If you aren’t familiar with what “Bro Rape” is, educate yourself.
When I’m out at a bar, I have a couple goals in mind: get drunk, get laid, other. I’m pretty spectacular at the former and wildly mediocre at the latter. “Other” is a tossup, though in college it usually involved overcoming what’s left of my willpower, ordering a large Clay Fusion pizza/pokey stix combo from Gumby’s, and making sweet, buttermilk ranch lubricated mouth love to it. That’s the sort of love making I excel at.
One thing I do not seek out when going to a bar is the conversation and company of random dudes. Sure, I’ll talk to some guy if the situation calls for it. I’ll be polite and agree that some SportsCenter Top 10 dunk playing on the TV was sick while I wait at the bar for a drink, or I’ll high five Andy Roddick’s penis if he and Brooklyn Decker happen to walk by me. Hell, I’ll even begrudgingly respond to the drunk ass at the urinal next to me who’s unnecessarily leaning into my personal bubble to ask me, “D’you see the chicks on that tit out on ther platio? I’d motorboat those manatees any day.” Yeah, I did buddy. That’s Brooklyn Decker and I already high fived her husband’s penis. Now stop being weird and invading people’s personal space.
I assume most guys are the same way. They don’t want to talk to random other dudes at the bar unless there’s an actual reason. It’s not unfriendly, I just don’t give a fuck about you. That’s fair, right? That’s what made an exchange that my friends and I had this weekend so troubling.
The three of us were out on a popular West 6th Street bar drinking, talking to girls (though at the time none in particular), and generally minding our own drunken business. That’s when two oddly enthusiastic strangers approached us. It cannot be stressed enough that this conversation was never good. It started out poorly and somehow still managed to race downhill from there.
Friend 1: Uh, what?
Guy 1: (*points to Friend 1*) You’re like seriously the most handsome guy at the bar. (*turns to me*) You’ve got the eyes. (*to Friend 2*) Look at those eyes!
If you’re wondering why my friends and I weren’t doing much talking, it’s because we were all mid-stupefied laugh, covering our drinks, and securing our backsides against the wall. If I owned a rape whistle I would’ve been conducting a symphony.
“Oh man, all these chicks were total bitches tonight. I kind of hate girls, don’t you? It’s like, what’s the point? Ya know? You guys should come back to our place and have some beers. My neighbors will probably be home. They’re these crazy hot, uh, cheerleaders. They’re totally super horny all the time. I’ve combined forces, uh er, had sex with them like a million times. We’ll combine forces, on them, back home.”
Once there, they say something like “Oh I guess our neighbors aren’t back yet. Whatever, let’s just get drunk.” Then they hand us drinks, drugged of course, and wait for their chance to strike. Some awkward time passes as they sit across the room from us, leering. We mention that we’re feeling woozy and need to leave. An evil, knowing smile crawls across their faces and one of them asks, “What’s your favorite shot?” I would respond in a daze, “Uh…I…I…uh…Rumplemintz.” “Oh crazy! I have a bottle in my room! Come on, let’s go take some shots. It’ll be cool.”
Next thing I know I’m living in a trunk in the basement of a pawn shop, dressed head to toe in leather, save for a few (in)conveniently placed holes, hoping some vengeful disgraced boxer grants me the sweet release of death as my captors sodomize a local crime lord.
I awoke from my nightmarish vision, my apparently piercing, bluer than an ocean diamond eyes (they really are though) silently screaming, in time to catch the rest of the conversation.
Me: We’re good.
Guy 1: Are you sure!?!?
Friend 1: That’s a horrible idea.