I sat in my friend’s living room with him and the evening’s bargain-basement prey, sipping Lion’s Head and talking nonsense as I counted the minutes till I could take her to the bedroom.
She was good looking in that slightly beat up, small town, simple minded, non-reading, a few teeth out of place kinda way. Eh, she was definitely adequate in my drunken state; as well as the chain-smoking, jack-swilling, staggering prom queen of the dive bar we were at.
I was surprised the grimy establishment didn’t have heroin needles strewn across the floor.
My friend would not stop with the incessant yammering, attempting to bond with my lady of the night. I was staying there because his house was in walking distance from the shithole he dragged me to.
“What do you do?” he asked her. “Have another drink. Would you like a Xanax to go with your beer?”
Shut the fuck up already! I wanna get laid. And for god sakes no Xanys… she’ll go right to sleep.
If she’s passed out before I could get laid that would be catastrophic. I might have spent three to four bucks on her at the bar. I was ready to get what I paid for.
I’m sorry he couldn’t wrangle a girl to bring back. I initiated opportunities, but I guess his ace pickup line — “I’m the greatest football player to ever come out of Lackawanna County” — wasn’t working on the dirt bar socialites.
Finally, I whispered to my girl to go to the bedroom, and as I was walking away my buddy grabbed me.
Look for “The Wingman Chronicles” hitting book stores in next year to read the rest of the story!
THE WINGMAN CHRONICLES 