Desperate Dating in Iraq

I have noticed that I don’t turn people down flat out very often. I think my theory is that if you are ballsy enough to walk over and strike up a conversation with me, I should at least just take it as a compliment and give you the time of day.

And that’s just what I do: get up the balls, make a half-respectful entrance, and I’m likely to at least have a little chat with you. Living in the Middle East has taught me to be all the more appreciative of being hit on by a westerner-- the (perhaps arrogantly concluded) reason being that a Middle Eastern man thinks I’m attractive by virtue of my having hair any shade other than jet black.

So last Thursday (which is Iraqi equivalent to Friday thanks to the Muslim-dictated work week), I was at Skate, the infamous (and only) bar inside the US compound in the town where I’ve now taken up residence . No sooner had I sat down at a table on the side, prepared to sip my beer and ease into the scene while my best friend flitted about hello-ing, than a Billy-Bob-Jo type walked up and offered me a handshake. His name was John, his confidence and ease of manner were attractive, and his southern accent was so refreshing (never thought I’d say that) that I couldn’t help smiling and chit chatting happily with him. We all like that bar for exactly what it is: a typical small town kind of joint where you are pretty much guaranteed to see the entire social group within the course of the evening. Its also the only place that you can really dance, mingle with a more or less expat only crowd (which is not to say I don’t like the locals, but sometimes I want to wear a Skirt! ), and swim next door if you get drunk enough. John commanded my attention for a good 10 minutes before I started zoning off, which was when he keenly invited me to step outside to the pool so that we could hear each other better. I oblidged, not grudgingly. Except for his fatal need to talk mostly about himself, I enjoyed his company enough to hang in there for another 20 minutes or so. When we walked back inside, we separated and came back together a handful of time. I was impressed with his non-clinginess, although he leaned heavily on buying me beers as his go-to topic and was visibly—and lamely—disappointed that someone else beat him to it for round three. And, I admit, I got increasingly annoyed each time he came back and asked permission to restart the communication. (JUST SIT! DON’T ASK! Be cool!)

Of the many things I learned about John (did I mention he talked almost exlusively about himself) was that he works seven days a week starting as early as 6:30 in the mornings most days. As a result, he usually doesn’t stick around Skate after midnight or so. I politely turned down his request for my phone number (I’ll see him again, and I don’t need to be complicating my entry into this society anymore than it already is) as he indicated that it was time for him to leave. At this point, sealing the deal of Playing it Cool would have meant a short goodbye. But what does John do? He takes my hand and says that he wants to introduce me to the bartender. I’m like, that’s cool: bartender is a good guy to know. We walk up to the bar, say our hellos, and then I hear him tell the bartender that everything else I drink that night is on him!

That was more or less it for me, and I know I don’t need to elaborate for this audience. REALLY, guy, REALLY? You’re gonna buy me off in such an obtuse and overtly crass way? Is that NECESSARY? Is it even rational?

Lameness exists, it must be concluded then, in even the most remote corners of the world. Where there are American men, there are idiotic pick up strategies. I think I’ll stick to the locals.