I was at work the other night and we were more slow than usual. I was on roughly my 7th bathroom break and mindlessly scrolling through Barstool and clicked on one of the Smokeshows they feature every night. This particular young lady was from London and she looked like she was cooked up in a lab. Like if you got 2 Don Draper’s, 2 pro athletes, and 2 frat bros in the same lab and had them create one woman, this would be their result.
I did what I usually do and sent the blog over to my cousins in our group chat and said “problem, meet paint” because, as they say in basketball, this girl was a problem in the paint. Then we got to talking. Where are these women? If you’re familiar with the blog then you know that these girls usually reside in Chicago, New York, and a school in the greater Boston area. So they must be around, but I’ve never actually seen one.
Then the conversation shifted. See, these girls are basically fake life. Fugazi, fugazi, they’re not fucking real, like pixie dust.
So we started asking, who are these women lusting after? Let me set the scene for you. Back in college it’s about 9:45 on a Friday night and I’m at the bar in my best jeans, J-Crew t-shirt, and chukka boots. The boys are leaning against the bar on the dance floor side, strategically positioned in the narrow pathway to the bathroom so everyone has to pass us and say hello making us seem more popular than we actually are. I’m on a cold streak. I open my snapchat knowing I’m only going to be watching stories because the girls I hit up before the bar opened my snap 23 minutes ago. I finish my first beer and work on my vodka soda with a lime while the bar fills up. Then, across the bar is a girl who looks like she belongs at a big SEC school and not Bridgewater, MA. I tap my roommate and say “check her out” he says ya pal go make a move. I say, in full confidence, “nah, I’ll let her come to me”. You see, fake confidence and confidence are the exact same thing when you break them down. So I play it cool and long story short I end up home on the couch eating Ramen with a house full of hockey players and my alarm set for 8am for work the next day while I try and pick an episode of Jersey Shore to fall asleep to. That girl did not “come to me”.
So I want to know, who is that girl gawking at with her friend at the bar? Who does she look at and tap her roommate and say “wow check out his wrist watch. It really compliments his forearm you can tell he does his wrist curls at the gym”. Her roommate probably responds something like “yaasss girl go talk to him queen” and she bashfully responds “no no, if he’s my prince charming he’ll bring me a whiskey sour and order me dominoes in the Uber”.
What does that man look like? Where does he get his haircut? Does he choose a high protein diet or does he pack healthy fats? What’s his zodiac sign? Does he buy high cut or low cut Chuck Taylors? What is he drinking? I want to see that guy move. I want to see his skin care routine at night and his teeth brushing habits in the morning. I’m currently hacking his Netflix to stalk his “continue watching” tab. Do you think he makes his bed every morning? I do.
I assume these guys are just professional athletes. These perfect 10 girls who eat kale for breakfast and drink wheat grass with a caramel swirl to wash it down date the 12th guy on the end of the Lakers bench. Meanwhile the little guys like me need to rely on the fact that I got a few shifts of club hockey in college (not a big deal) to try and break the ice. Whoever said life was easy for a straight white male from a middle class home with two parents who love each other clearly never walked a mile in my shoes.
The Locker Room 