It’s not that he isn’t attractive to women. He’s single, in good shape, a nice guy, not bad looking. Women like him. Yet put him in a social occasion, and he’ll follow a pattern. He’ll see a woman across the room that catches his eye. He’ll ask his mates who she is. They’ll tell him, and confirm that she’s not there with anyone. Grand, he thinks.
Then he hits the bar like the Allies hitting Omaha beach.
An hour and a half later, he’s ready, magically transformed from a nervous but not unappealing guy into a fella full of soup who’s ready to rock this one’s world. That’s his point of view anyway.
She gets the sloppy drunken grin, the waft of booze and sweat, and his personality which is either wonderfully relaxed (his view) or incapable of self-editting (hers). He may still succeed in charming her. There are some women who will be just as drunk as him, or feel that that an Irishman being drunk before attempting to chat one up is standard procedure. On the other hand, she could have different standards, and expect that a man who expresses a romantic interest in her might at least attempt to remain fully conscious during the initial encounter.
He continues drinking during the event, even when she decides to call it quits and heads to get a taxi, which he volunteers to assist her with. Outside, alcohol pumping through his bloodstream, in the foggy recesses of the judgement centres of his mind, an idea suddenly ignites: He’ll play his trump card. As she struggles to wave down a taxi, he unbuckles his trousers, pulls down his flies, and extracts his flaccid penis, asking her as to whether she’d like “a bit of that”?
She’s out of there fast. The following morning, as he nurses his hangover, he remains oblivious to most of the details of the previous night, save for his conviction that Dublin has an awful lot of lesbians.
Author’s note: ‘lest I be accused of exaggeration, all events in the above post have been witnessed by the author.