The day had been a longy. It was one of those hours-long stretches of inebriated, almost purposeless partying, where the lines are blurred between tired-soberness and drunk, and there's really no way of calculating your richter scale of tipsy to wasted.
It was about 3 am when I decided to go out (reason #1385 to love New York). I waltzed into the bar, and after dodging a few of my acquainted male bullets, I had already zeroed in on a fun, cute and flirtatious subject for what I knew would be some goofily drunken banter and guaranteed boozing (subject #1). And like a charm, 10 minutes in, and I’m suddenly standing there getting rounds of cheap plastic shot glasses brimming with tequila and lime bought for me and my girlfriends.
At that point, I’m then again approached by another male (#2). We had made eye contact when I first came to the bar, (and in a brief history lesson, he had ritually texted me for the past four evenings despite my ignoring), and now he was here, in front of me, offering me drinks while boy #1 is handing me another round of tequila. He sees, he gets it, and I blurt, "uhmm... gimme 30 you can be next?," in a foolish response.
Thing is, he smiles and totally obliges. Boy #2 walks away and instead of breezing off to another eligible bachelorette, at that moment I have this knowing certainty that he will in fact be trolling the bar and wait around...... for me.....till what ended up being the next few hours. I chat and flirt and distractedly hang out with three other men before he got his turn at the bar.
And it was at that exact moment in my fogged buzz that I realized what the situation represented...I felt strangely empowered. I knew what I was capable of, and in fact all women are: maneating.
Sure, I understand that this circumstance was the social college scene where men are especially beer-goggled drunk and thirsty for women. Being a woman in a college bar full of thieves (aka hormonal twenty-somes) is like being dropped into fucking piranha infested waters - you're about to get murked.
However let it be understood: Beautiful, smart, intelligent, powerful and fascinating women all over the world are getting dressed up to go out so that men can be the aggressor. So they can be hit on, and "luckily chosen"--> he will approach, he will start a conversation, he will eye you from across the room, invite you to his table, offer you a drink, send something over at the restaurant..... Especially in NY, it's everything.
Yes, I participate and it makes me sick. But now, after that moment, the tables in my mind have turned...
MANEATING: It's the pick em up, line em up and shoot em down mentality. That is to say, if you can’t beat them, join them. It is conquering the system that is the hook-up culture and dating scene. If you're in this game, this social charade, this fucking song and dance - then you need to play it better. Why is it that the men are the aggressors? Why can't we have our pick? Step up, buck up, be a maneater.
It's your balls in my court.
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Women can be picky, choosy, flirtatious, desiring, not give-a-fuck and not answer to anyone else. Please, serial date the fuck outta people, approach first, deliver that pick up line, start shit up, send over a drink, laugh too loudly, lean in for the kiss, bar make out, keep your dignity, keep your propriety, but most importantly keep on top and never get your fucking heartbroken. This is The Maneater's Creed.
This blog is the elaboration of my maneating endeavors, one that is the carnivorous male diet. It serves as an archive to the ones who were hard to swallow, the most delicious meals, proper dinnertime etiquette, appetizing prospects and the ones currently in the digestive tract.
Achem, translated: I intend to highlight an entertaining past, present and future of ridiculousness, ponderings about the game, serial dating wisdom and folly, and keeping your head on straight and any emotional baggage out of the picture.
Women can be picky, choosy, flirtatious, desiring, not give-a-fuck and not answer to anyone else. Please, serial date the fuck outta people, approach first, deliver that pick up line, start shit up, send over a drink, laugh too loudly, lean in for the kiss, bar make out, keep your dignity, keep your propriety, but most importantly keep on top and never get your fucking heartbroken. This is The Maneater's Creed.
This blog is the elaboration of my maneating endeavors, one that is the carnivorous male diet. It serves as an archive to the ones who were hard to swallow, the most delicious meals, proper dinnertime etiquette, appetizing prospects and the ones currently in the digestive tract.
Achem, translated: I intend to highlight an entertaining past, present and future of ridiculousness, ponderings about the game, serial dating wisdom and folly, and keeping your head on straight and any emotional baggage out of the picture.
Keep yourself satiated on the male prey my woman. There is a MANeater inside us all.
Bon Appetite...
The Maneater