I’m very picky about the kind of woman I let reject me

As a young guy in the big city, I have some pretty high standards when it comes to meeting members of the opposite sex. And why shouldn’t I? I take pride in my appearance. I work out regularly. I buy expensive clothing and hair care products. And you know what? I expect the ladies that enter my life to be the same way. Which is why, these days, I find myself being very picky about the kind of woman I let reject me.

Prime example. The other night I’m with my peeps over at Zhöne, a swanky nightclub off the main strip here in Jacksonville. And while we’re ordering a round of Miller Genuine Drafts, I glance over at these two chicks down the bar from us. Now, one of them is a knockout, or at the very least a technical knockout. Bleached blonde hair, perfect smile, thin waist, pimped-out nails – the works. And the other one? Baseball cap, sloppy make-up, frumpy physique, wearing what I’m sure used to be her dad’s baggy-ass Ward Cleaver cardigan. So I ask you: as an eligible bachelor out on the prowl, isn’t it pretty obvious which one I make the move on? I mean, come on. Why would anyone waste their precious time getting rejected by a “four,” when standing right next to her is a “nine” just waiting to shoot you down? It doesn’t take a professional mathematician to do the math on that kind of math.

So later that night, I have a bit too much to drink. Okay, wayyyy too much to drink. And in my feelin’-no-pain state, I wrangle my way over to the dance floor and try to get a little “chummy” with one of the Delta Gamma sorority gals who’s up from Miami for the weekend. Fast-forward three minutes, and do you honestly think it’s a butchy plain-Jane with Ethan Hawke teeth pouring her drink onto my head and storming off in disgust? Yeah, fat chance, Bagger Vance. Even with the beer-goggles strapped on tighter than a special class kid’s helmet, I knew I needed to keep my eye on the prize: the Jessica Alba lookalike with the heart-shaped ass and rack you could wakeboard off of. And I’ve gotta tell you, nothing beats the feeling of holding out for the perfect girl to be rejected by. Even with her Vodka Red Bull streaming down my face, I could see she appreciated that I’m a man with some seriously high standards.

But don’t think these standards simply shut down the moment management forcibly ejects me from the club. A couple of weeks ago, I’m chaperoning my teenaged cousin at that underwater Shark Encounter thing at Seaworld. And while the hammerheads are swirling around us, he starts chatting up some retainer-sporting ninth grader with questionable posture. Long story short, she blows him off, and he’s wicked bummed. But being the primo role model I am, I give him one of my patented chick management lessons. How? By confidently walking over to the hottest piece of ass in the Greater Kirk area and offering her the chance to bask in my Kirkian radiance. And needless to say, my little cousin’s mind was blown. Yep, even in a submerged acrylic tube at the bottom of a shark tank, your boy Kirk-o managed to hit it out of the park, rejection-wise. But let’s be serious, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Between my Axe body spray, frosted tips, and Joe-Boxers-pulled-up/baggy-jeans-pulled-low combo, I was primed for some pretty high-class denial.

Look, life is short, and there’s no time to stand around settling for second best. I mean hell, I’m almost 26 years old, and do you know I still haven’t been snubbed by a ridiculously gorgeous Asian chick? Not even once. In fact, I haven’t even gotten around to being told “fuck off!” by a muy caliente pair of Spanish twins. How messed up is that?

So here’s the moral of the story. There’s a dickload of competition from other playas like me out there. And if you’re not striving to aim high, the restraining order filed by that Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue model is gonna be delivered to that go-getter over there, and not to you. Now that, my friend, would be the ultimate rejection.

October 2007