Chick Magnet

I am a Chick Magnet. And not by choice.

I was out this weekend with my boys Phoenix and Rock. I grew up with these kids...we played Hingo Get It, rode the bike trails, and dispersed at the flickering of the streetlights together.

They’re great drinking buddies. They push me hard like I’m 7 years old again when I pull out cash for a round of Coronas. And they’re very protective. I love men who make me feel safe…even though it’s well documented that I ain’t no punk.

Anywho, Rock [pictured left] is married and Phoenix [pictured right] is young and broke. He’s in transition, just moving back to NY from Arizona and recently dis-engaged, trying to regroup and make some paper before moving on again.

I’ve taken it upon myself to get him some play, because it’s just not right to have this good man single and unattached when there are so many hungry chicks out there. Good chicks. So we traipse around town and get drunk often. And often, he comes up short.

He’s very attractive…tall, athletic build, dresses well. Nice smile. Smells great. I’m perplexed as to why he isn’t consistently the most sweated guy everywhere we go. But I’m beginning to believe it’s because of me.

So Saturday we’re out on the street, the boys smoking a black before we go into this lounge. Out of nowhere, this celebutante blond girl walks out of the lounge, wades through the crowd outside and makes a beeline for me.

“How can I hide this?” She shows me a large wine bottle and her tiny purse. She has on a short jacket but not enough to hide her prize. So we strategize, and I help her fit it beneath her blouse, up over her small tits, and show her how to hold her arms down over the sides. I feel like I’m dressing a mannequin, and the mannequin is kind of twisting her torso so that my hands touch her bare skin. I'm doing my best not to make contact, like handling a lye relaxer with no gloves. She’s looking me in the eye the entire time, like she’s about to do a quick leaner, and plant one on me. Like she’s about to at once fulfill her DeGeneres and Mandinga fantasies in one fell, drunken swoop.

Either that or she’s just happy she was right in pegging me for a clever pretty thief.

I give her the last of the instructions and send her packing. She pushes out a cheek and I oblige and do the NY thing [I swear I was never in the habit of casual cheek kissing before I moved to NYC…or maybe before I collided with NYers in college]. She again pierces me with these intense baby blue eyes (no homo) and says, “You are so beautiful.”

Thanks Paris. That’s hot.

Fast fwd to this other club and I’m good and drunk now. I pull Phoenix to the dance floor and explain to him, as I do every time we go out, that when women see him attached, they will swarm.

“Besides, you’re the flyest guy in here.”

“I’m always the flyest guy wherever I am, and it never matters.” Well, the boy is not lacking in confidence. He’s also not really exaggerating.

So indeed we attract some attention, and we settle back at our table on the sidelines. These young chicks congregate and my boys entertain them. I’m drunk, dancing by myself in the corner and soon the attention of our new female friends in on me.

It’s not long before I’m sitting among them, talking and laughing, their eyes glazed over, giving me the glossy-lipped pouts and flirty smiles that should be directed at my boys. One girl, who I suspect is somebody’s mama, rests her hands on my thighs as she tells me her seeds are 8, 5 and 3. I deduce, as I'm simultaneously removing her hands, that she first got knocked up at 17.

My boys sip their brews silently, ready to go.

There are other little subtle hints I get from these girls…things I can identify as things I also do to get guys’ attention. I can’t call it, really. I mean, I was not outfitted in cornrows, Iversons, and a backwards Yankee fitted. Nor do I rock the old school Eve blond dyke* 'fro. Nor did I sing along to any of the lesbian anthems: “Don’tcha (wish your girlfriend),” “I’m in Love Wit a Stripper” and “Is That Your Chick.”

It’s bizarre really because I’m an attractive girl, but more of an acquired taste. I’m not sure if chocolatey cute is currently in. I do know for sure that azz and tits are in season year round, and sadly, I’m not particularly packing in either dept. ::sigh:: I typically rope ‘em in with the wit. Or the eyes. Occasionally the lips. Definitely with a laugh and an attentive ear.

Eureka, I’m a woman’s dream!

So I figure since the ladies love cool Wise, I should try to figure out what I do and pass the jewels to you young boys…

1. I think women really like tank tops…(and tight jeans for that matter). Mine was black, and modestly form-fitting, and had the NY skyline emblazoned on the front. Women LOVE a good skyline. That shit’s romantic.
2. Hats. They create the illusion of intrigue and sexocity. Mine was a black and white checkered newsboy, with a mean lean to the left side. Bent brim. Stopped just above the sculpted eyebrows.
3. Women like when you ask them questions about themselves. Now this one is obvious. We like to talk, and when we’re drunk that shit is so hilarious. So I ask questions. And I also ask follow-up questions. Several. And don’t think it’s a strength garnered from my journalism background. The inquiries are based purely on whatever I think will provide the most comic relief.
4. I look them in the eye when they speak. And I smile. Because I’m trying not to laugh. And I’m watching to make sure they don’t look at my chest during the entire convo. Guys do that.
5. I think they like clear lip gloss. Cuz that’s what I rock.
6. They don’t like to dance. I NEVER ask.
7. Offer to go with her to the bathroom. You can’t actually go in or anything like I can, but the gesture shows that you care about her bladder, and encourage her to freshen up her weave.
8. I don’t think they like their personal space invaded. I typically maintain a few drinks’ lengths away when chatting.
9. You should ask her what she’s drinking. Granted when you do it, the implication (and therefore expectation) is that you will then buy it…but when I do it, it sparks a lively discussion about the last time she was so drunk that she fucked her baby daddy. And it always ends with her touching me inappropriately while laughing herself almost out of her chair.
10. And finally, compliment her shoes. Then tell her you got the hook up down at the Payless. BOGO, bitches!

*My best friend is a dyke. I have diplomatic immunity with the term. :)