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FRIENDS AND BENEFITS

I Was Invisible at Bars Until I Changed These 3 Things

Our intrepid dating columnist chronicles how she cracked the code on meeting attractive people in public venues.

Tootsie Haine
Published
Updated
Photo illustration of a lined notebook with high school doodles about love drawn and cowboy boots

Elizabeth Brockway/The Daily Beast

Welcome to Friends and Benefits. Follow our new sex and relationships columnist into the lives and psyches of men and women, young and old, gorgeous and tragic, divine and insane. All names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the bachelors in question.

This is a column about dating. What is dating? It’s a kind of optimism, in yourself and in the world at large; putting it all out there to feel something—to be scrutinized, rejected, used, and maybe changed forever.

I’m 29 years old, and have spent the last half of my life dating: I’ve dated across the country and across the internet. I’ve dated for romance. I’ve dated for sex. I’ve dated for sport. I’ve even tried to date for money. I believe deeply in love, all the while questioning what it even is.

A very tall and thus (fairly) attractive man once told me he had never made the first move. He didn’t need to, he said, because women came up to him at least once a night. Sure, the questions were run-of-the-mill—“Do you play basketball?” or the like—but it got things going.

Illustration of a spiral notebook with doodles including hearts and two love birds sitting on a branch with hearts coming up
FRIENDS AND BENEFITS

Why Dating Still Matters, Even If It Feels Like a Disaster

Tootsie Haine

Uncertain whether this beanstalk was to be believed, I asked some other tall men (or at least men who claimed to be tall) on Hinge whether they were frequently approached. They said no. But they also said they almost never approached women.

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Bars aren’t the sex-charged carnal dens they were once purported to be. I’d never had much romantic luck in them. Then I started to change my habits.

It’s true that bars—at least straight bars—don’t seem like the sex-charged carnal dens they were once purported to be. I’d never had much romantic luck in them, and was all set to believe it would never happen. Then I started to change my habits.

Consider this a checklist for your own misadventures:

  1. I went out later at night. A person’s guard goes down in the dark; stiff manners that seem to be required in the daylight are forsaken for a more frank and free mindset as the night wears on.
  2. I became a regular at a bar I loved. I sat outside, amid tables packed tightly together. In such circumstances, it was inevitable someone would sit beside me.
  3. While I waited for my friend to arrive, I’d read a book—a big book, a first edition hardcover that captured the eyes and intrigue of patrons and passersby.

I also traded e-cigarettes for the real deal. Take from that what you will.

None of these actions was done with the express intent of appealing to a male audience. But it was a welcome side effect. Suddenly, guys were asking me for a light or if a seat next to me was taken. They wondered what I was reading. We’d start talking about literature, friends would arrive—mine, his, or both—and join us, and before I knew it, I was snapping up phone numbers.

This is a relatively new development, but so far I have met four handsome men this way.

Admittedly, the word “men” is a bit of a stretch; three of them were in college. And while they were too young to be made much sexual or romantic use of, they were enthusiastic and keen to talk, not about what we did for work or third-tier mutual friends (we ran in different social circles, after all), but about life’s great questions.

Though fewer people are making open-air, in-the-flesh moves these days, rest assured that many are still up for it—even yearn for it.

The fourth guy was at least a college graduate, and though the commencement was fresh, his interest was sincere and eventually charming. I ignored his advances the first time, but was able to put my second thoughts into action when we ran into each other again (at the same bar) a couple of weeks later.

This time, his glasses were gone, and he’d traded up from the white undershirt worn during our original meeting.

He was Texan and, on this occasion, sported a Western shirt and snakeskin cowboy boots. By last call, we were outside the bar making out. In the heat of the moment, I took advantage of the authentic snap buttons and ripped his shirt open. Who cared if he was 22? The boy was a lively kisser and had at least some chest hair.

Though fewer people are making open-air, in-the-flesh moves these days, rest assured that many are still up for it—even yearn for it. If you can think of an inaugural comment or question (having a book helps; being a smoker helps), you may very well be in there.

The Texan left town for two weeks on a trip to Los Angeles immediately after our kiss. I was surprised to find myself texting and talking to him on the phone frequently while he was away.

In L.A., he asked for recommendations, took them, and returned to New York with a candle for me from my favorite museum’s gift shop.

Go figure, the long and ultra-sincere communications—and such a thoughtful gift—at such an early phase of the relationship (if you could call it that) were too much in the end; too much weight awarded to something that was supposed to be light and fun and inconsequential.

After a chat and a few kisses during our reunion, I escorted him to the door, having not put out, and stopped returning his calls.

Tootsie Haine
Tootsie Haine

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