Dating Diaries: Digging for Gold- Gbenga’s story

“Go for gold!” “Goal!!!!”
“Got to be in it to win it!”
“Hit them with your best shot!”

You thought, I was talking football right. You couldn’t be more wrong, even if you tried. Psyching myself up with the above clichés, I have learned, isn’t the best way to score with a great-looking girl.
For the majority of my bar-hopping years, I have been the passive one. A lot of male groups have guys like me — men who are openly willing to speak to a girl if she comes along, but not the type to bombard every woman within 10 feet with a canned pickup line.

I have stood by and watched the aggressive tactic work again and again, but I just can’t bring myself to employ it every weekend. Sometimes, whether by a crude alchemy in which I think my hair’s looking better than it did the night before or if I did more crunches in the gym that morning, I have a moment where I shed my sheepish skin and brazenly introduce myself to good-looking girls around me. But most nights, I stare at whatever game is on the bar’s TV or fiddle around with my iPhone while others seize the “ladies.”

My play-it-safe strategy fails more often than not. I usually end up going home alone. When I pass couples walking hand-in-hand, I feel sudden regret for having been so coy that night. “It can’t be that hard, so why can’t you step up to the plate?” I chide myself.
Irritated by my lonely sojourns home and motivated by the times when I did have the motive to approach women, I decided to make a change this month. Instead of waiting for the action to come to me,

I pledged to strike up conversation with at least one girl at every bar I went to.
In hindsight, I picked a pretty horrendous night to start my experiment I was feeling Christmassy, no thanks to the decorations about the city now. I was wearing a Santa hat, pretty much just for the hell of it.

Not too surprisingly, if you show up like that, you are bound to get some attention. The joint we touched down at is well known to recent college graduates, as the place to go if you want to drink a ton of cheap beer and talk to cute girls. Fun girls, too. I have never had a boring night at this watering hole. That night, I had no problem drawing the stare of a girl named Jen, who seemed uninterested in watching a male friend play beer pong. After making eye contact, I walked toward her and introduced myself.Not surprisingly, she wanted to know why I was dressed like I was.

“I’m out making sure everyone gets home OK,” I joked.

I got a cheap chuckle out of Jen, and we chatted innocuously a bit more before she rushed off to talk with a girlfriend and I lost track of her.

At some other bar on another night out on the town, on my way to the men’s room, I noticed that the only person in line for the unisex restroom was a pretty bombshell of a girl wearing an Asernal shirt. Bathroom-line chit-chat is about the easiest kind to make, so I used her T-shirt as my “in.”

“Did you see the game tonight?” I asked.

She said she hadn’t, but I was determined not to let this one go.

“I’m guessing you’re a ‘gunners,” I added.

“Yeah, I am!” she exclaimed. “Did you watch the game? What happened?”

“I did see it, but I’m not really a gunners fan,” I responded, hoping she would ask me who I liked so we could stretch the conversation out. .

Right as I was explaining to her that I was a Manchester United fan, a guy came over and nudged her on the arm. They walked away before I even got her name. I don’t think she even got to use the restroom.
It was frustrating, but a bearable, non-paralyzing type of frustration.  They were probably dating. Her departure was no fault of my own, so I kept my head high. I headed to a bar where friends of mine were drinking.

They were at a long, narrow nightspot that played deafeningly loud music for no apparent reason. I ordered a beer and chatted with my buddies for a few minutes before they headed out to smoke. Next to me, there were two girls huddled together, taking photos (“selfies”) of themselves. It looked ridiculous, and they seemed a bit trashy (lots of eyeliner, hair way too glossy, tons of midriff), but overall, they weren’t horrendous-looking. If I told myself I was going to be more active at bars, I had to step up.

In retrospect, I should’ve seen the warnings signs. Not only were they incessant with their “selfies,” but they were two girls and I was one guy. That meant I had to work twice as hard to win them over, and I failed miserably at this.

First, I playfully asked if they were going to share their selfies with me. I thought it was a decent line, but they didn’t laugh. Then, to get us started off on a better foot, I introduced myself, but the ear-splittingly loud Pitbull song in the background prevented us from hearing each other’s names completely.

Despite setbacks and rejections, I was out again the next weekend. Dumbly, I had ordered three beers with no cash at a cash-only bar. I headed outside to use the ATM, and I overheard a girl speaking a language that sounded like French. She had olive skin, dark eyes and rippling curves, just like a french girl I used to date. I asked her if she was P. Thirty minutes later, we were back at my apartment.

That night, I hadn’t stood outside any bars, uttering trite maxims like I was readying for a prizefight. There was no self-scrutiny. I just walked up to Tara and made natural conversation. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself.

Culled from

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *