I walked into Apostle planning to order a drink when I noticed a cute blonde zoomette standing nearby, scanning the room like she was looking for someone.
“Are you in line?” I asked.
She wasn’t.
Her name was Holly.
The conversation flowed easily, and after a few minutes she agreed to play ping pong upstairs. I usually don’t buy random women drinks, but she was matching my investment in the conversation, so I ordered two green tea shots, a beer for myself, and a High Noon for her.
Upstairs was chaos.
The ping pong tables had a waiting list written on a chalkboard, and I wasn’t interested in standing around for twenty minutes hoping momentum would survive. We turned around and headed back downstairs.
As we talked, I learned she was twenty-three, visiting from Dallas, and completely unimpressed with Ashford.
“Ashford’s boring.”
Slightly offensive.
Her friends were across the street at Opium, but she had wandered into Apostle because she didn’t want to wait in line. Four of them were squeezed into a one-bedroom apartment for the weekend, and she sounded ready for a break from the group.
On the way through the bar she spotted the photo booth and pulled me inside.
We took two strips of pictures.
She insisted on paying.
Afterward she kept mentioning that she wanted to dance.
I suggested Opium, but the line was still a dealbreaker.
Then, fueled by just enough liquid courage, I threw out another option.
“What about the strip club?”
Her face lit up.
She laughed and told me she loved strip clubs after visiting one in New Orleans.
“I know one.”
I ordered an Uber to Velour.
We walked outside, and I took her hand as we crossed the sidewalk toward the pickup spot.
The Uber arrived.
At almost the exact same moment, so did her friends.
Apparently they’d been looking for her.
Before I could say anything, the unofficial leader of the group—a guy who immediately set off my gaydar—looked over from the curb and asked,
“Can you just leave her?”
I was already sitting inside the Uber.
I’d already paid for the ride.
For a second I considered trying to salvage the interaction.
Then I looked at the situation.
Her entire group had arrived.
She was immediately pulled back into their orbit.
The energy had changed.
“Yeah,” I said.
The Uber pulled away.
Field Notes
Nightlife rewards momentum.
It also destroys momentum.
You can spend thirty minutes building a conversation only to have one unexpected variable erase it in thirty seconds.
Sometimes the obstacle is another guy.
Sometimes it’s logistics.
Sometimes it’s a group reclaiming one of its own.
Not every interaction needs to be rescued.
Sometimes the highest-leverage move is recognizing that the environment has changed and letting it go.
The city moved on.
So did I.
PS
I’m opening a few 1:1 sessions for guys rebuilding after a breakup/divorce—structure, dating, routines, and getting your life tight again. If that’s you, reply or DM me.
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Enjoyed reading this one!