and kick his ass. Do you got my back?" I asked.

I asked that question hoping that Cyrus would talk me out of it.

"Dude, what are you going to do now?" he asked.

"Well, umm, fuck it, I'm going over there whether you got my back or not," I said.

"Alright, I got your back," Cyrus said.

I looked at him. "There's probably no point now."

* * *

The final scenario rang true. I did nothing. I did not stand up for myself. I let the guy push me. While I was not a macho guy that fought for a silly reason, I did not verbally confront him. I did not get the girl. Sure, we danced and made-out, and I got her phone number. He walked out with the girl, but he did not get the girl. I can not completely confirm that because I never called her. Why would I? I was a bitch. I let a guy push me around. I let a guy that she did not like drag her by the arm. I did not stick up for myself or for her. I was ashamed. He won because I lost.