One of the Guys

In the midst of my summer drought, I've been accepted as one of the guys. With the exception of Lawyered, the new kickball team is composed of commercial airline pilots. They're fun to look at, but they are also monster whores so I was quick to keep my distance.

Thursday night I was sandwiched in between two of the said whores at our bar. They were eyeing the new waitress. I got to hear this conversation:

Whore 1: Did you see her?
Whore 2: Yeah.
Whore 1: She's got a nice body.
Whore 2: Not so much the face though.
Whore 1: Yeah, but the body is nice.
Whore 2: Big hips.
Whore 1: Birthing hips...

It was this point I wheeled around and shot them the stink eye. They had picked apart this girl's appearance (who I would easily say is hotter than me) in minute detail. I thought women were our own worst enemies. Not true! Who needs us tearing ourselves apart in the mirror when we have boys doing it for us?

I didn't know guys were capable of this. They don't notice your noticeable haircut. They don't know the details of the gossip they are relaying to you. But they can wax poetic about the shape of this girl's chin and her "birthing" hips (which, once again, were smaller than mine).

And I was privileged to the entire conversation because I am "one of the guys." Great.

***

Saturday night I pulled in front of Schmoozer's best friend's house. He met me outside and we climbed into his car. He began driving us to the bar.

"Wait, aren't we picking up Schmoozer?" I asked.

"We can."

"He's been day drinking with y'all's coworkers. If we don't go get him, he won't make it to meet us."

He shot a look at me from across the front seat. "You understand he's with a group of six guys who have been drinking all day, right?"

"So what? We'll just pop in and get him."

"Okay..."

We turned into the house where they were. We got out of the car. I was dressed for Saturday night at the bar, not for Saturday night at some dude's house. I was wearing my Fuck Me dress that both plunged at the neckline and barely covered my tush. I tried to pull the dress down. My heels sank into the grass, aerating the yard.

There they were in the backyard. A tiki torch, a cooler of beer and six guys sitting in lawn chairs positioned in a circle. I saw six heads turn around and watch me approach. The conversation stopped.

Schmoozer was too housed to acknowledge me or to tell the guys who this strange girl was in their backyard. One guy jumped out of his lawn chair and gave it to me. He went and stood by the best friend.

The six guys then swarmed.

Apparently the guys near the best friend covertly asked him who I was and congratulated him for dating me (Ha!). He explained we were just friends.

Then the pack asked me how I knew him.

"I know him through Schmoozer," I said, pointing to the boy who couldn't see straight. It was hilariously awkward that I was there for Schmoozer, yet he was too incapacitated to greet me.

I sat in the lawn chair. Immediately I was handed a bottle of Bushmills and a Red Stripe. I swigged from the Bushmills bottle and passed it to the next guy. All eyes were staring at me. It felt very satisfying. I felt wanted and datable. They were congratulating the best friend on me. ME.

Then they started behaving like guys. I don't know what that means. Inappropriate. Vulgar. It wasn't low brow because I can swig whiskey from a bottle and tell a good dead-baby joke with the rest of them. Things just got weird very quickly. They were in a circle quick-firing questions at me. I couldn't fully answer one before another guy asked another. And they weren't normal questions; they were oddly specific. I didn't know their intentions of the conversation and I began to feel uncomfortable.

I kept turning around and making Danger Eyes at the best friend, but he wasn't looking at me. I couldn't get him to make eye contact. I was going to have to get out of there on my own.

I stood up and placed my empty beer bottle on the picnic table.

"Aw, you're leaving?" they asked.

"Yup, we're moving on."

"You'll be at the bar for awhile? Maybe we'll meet you there."

"We'll be there."

Schmoozer didn't want to go. He said he was still drinking free beer and didn't want to go to a place where he had to pay for it. He said he'd meet us there later.

Best Friend and I got into the car. "Ugh!" I sighed.

"I told you!" he laughed.

"I've been around guys. I just didn't think it was going to be like... that."

"The guy who gave you his chair—he's married—he came up to me and told me to take you out of there and that you were ready to leave."

"I was! I was giving you the signal!" I patted the top of my head like Elaine did in Seinfeld, but he didn't get the reference. "I was giving you Danger Eyes!"

Boys are gross.