Operation ONS

Operation One Night Stand (Operation ONS; 8/19/2017)

My dating life agenda for the 973 operates in the following manner:

  • Sunday is swipe day, where I load up a new deck of Bumble and/or Tinder girls
  • Reserve one weekend night for a date (or two)
  • Reserve the other weekend night for trying to pick chicks up at a bar. Either of the following scenarios are acceptable:
  • Hook up/have a ONS
  • Reluctantly, get a phone number, but only if the girl is a prize
  • Go out every possible day during the next week as well, devoting all available resources to the above stated goals
  • Take care of my kids the weekend after…This is when I get to sleep (on the 7th day He rested)
  • Rinse. Wash. Repeat

Now, without further ado, meet The Greek.  I went to high school with The Greek.  He is a magician.  But the kind of magician who makes things appear.  He is also a man of mystery, a man of two sides:

I want to call The Greek a PUA.  But PUA implies that there is some sort effort involved.  For The Greek, there is none.  He just shows up and makes the magic happen.

But, at the end of the night, if it’s anything less than sex, The Greek’s not interested.  I get it: The Greek doesn’t have time to waste on wining/dining, and exchanging all sorts of meaningless text messages.  So, despite his ability to score with high grade girls, what does he usually end up going home with?  These gals.

But, I don’t judge.  The Greek is the man.

So, The Greek and I get together in Morristown on this August evening.  It was a long day: Music festival in Morristown, followed by a party in Long Valley, then back to meet up with him for late night shenanigans.

We make our way through half a dozen bars until we realize that the crowd sucks everywhere with everyone away during the summer time and the local colleges not in session.  Our odds for success in Operation ONS are not looking good.

That was until we entered this seedy dump.

A little off the beaten path, this bar has a little bit of everything: Young, old, black, white, short, tall, fat, and disabled.  It even had bouncers we knew, other dudes we went to high school with, and sloppy drunk girls ready to make my Operation ONS a smashing success:

She was not perfect, in fact she was pretty fucking far from ok.  But, it was what we were handed on this night, and we were determined to make the most of it.  The Greek says to me, “Dave, we’re going to go back to this girl’s apartment and tag team her.”  I was all in.

Just as I was all set to go smash her with this dude, something else caught my eye and stopped the show.  The best-looking bartender in the entire world bar:

(This wasn’t quite her, or even close.  But in my mind, on this night, she was all I wanted)

Ok, at this point in the story this drunk slob was all over me and The Greek.  Despite the one-too-many drinks in my system and usual fuzzy logic, I was somehow coherent enough to calculate a little Dave math: If my bartender object of affection of mine were to see me go home with this human waste product, my chances would be torpedoed 100% for good.  I wanted her, and badly, much to my own peril:

So, I abandon my sure fire double team with The Greek, and lay the foundation for my new favorite bartender on the back of my business card as I’m settling up my tab:

Then, after I slip her my card, she coincidentally comes out to smoke a cigarette and I now get the opportunity to talk to her.  Checkmate: She’s in my wheelhouse!

But, in this game of chess, I end up with a pawn to e4 cockblock on my hands, courtesy of a couple fellow MHS alum knights.  Thanks dicks!

In case you didn’t catch that, one tells her I’m 40, the other tells her that she’s acting like, “She don’t want to give up that pussy.”  Aggravated.

But, my bouncer friend offered me some words of encouragement the next day:

The Greek broke it down for me, though:

And as for what happened to The Greek??  Well my bouncer friend updated me on that front:

And The Greek came “clean” about getting with her:

And shocker: This slob has her game down tight.  My bouncer friend texts this to me the next week:

What a shithole that place is.  Can’t wait to visit again.

by

I’m a divorced dude living and dating in New Jersey. This blog is my story told through a first-person view of my text messages to my friends and/about my dates.