Know When Not to Go For the Close

Aug 5, 2013 by

          With Friday came another good night at The Thompson. My favourite Press Play Pro boys are Europe bound, so my timing for a second visit to 1812 couldn’t have been better. (Guys, when in Rome, please go to Frigidarium, near Piazza Navona, for as much cannolo Siciliano and bacio gelati as you can stomach. Remember, there’s a chick on a happiness experiment living vicariously through you from home.) You couldn’t find two better people to host a Friday night in downtown Toronto. In atypical club scene fashion, they treat me like an old friend from the moment I enter the room to the moment my heels force my feet to call it a night, periodically checking that I’m enjoying myself throughout the evening. Cue my melting heart. These guys are rapidly transforming my entire perspective of club promoters, which was wrongfully skewed negative. Their genuine kindness and friendliness may have repeatedly subjected them to my arms flung around their necks. (Sorry boys, I’m a sucker for sweetness.)

          Second to its creators, Clockwork lures me with its crowd. As I found my first time at The Thompson, I was amongst sociable company. Whether upstairs in the lounge or downstairs in the club, my friend and I were drawn into conversation by outgoing guys, many of whom introduced us to their friends, female ones included. Again, I spent more time talking to new people than dancing, while The Thompson continued to collect points for impressiveness. Toronto friends, if you’re in search of entertainment minus the King W attitude, visit The Thompson Hotel for Clockwork Fridays this summer.

          Now hopefully having convinced all of you to support Everything Press Play, let’s dive into the reason for this post: the guy who could have had my number. As I said, my gorgeous girlfriend and I were approached by various people throughout the night. I’m easily won over by good conversation. I’ll chat with almost anyone – attractive or unattractive, friend or stranger, guy or girl. I have no patience for pretentiousness. I like to interact with people, which is why I seek out sociable settings, like The Thompson.

          While I enjoyed the company of most everyone we spoke to, there was one guy that I found cute enough to relinquish bits of flirtatiousness for. He was 25, European by descent, and worked in finance (I find mutual funds uncharacteristically fascinating). He could hold a conversation, which I quickly moved to personal pursuits outside of the office. (Since graduating university, I’ve noticed that people rely on work as a conversation starter. I get it. It’s easy. It’s also boring. I like to get at people’s passions. They’re interesting to hear about and they help people open up, giving me a lot more to play with than the scripted telling of the 9 to 5, followed by the unimpressive I-went-to-X-university-to-get-X-fancy-useless-degree blurb.) Three days later, I can’t for the life of me remember what this guy does after 5. He may have been musically inclined. My eventual lack of interest in him has caused my memory to fail me. Regardless, after about 20 minutes with him, I sensed that my friend was tired of keeping his friend entertained, so I told him that we were going. This is the part where most guys ask for the phone number. Not this one. He asked me to go for breakfast after the club.



          When I politely declined, he went in to kiss me. I instinctively leaned back and turned away, giving him my cheek as I tried to make my escape. He was stunned. Admittedly, I was as surprised as he was. Suddenly, I found it strange that a guy thought it was okay to kiss me after 20 minutes of me speaking to him. There was no intense connection. No chemistry. No rapport built. Just a guy and a girl talking by a bar. Since when has it been okay to clash tongues that quickly?

          Since always, I heard a voice respond inside of my head. This situation wasn’t any different from similar encounters I’ve had before. I was different. In that moment, I had unconsciously decided that kissing a guy I don’t know is no longer acceptable. Wow, I thought, impressed by myself. One night, three months ago, I had made out with a guy whose name I didn’t care to ask, right before going to the hotel room of another guy, from my clubbing days, who I knew no better than a few 2008 club run-ins and a 2009 parking lot “date.” There I was, just a few months later, firmly acting on the standards I’ve set out for myself without even having to think about them. I’ve flourished into some high-quality girlfriend material, I must say.

          Bringing me back to 1812, this guy, oblivious to my obvious hint, tried to kiss me again. Really? Guys are still playing this foolish game at 25? (I’m seriously starting to wonder if my minimum age requirement for a boyfriend should be raised to 26. I think 24 and 25 just may be too young for me. The majority of my friends are in their late twenties and older. Maybe dating prospects should be too.) This guy was beyond saving himself. I thought I was pretty clear the first time. At this point, I used my right hand to hold him back as I slipped my left hand out from his grasp before walking away without saying a word. Smiling to myself with utmost pride, I confidently strutted toward my friend to divulge the details.

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