picking up boys in bars

There was a time, for several years, I went dancing 2-3 times a week. In the beginning, it was hard for me to let go and allow someone else to lead, but I soon found safety in letting go on the floor. With that came swing, two-step, freeform jazz, it didn’t matter the music or style of dance so long as it required a strong lead and lots of connection. I felt so alive on the dance floor and able to be completely free for those windows of time. It brought out a boldness in me that was otherwise muted through much of my life. 

Early on, I made a rule with myself that I never would never go home with or date any dance partners. I was not about to ruin those windows of connection and trust. But that wasn’t much of an issue- most of the dancers were there only to dance, few drank, and fewer still dated each other. They were a community and I appreciated being allowed to share the floor. But sometimes, I would meet someone who was not a dancer. Not a regular, and that is intriguing. While I know picking up boys in bars is not a great idea, sometimes I just can’t help myself.

On this night, I was dancing at a place so small it felt like a friend’s oversized living room when I thought I’d noticed a handsome, well-put together man watching me dance. When I took a water break at the bar he asked, “How did you learn to move like that?” I told him, “Well, I come here often, but I’ve never seen you.”

And that was because he was here for an interview- for a big promotion- and he had actually just learned that he’d be offered the job so he was checking out Austin but he didn’t really know anyone here so he’d come out to listen to some music. I introduced myself and said, “Now you know someone. I have a couple more dances left in me if you’d like to dance.” He said he prefers to be the one making music but would love  a tour guide if I was up for another spot after I finished dancing. I was game because I loved showing off my town to geographically unavailable men. 

He was hoping for more Texas music so we grabbed an Uber to the Whitehorse and I tried to teach him to dance, but he really wasn’t a dancer. He did live up to making music and gathered a crowd playing the broken down piano on the enclosed porch of the bar. After he’d played for about 20 minutes, we sat outside and shared stories about figuring out life and fears of making big changes. I felt the quick intimacy developing that is only found in chance encounters. Those encounters where you may never meet again so you can afford to be fully vulnerable. 

He asked if I’d like to go back to his place. I was hesitant, because our time together was so lovely and going with him might turn a good moment sour. He interrupted my thoughts by saying his hotel/apartment was on the 16th floor and had a beautiful view of the city. I had seen bigger cities from higher spots. I wasn’t hesitant about going with him as a concept, but was debating if I wanted this bubble of a perfect night to be burst by the world that existed outside of our immediate experience.  

I decided if he’d be willing to walk across town, I’d go with him. So I told him, “I’ll go, but only if we walk through the city. It’s about thirty minutes.”

“That sounds great! I love to walk,” and I became a bit more smitten.

We walked through downtown and he told me how music came to him in colors. I told him about how when I write, I live in the places that emerge through my pen. He asked about the high rises we passed, all so new, what was here before? He was inquisitive and observant. Cultured, but not snobby. We met cops on Clydesdales and dodged puking bachelorettes. We laughed at the strangeness of brides entering what was to be the “Happiest Day of My Life” with a hangover.  He told me stories about riding his Triumph up Hwy 1 and mused about how he was looking forward to riding it across the high desert of the west. With a squeeze of my hand, he said how he’d love someone to ride with him and my heart kept at wondering, “Could I be that someone.”

Back at his corporate apartment which did have an undeniably lovely view. I leaned against the glass wall of the patio, looking straight down and then far out arms stretched wide. I don’t have a fear of heights so love these rare opportunities to feel like I was flying. He stepped behind me, ran his hands along my arms and held them out as he kissed my neck. I could suddenly only think of the Titanic, Rose & Jack over the bow. To keep from giggling at that, I turned back toward him and kissed him back. He kissed my neck and I leaned back with a purr. Then, with a wave that was a mixture of nausea and sobriety, I realized that glass was stress tested, but I didn’t know for how much. While, I’m not afraid of heights, I’m terrified of slamming to my death so shoved him away and suggested we go inside.

We went in and he offered me wine. I was beginning to feel sober so accepted the wine, but only took a sip. I was vaguely recalling that he had earlier, casually mentioned a woman he was dating, but wasn’t in love with. She wanted to help him move to Austin, but he didn’t think it was a good idea, “It’s just a casual thing,” he said. As he kissed me in all the right ways, I kept hearing, “it’s just a casual thing.” 

My brain took us two years ahead and in this imagination, I was “the casual thing” he wasn’t in love with and the whole situation of his beautiful hotel, perfect kisses and quick wit moved from fabulously romantic to just plain ick. It just didn’t feel right- I felt out of my body. I was cheating on my morals. There was a woman out there who I would never want to be- a woman who might be talking to her friends about this great guy and the potential of their future. This guy would never become a dance partner or any other kind of partner. He was just a guy from a bar.

I extracted myself from all of our mixed up limbs and clothes and told him I couldn’t stay because while it might not make sense to him, but she didn’t likely think things were casual. He insisted on exchanging contact information and I figured that was harmless enough and we exchange numbers and emails into each others’ phones. 

As I held my heels and walked barefoot toward home. I imagined a love that included riding Triumphs across high deserts, stopping for picnics at an abandoned graffitied rest area, and making love under the Texas sun. A week later, he was still under my skin, I wrote an erotic story about all the potential of an adventurous love and, after a couple glasses of wine, emailed it to him. He wrote back, from a different email, that he loved it. Over the following couple months, he texted me a few times with questions about neighborhoods, advice on Austin generalities, and tedious chitchat. Last I hears from him, was when he let me know he’d gotten a place in a horrible new concrete block building, which told he took none of my advice. About 6 months later, we quite literally ran into each other one afternoon at Whole Foods. I was on the phone with my mom so we didn’t talk, but he texted me later, saying he wanted to see me again, “I owe you dinner,” but like that night, we never closed the deal, because I blocked his number.

On the night we met, I wish I’d just said goodbye at the bar, but was glad I later listened to my gut and made my 3am exit. If I hadn’t extended our encounter, I would have always wondered after lost potential. But instead, our night together was a perfect capsule. We met, momentarily fell in love, and had an perfectly simple breakup. I didn’t let myself become “the other woman” or “a way out” for him and I learned a beautiful lesson about the warning “Don’t pick up boys in bars.” There is nothing wrong with picking up boys in bars, but you have to know when to put them down.