no matter how acrid and dehydrated the barren stretch of desert i refer to as "my vagina" may happen to be, i have always been really fucking good at getting other bitches laid. seriously, i'm a really convincing salesman. i can transform even the most haggard and ghastly of my friends into a shimmering gazelle right before your very eyes. as much as i enjoy cockblocking the shit out of some dumb dude, it makes me that much happier to help a penis plane find my ladyfriend's landing strip. because when one of us is getting laid we all win, am i right?
my very first wingman completion was mostly a happy accident. i was at slick's with one of my friends, a friend who is the kind of slutty asshole who wears labia fold-exposing shorts with six inch heels to go to the goddamned grocery store. does everyone have those kind of friends? you know, the ones who show up to a 4pm dinner at chili's in a strapless fucking dress and hooker heels? listen ho, i was trying to have sweatpants dinner. and now you've shown up looking like a supermodel and i can't enjoy my southwestern eggrolls or whatever this shit is called because your clavicle is basically poking me in the face and all the old dudes eating dinner while it's still light out keep sending over tropical sunrise margaritas and interrupting our conversation with their watery-mouthed, rhuemy-eyed introductions.
anyway, i'm shouting my order into the bartender's ear when this DUDE IN A CHEAP-ASS SUIT slides up next to me at the bar with a folded wad of bills (all singles) between his fingertips. now everyone knows that the last dude at the club you should ever consider talking to is the ONE WHO WORE A SUIT TO A MOTHERFUCKING DISCO, so i inched away from his ass while counting out laundry quarters to pay for my drink. he put his hand on top of mine as i placed my loose change and a couple food stamps on the bar, and i had two thoughts: 1 is he really trying to steal seven goddamned dollars?! and 2 i'm pretty sure i saw that suit in a men's wearhouse commercial. he told me not to worry, he was just trying to buy my drink.
"WHY?" i demanded, suspicious. he motioned over to the table where i'd been sitting with nicole and said the drink was in exchange for an introduction to "that classy lady at [my] table." (he really said that. like, for real. "classy lady," omg.) shameless, i pocketed my money before he could change his mind and led him over to our booth before mumbling unintelligibly about some imaginary friend i'd made on the other side of the room and making myself scarce while he seals the deal. and further illustrates how i keep my pimp hand strong.
i learned early in the game that rolling into the party with a hot, beautiful woman has a shitload of potential perks. if your low self-esteem and latent daddy issues don't make it impossible for you to have a good fucking time while remaining untouched by the glare of the spotlight provided by the lusty gaze of EVERY SINGLE DUDE IN THE ROOM, you can spend the entire night drinking on some lonely dude's tab and, if it's a food party, you won't have to worry about competing with that bitch for the waiter's attention when the samosa tray goes around the next time. she'll be too busy swatting men off like flies while you can relax in the cut and GET YOUR CANAPE ON.
parties are always so goddamned boring. so if i choose to go to one instead of, say, sitting home with some rib tips and the most recent season of gossip girl like i very much would rather do, my payment for that selflessness (other than the obligatory seat at the almighty father's right hand) should be the opportunity to instigate awkward introductions and facilitate potentially dangerous sexual hookups. IT'S ONLY FAIR. besides, you know what else is totally fucking boring? when neither my friends nor i am banging a hot dude. or, at the very least, a marginally attractive one. listen, i can hold my own in an economics discussion or talk celebrity trash with goddamned best of them, but trust me: I DID NOT PUT MY NICE PANTIES ON TO GET DRUNK AND TALK ABOUT MITT ROMNEY. seriously, girl, i spent twenty dollars on a cab here to 1 gossip about our mutual friends and 2 talk about how much this asshole spit in my pussy two days ago. THAT IS NOT A JOKE. i met caitlin and fatima for tapas last week and the conversation was divided evenly between projectile vagina spit and comparing all of our various camera phone dick pics. ain't nobody discussing the middle east peace crisis on a tuesday night! a couple weeks ago this hostess tried to sit me and caitlin next to a table full of children and i was like, "come on, sister. i'm wearing sunglasses inside and this whore is walking bow-legged. you know it's about to be on." then she sat us in the back.
the only thing better than dissecting every millisecond of a relationship you've just ended has got to be combing through the minutiae of one that is just beginning, which is why the minute some dude gives me more than a passing glance i quickly assess whether or not i'd want to bone him (probably not) and if i won't which of my friends absolutely will. because there's no better way to drink through your 401k than to do so while talking about how that dude you met at that one thing has a penis the size of a cornichon. this is the buttery shit about being a grizzled old spinster, sitting around making fun of dudes who don't get half your tax refund. every single one of my interpersonal relationships is built on commiseration of some sort, and the more bad dates i can orchestrate for you = the better i feel about my own life and rapidly-dwindling romantic chances.
THE ART OF THE WINGMAN.
1 stop being such a fucking hater. this is probably the hardest part for most people, myself included. first thing i fucking think is something along the lines of, "this asshole wants to spit game at this bitch instead of me?! motherfucker, i have a book deal! i can kind of crochet a little bit!! these pants i'm wearing are really pajamas and you can't even tell!!!" then i fucking get over it and remember that virtual sex is almost as hot as the real thing and WAY LESS MESSY. she's going to tell me about his dick moves in intricate detail the minute he peels himself out of her sticky sheets anyway, so i can have all of the fun with none of the shame! why wouldn't i write her number down for him? THE THREE OF US ARE TOTALLY GOING TO HAVE IMAGINATION SEX LATER.
2 know what kind of vagina party that bitch is trying to throw. like, if she's meek and says grace over her food in restaurants and only has missionary sex in the dark with her shirt on you probably should wingman for her at bible study or church camp and get your sinning ass up out the disco. unless there's a club near you that plays kirk franklin and only serves cranberry juice cocktail (THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB) and holy water. this is why i only hang out with dirty fucking sluts, because it isn't that goddamned hard to convince a dude to go home with a girl who'd let him in the back door the first time he gets her alone in a darkened room.
3 get over that shy shit. have you talked to a child before? well then you should have no problem talking to a goddamned dude. this principles are the same: small words, to the point, use visual aids as often as possible. ie, point to your friend across the club and say, "that ho wants to have sex with you. damn, look at them titties!" i mean, if you haven't already ascertained it, my "wingman style" is pretty much to say a whole bunch of sexy shit and point to my friend and say, "see that minx over there with her butt cheeks showing? if you play your cards right and don't say anything stupid, SHE WILL TOTALLY MAKE YOU CUM." and my ladies know how to return the wingman favor for me, although in my case it rarely turns out as successfully. "see that hunchback over there with the thick glasses and orthopedic shoes quoting 'jackie brown' while snorting and resting her shot glass on her belly? if you can read above a third-grade level and don't bore easily, SHE WILL TOTALLY MAKE YOU LAUGH."
4 always be closing. SELL, SELL, SELL. be fucking relentless and sell the shit out of that bitch. "that watch costs more than your car. i made $970,000 last year. how much you make? you see pal, that's who i am, and you're nothing. nice guy? i don't give a shit. good father? fuck you! go home and play with your kids. you wanna work here: CLOSE. you think this is abuse? you think this is abuse, you cocksucker? you can't take this, how can you take the abuse you get on a sit? you don't like it, leave." i take pretty much 100% of my life cues from alec baldwin's various television and movie personas. so far, it's worked.
4a talk to the ugly friend. self-explanatory. sometimes you gotta bang the cockeyed dude with the lisp. be a good friend. remember that time she let you copy her answers on the chemistry final and you got a B+ you totally didn't deserve? take one for the fucking team, you selfish jackass. suck that hideous dude's goddamned dick.
5 take your ass the fuck home. keep cab money and a bus card in every single one of your party purses, sister. i have $22 in my ING savings account, yet littered throughout my apartment is easily $200 tucked into small bags and clutches of varying size and sparkliness. i fucking hate to be the one motherfucker too broke to get home, so i have to stand around waiting for the bitch i rode with to finish flirting her ass off while pretending not to be 1 seething in jealous anger and 2 holding in a poo because we split an order of onion rings at pre-game dinner because i hadn't anticipated being out for more than four goddamned hours. has that ever happened to you, being held hostage by some vagina that doesn't even belong to you? NEVER AGAIN, GIRL. once you coordinate the number exchange and have memorized that dude's face for accurate description to a police sketch artist should the need arise, if she wants to stay and coo at that fool you can fish your emergency twenty from out of that pocket where you also keep your one emergency condom (in case you decide to have sex in a bathroom stall or alley or whatever and walgreens isn't open)? PERFECTO. imma just have this bouncer hail my drunk ass a cab as soon as he finishes breaking up this fistfight, and i'll text you ass soon as he goes through the mcdonald's drive thru for me so i can spill lettuce all in the back of his shit. AND TOMORROW AFTER 3PM WE WILL HAVE VIRTUAL REENACTMENT SEX.
happy hunting, lovers. i'll just be over here loitering around the dessert buffet trying to convince your next boyfriend how much you enjoy anal. YOU'RE WELCOME.