Open Letter to Men At Bars

The past few months I’ve been doing what any single girl in the city does when feeling particularly lonely: going to bars in Brooklyn where the average clientele ranges from 20 year old hipsters to 40 year old douche bags, wearing my most slutty outfit (it’s a hot pink Free People dress that is both way too short and way too low cut) and awaiting the moves. One bar in particular, has been wildly successful at boosting my self esteem, while at the same time leaving me with a deep sense of despair and misanthropy towards the opposite sex. To the men that I’ve met there, I say this:

First of all, if I make out with you, ask me for my number. You don’t have to call. You don’t even have to really put it in your phone. But ask for it. Because honestly, I don’t want to go out with you again either, but in the interest of us both leaving and feeling good, I do expect you to feign interest.

Secondly, if all your friends are telling me that you have a girlfriend, please just accept defeat and walk away. And if we were already making out when I learn this information, do not try to convince me to go into the bathroom with you, that’s gross, and you’re gross.

And lastly. If I refuse to go home with you at the end of the night, don’t get mad and stomp away like a five year old getting a time out. You’re a stranger, and I’m a lady. Go home with some pride, son. Shake my hand and smile and say “it’s been lovely to meet you, Ms. Rebel, you are a pleasure.” And walk away with your head held high. My goodness.

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