A Field Guide to Urban Peacocking
Part 2: Sunglasses, Crosses, and the Lesbian Safe Zone - In which our heroines navigate modern courtship's most confusing specimens
Seeking refuge from the pointing brigade, Tracy and I retreated to what I now recognize as the Lesbian Safe Zone—a corner blessed by proximity to the DJ booth, a drink ledge, and most importantly, a gorgeous woman with a shaved head who understood the revolutionary concept of space.
This buxom beauty danced with sultry confidence, offering bedroom eyes paired with respectful distance. Revolutionary! She made me feel things while allowing me to maintain my personal bubble. It's almost as if women understand nuance. What a concept.
But safety was an illusion. Jazz Hands kept circling like a geriatric shark, became too much to handle so Tracy and I abandoned our lesbian sanctuary and headed to the bar for some liquid reinforcement. While waiting for our drinks, a very tall woman approached me, absolutely ecstatic about my simple outfit - just a t-shirt and tuxedo blazer.
Tracy witnessed the entire interaction.
"Your shirt isn't that great. She wants to fuck you."
Classic Tracy analysis while tall legs was still standing next to me.
From there, we migrated to the back of the venue, to take in the view. Tracy—bless her optimistic heart—decided to engage with perhaps the evening's most confusing specimen: Sunglasses Indoors Guy.
Let me paint you a picture: decent-looking man, wearing sunglasses inside a dimly lit bar, not ironically. Already problematic. But wait—it gets worse. Tracy compliments him, and he can't hear her because he's wearing earbuds. Not earplugs for sound protection. Earbuds. Listening to different music. At a music venue.
Wait, huh? Like, literally.
After removing his personal soundtrack, he launched into some philosophical nonsense about "trying not to be himself tonight." This from a man wearing two crosses—apparently doubling down on Jesus for extra protection against whatever sins he was planning.
He clinked glasses with us (uninvited) and delivered the devastating line: "You're both pretty."
Wow. Groundbreaking. I'm sure that silver tongue has opened many doors and dropped many panties. While yes, compliments are lovely, I prefer my flirtation with a side of actual personality. Call me old-fashioned.
The real plot twist came when he asked for our post-bar plans. Upon learning we had work (that quaint concept), he informed us he "loves work but doesn't actually do that." Sir, this is not the flex you think it is.
Then he physically moved away from Tracy—who had been engaging with him this entire time—and positioned himself next to me for the phone inquiry: "Do you have an iPhone or Android?"
"I have a phone," I replied, because apparently we're playing Twenty Questions now.
"Great!" he said, producing his device like a magician revealing a rabbit.
"Oh wait, no, I'm good." Never once even flinching to pull mine out.
"I’m married."
His response? "So am I. And I have a mistress and a girlfriend."
Ah. So that's what "not trying to be yourself" meant. He was trying to be a discount Hugh Hefner.
"They all know about each other and seem to like it," he added with the confidence of a man who's clearly never heard of emotional labor.
Tracy and I suddenly developed urgent thirst and evacuated to the bar, where we processed this interaction through the healing power of alcohol and almost belly laughter at the sheer wildness of the evening's events thus far.
Returning to our lesbian sanctuary, we encountered the Young Predator—a cute but aggressive specimen who grabbed my hand without permission, demanded I twirl, and called me a "great dancing" (grammar sold separately). When I politely told him "no thanks" because apparently I was experimenting with grace instead of my usual directness. He looked genuinely shocked. Apparently, his youth and cheekbones usually granted him grab-and-spin privileges.
Undeterred by rejection, he immediately pivoted to a nearby woman who, tragically, allowed him to manipulate her into his amateur ballroom fantasies. She was dancing perfectly fine on her own, but sure, let this drunk child choreograph your evening and stare at me while twirling you. Ewww.
Women: we need to own our shit. This caveman behavior shouldn't be tolerated just because the perpetrator has a pretty face and the entitlement of youth.
The evening's peacocks kept me from several promising diamonds in the rough—interesting-looking humans I pointed out to Tracy, who dismissed them with "not my type." This from the woman who found Crosses McGee compelling.
But there was redemption: the gorgeous woman with the shaved head told me she loved me. So there's that.
Sometimes the best part of a night out isn't who you meet, but who you manage to avoid. And sometimes, it's remembering that good conversation and genuine connection are precious commodities—and when someone seems exceptionally skilled at both, they might just have a self-help book about manipulating women hiding in their Amazon author profile.
I appreciate authenticity and will remain curious about human connection despite encountering so many bewildering specimens in the wild. These anthropological expeditions are truly entertaining even when I am reminded that even genuinely interesting people can have deeply questionable side hustles.
I will continue to report my findings.