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It happened again. And I was suspicious the whole time, too.

I kinda flirted with a girl last night. I mostly just pushed her away–verbally, not physically. There was a sort of neediness that leaned towards obsessive–she asked me if I was her boyfriend a lot and I nonchalantly provided a selection of answers from “Yes” to “Who are you?” to “Stop touching me.” She’s a bartender at a place where I have a friend who bartends so a lot of my jokes last night were things like, “Are you just hitting on me to get a better tip?  Because 15% of 0 is still 0.”

One of the other bartenders–and I think he’s cool as Hell, I just wish this had made more sense at the time–kept coming over and standing behind her. He easily could have been grabbing her ass without me being able to see. Which, if I was him, I would have done, too. Well, I did later. But the point is, she flirted with me to get to him. Which, realistically, is pretty awesome. She poured me a bunch of free wine and bought me a drink at another bar.

There was a moment where they looked at each other and went outside. They might have said something about a smoke break to each other, but they definitely said nothing to anyone else. It only hit me when I finished my beer: they had double-teamed an Irish goodbye and disappeared. I started looking for her to see if she’d buy me another when I realized I had been used to heighten interest between two people that are already involved. So I switched out of “Taking a girl home tonight” mode and geared back into “Hanging out with friends” mode.

I’ve got to figure out what it is about me that screams, “Gentleman on the street and neither a freak in the bed nor a danger to ladies’ hips.”

Challenge accepted, women.

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