13 Steps To Becoming A Barslut, And What Happens Afterward

After I moved across the country from the town where I’d spent my college years, where I’d acquired a network of friends, in my new city I was understandably lonely and depressed. I found a bar down the street from my new apartment, a metal bar — as in a bar where metalheads hung out and Ozzy played either with Sabbath or not continually over the speakers. There I ate bacon cheeseburgers and drank no fewer than thirteen PBRs a night. I became what they call a regular and the other regulars and the bartenders pushed Jaeger and Strega shots my way. I bought grams of coke and keyed it in the bathroom stall. One night I got so drunk and high that when I passed out at home I slept for two days and woke at sundown, thinking only the day after that night had passed and I went right back to that bar and got messed up again and only learned about my missed day because my boss left messages on my cell phone and in my inbox railing me for my no-call no-show f-ckup. Oops.

I gained thirty pounds, pushing my way to 270. And worst of all: I got no pussy.

After an Xmas photo revealed to me the extent of my double chin I decided that this no pussy-getting depressed lifestyle really sucked. I cut out drinking except for one night a week. Every morning I ate a bowl of cornflakes with skim milk. At lunch: an apple and an orange. Dinner: baked boneless skinless chicken breast with fat-free baked or black beans. I still walked to the train to get to work and the sweat dripped off me and so too dripped the weight. I was a melting candle.

Every day, especially when coming home from work, I walked past the sports bar (a different bar than the metal bar down the street from my apartment, but I frequented this place, too) and I could feel the tug of the beer and chicken wings on my throat, but I pushed on.

I slept a lot.

On that single night when I allowed myself to drink, I also allotted whatever food I wanted. But my stomach had shrunk. I’d order a pizza and pop a Netflix movie into my computer and after a slice I sat there feeling like I’d eaten another human while Val Kilmer went to Mars. I would have also picked up a six pack of Sam Adams, and I’d nurse a solitary beer until midnight.

Then, after midnight, like some lame Clapton song, I went to the bar: that metalhead bar that on weekends filled with more than metalheads, and there I trolled for strange.

I had a system worked out:

1: Arrive at bar sober and after midnight (as described above).

2: Stand — do not sit — at bar and nurse PBR.

3: Wait for drunk girls to come to bar to pay their tabs.

4: Attempt casual conversation w/out caring if they reciprocate.

5: When they do: bonus.

6: Keep cocaine use to minimum (see, “effects of cocaine” below).

7: Ask the girls who start a conversation lots of questions. Act (and sometimes genuinely feel) very interested in them.

8: When, after ~20 mins of chitchat, girl puts bar receipt into purse and says, “It was nice talking to you, but I should get going,” look surprised at bartenders shoving glasses into dishwasher as they ready to close and agree that you also must be getting home.

9: Just before girl walks away, say, “Hey, would you mind if I got a ride home? I literally live right up the street.” This, of course, turns out to be true and does not seem at all predatory or unreasonable.

10: If girl says sorry but no, smile, say, “No problem, it was good talking to you.” If girl shrugs, says sure, bonus, but not there yet.

11: In girl’s car, instruct her up the street half block to outside of apartment building where, conveniently, there’s no shoulder or parking space to pull into. Instruct girl to drive around block to your off-street parking. This, you remind her, is for her own safety.

12: Upon drop-off offer: “I’ve got a couple drinks in the house, if you’d like one.”

13: If girl says no thanks, see 10 above. If girl says yes: cha-ching. Done.
By this method of restrictive diet plus calculated luring of women into one-night stands, in a period of six months I destroyed my depression, boosted my self-confidence, and bedded no fewer than thirty different women.

I wanted to be a slut. I rarely had sex with the same girl more than once. Sometimes I’d run into former hookups at the same or another bar. Only once did a former hookup give me that you motherf-cker look and approached while I was picking up yet another woman to say, “So, who’s this?” (introducing herself to the new girl), and after a few awkward moments of the former hookup trying to make it obvious to the new girl that I had banged her and never called her afterward (and she made this perfectly obvious by saying, “You never called me. What the hell?”) she walked away, and the new girl didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, I think that might have made me even more desirable, because some girls are into guys who are dicks.

Effects of cocaine: This was another reason why I sometimes didn’t sleep with the same girl more than once. Cocaine did not help my dick to work at all. I’ve had friends who said that when they got hard and they were all geetered out their boner never went away and they weren’t going to sleep, so it was just screw all night long. Not me. So I learned to curb the coke if I wanted the pussy.

Sometimes, I didn’t care if the girl had an orgasm or even had a good time at all. It was me time. This also contributed to the slew of random chicks.

So what happened? What happens when you’re a barslut? It eventually gets really, really old. Usually, the sex is pretty mechanical. While I could be a dick who didn’t care whether or not a girl came, I wasn’t a total jerk, and I treated these women kindly and respectfully. I was a tender lover. I didn’t smack their asses or come on their faces. For one thing, in a hookup I was actually somewhat vulnerable. I didn’t want to reveal too much of myself for fear of turning a chick off or scaring her, so I played things fairly safe. And most people who have been in relationships know that the sex only gets better when you get to know someone.

I experimented: what would happen if I tried really hard to make every girl I took home come, and come hard? I had girls blowing up my cell and showing up unannounced at my apartment. One girl actually followed me in her car for thirty miles when I drove to a friend’s place who lived north of the city. When we stopped, in front of this friend’s driveway, she said, “I just really wanted to see you.” What do you do about that?

But what really happened is that I met a girl I liked. I was in the midst of this orgasm experiment, and when she came, I knew I wanted to make her come again, because she was sweet, and she believed in democracy because she was going to become a lawyer, and I liked the way her brown hair curled around her little ears. And we kept at it and I still like her hair even now that we’re married, and I don’t do coke anymore. TC mark

image – Barfly

More From Thought Catalog

  • Pinion

    Dude, that was atrociously beautiful. And 30 chicks in 6 months. Good huntin’. Never mind all the misdirected feminism you’re about to receive: That’s a good life lived. 

  • Anonymous

    Amazing. Maybe I’ll try your routine lmao..

  • jess

    last paragraph makes it all good

  • http://twitter.com/gogogadgetpoet Michael J. Martin

    This was dope.

  • guestie

    this was so sweet. i’m feeling sappy today and this is stupid but the last paragraph made me tear up. thanx 4 giving me h0pe~~~~, but like, actually.

  • Courtney

    oh.

  • http://twitter.com/DirtySouthNews Dirty South News

    This is 99% bullshit. But good story, bruh.

  • http://www.facebook.com/justin.r.mccarthy Justin Reddington McCarthy

    well written and interesting for sure. cheers

  • http://www.facebook.com/anatole.rahman Anatole Ashraf

    Finally! A sappy, sweet, Valentine’s Day story that even men can enjoy! This should be followed by an Old Spice commercial.

  • christieanna

    That is such a ridiculously beautiful post HAHAHAHAHA 

  • http://twitter.com/suckbitchyou Max Monastyrev

    Mind f**k; that last paragraph…

  • http://twitter.com/iamsubmerged Jordana Bevan

    i don’t want to be a barslut now that i know it’ll lead to marriage! phew! thanks for the warning, jamie :( also lol awwwwwwwwwww

  • Anonymous

    ….and this is precisely why I go home with random dudes. 

  • http://www.facebook.com/joshles Joshua Roshan Tan

    LOL where do u live again?

    • Jamie Iredell

       Atlanta

  • LS

    jamie iredell and blake butler both posting swag read-to-the-end shit on thought catalog? a conspiracy of good? what will happen next? stay tuned

  • galathedawn

    Sober guy picking up drunk chicks. That’s not at all creepy and predatory. 

  • http://stepandfall.blogspot.com/ Lu Han

    One of the most amazing thought catalog I’ve read in a really really REALLY long time. Loved the turn of events at the end … when something went from depressing to happy. Gives me a little hope … a little light  as they say. Thank you to you and your wife. 

  • rebecca

    This is so adorable, and beautiful….

  • Anonymous

    So 30 women in 6 months? That’s 5 a month, so about one a week. You only went out one night a week, so you never missed? Or did you go back to the bar if the girl dropped you off but said no thanks to the drink?

    Even if I can get the math to work, enjoyed your article!

  • http://ctam28.blogspot.com/ Michael Z

    Pretty awesome. First I’m reading and thinking ‘man whore’ (not hating though) and then I’m thinking ‘hmm, he’s going soft’ and then BAM… happy ending.

    Well written sir!

  • Anonymous

    A raw, inappropriate, unsettling, unaffected, and beautiful article. Loved it.

  • Jennifer

    This was such a good article, I was going to share it before the ending paragraph, but that was just the cherry on top. Thank you.

  • http://www.facebook.com/people/Steven-Timberman/922794 Steven Timberman

    Wasn’t it like, super-depressing to eat the same damn food day in and day out? Lost weight or no lost weight, I don’t think I could do it.

    And I do like the honesty of the piece – half the battle is just waiting for the bar to close. Chances of ‘pulling’ increase by about a thousand percent if you can wait til then. Still, showing up sober? Really bro? 

    I know that its a murky area, and that its pretty impossible to somehow stay just as drunk as someone else throughout an entire night, but being stone cold sober while you’re trying to fuck a Snooki-drunk is just… not going to be in my wheelhouse. 

  • coco

    this is so well written and honest really enjoyed it

  • kelly

    this guy is a huge creep and is obviously understating the predatory nature of his actions by labeling his persona as, “tender”, talking about how he, “destroyed his depression”, trying to get us to empathize with his behavior, whatever. I didn’t think this article was sweet, or enlightening, and it didn’t evoke any compassion from my end. great that you got married. clap. clap. clap. 

blog comments powered by Disqus