I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned From Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated by Julie Klausner

Author:Julie Klausner
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: &NEW
ISBN: 1592405614
Publisher: Gotham
Published: 2009-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

s e c t i o n f o u r

exile in guyville

“Sexual choice . . . is one of the only areas where women are indisputably in control. It’s not until they’ve made a choice, and submitted to it, that the relationship is inverted— and the man is generally back in a position of power over her.”

— Neil Strauss, The Game

“I want a boyfriend. I want a boyfriend.”

— Liz Phair,“Fuck and Run”

paper clips versus larry flynt

Iwas at the after party for a low- rent awards ceremony at a comedy club, because my writing partner and I were nominated for a short film we made. She and I made a mockery out of the occasion, drinking from the bottle of Bacardi Light we brought along with us and heckling the presenters, and I ended up having a better time than I expected to, because I quickly got drunk. I know stories about

“how wasted you were” are little- league, but the truth remains that when you drink, stupid things become silly, and who doesn’t like laughing at things that are silly? That’s right: nobody, and assholes.

I spotted a friend of mine,Wendy, at the bar when I went up for another round, and greeted her sloppily.We were chatting about her new boyfriend, whom she seemed nuts about, and because I have no boundaries, I pressured her for details.

I DON’T CARE about YOUR BAND

She said they were set up by a mutual friend, and I interrupted,

“Hey!” which is always a good conversational transition.

“You should set ME up with somebody,” I realized in Wendy’s general direction, loudly. Unfazed, she told me that she knew somebody fantastic.

“He owns his own company. He’s got an amazing apartment. He’s cute.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I responded.“But is he a pervert?”

At the time, I couldn’t congratulate myself heartily enough for inquiring about whether Wendy’s friend had the most important quality I could think of in a potential mate. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t grooming me for an awkward evening of polite conversation about siblings and New Yorker articles with a bore over drinks. I’d had my fi ll of arranged social time and didn’t want to kill time in the company of someone who didn’t know how to pull a girl’s hair in bed. One guy I’d been out with recently actually tugged at the ends of my hair, not the roots, like a third- grader trying to get the attention of his babysitter, which is not how you do that.

I told Wendy, with Bacardi breath and no shortage of confidence, that I didn’t want to waste time with the formalities of matchmaking unless I was certain there was a hungry, hungry weirdo with a prevailing fondness for deviant sex at the end of the equation. I sloppily detailed my demands, and my friend assured me that he and I were perfect for each other and that she’d give him my number the next day. I gave Wendy a hug, told her she was my best friend, and somehow piled myself into a cab.

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