Part Two (2): The Sexual Investment

A majority of us go through the week with the same thought going on in our head. This little thought is the idea that drives us through the constant idiocies of the workplace that we find ourselves subject to. "One day I'm going to start my own business and work for myself." Everyone has an idea, a 5-year plan, 10-year plan, buddies with "connections" that can get their future fortune 500 company started. The problem with plans that involve time, however, is time often has other plans. Since there are few of us that actually want to risk the guaranteed salary, the 401K, the benefits, the comfort in the fact that we can rely on someone else to keep the work coming in, we simply bide our time and countdown until it's Friday. The weekend is different things to different people. Most 20-something, college-grads in the DC-Metro area are on the same train come Friday night. This train, of course, is alcohol. Alcohol is the train that takes me from my doldrum 9-5 weekly existence into a blurry place of drunken stupor. Everyone has a preference of what kind of drunk they prefer. For those that visit the establishments of Adams Morgan and Georgetown, the general preference appears to be time-travel, out of body experience drunk. This particular state of mind, allows the participant to be only aware of certain basic sensory perceptions and that seems to be it. You walk in the club, bar, pub, what-have-you, and first thing you notice is the smell. Chanel 5, Polo Black, Versace Red Jeans, Curve... The chosen musks of the hunters and the prey. Combined with sweat and alcohol-soaked barmats, it's a lot for a nose to take in. You hear music, but if you've done your job right, you won't remember what songs were playing the next day, or the presence of music at all. You just remember there was someone grinding with you in the dark, you don't even remember what their face looks like, unless you happen to catch it the next morning (this can be a good or a bad thing). Wingmen and motherhens are in full force. Taking the dufs (designated ugly friend) and calling the bluffs, respectively. This is the game. There is no benefit come Monday morning. You're wallet and liver are that much weaker, so what is the point? Sexual investment. Every night in a bar on the weekend is a sexual investment. You invest money in clothing and drinks, negotiate through conversation, and see if you can earn a return. It's a drunken business proposition, and as long as you can sell the client what they are looking for, you're going to make a deal. However, like the office, business dominance is determined through appearances. I have a buddy that took a girl home the other night under the guise he was a medical doctor for the Washington Redskins. He was under the impression she was attractive. Once she was under him, he realized this impression was incorrect. Looks like she was the better salesman of the two.