I recently donned my anthropologist's hat and stepped out of my tiny, sad apartment for a little field work. I arranged to meet up with a group of rowdy girls. The idea was to hit the town with them to see firsthand how they go "hunting."
These are not your typical demure, shrinking violets. It was a group of women in their late-20s to mid-30s, all of whom are single and tired of hitting the snooze button on their biological clocks. In other words, exactly sort of women who scare the bejesus out of wallflowers like me: assertive, strong and willing to make the first move.
They agreed to let me tag along but warned me not to "clam-jam" them (the XX-chromosome version of "cock-blocking").
The evening began at the apartment of a longtime friend, who was my "in" with these gals. The deal was that I could observe the ladies in action, provided I was willing to serve as designated driver. My friend made it very clear right off the bat that we were not going to end up hooking up that night. I agreed that would have been a terrible idea, although I still secretly held out hope that enough booze and rejection would steer her back to little old me.
(I'm not too proud to be someone's Plan B for a night, and God knows I've been trying to hit that for years.)
We met the rest of the group at The Usual on Magnolia, because these ladies keep it classy. I always dread the shrill greeting of groups of women, and this group was particularly dreadful. It was as though it was a competition to see who was happiest to see the others -- and the winner was the one whose voice went into the highest register. The happy hour that night was busy, but most everyone there was with someone of the opposite sex or deemed unworthy of the pack's attention. Down the street at the Boiled Owl, the scene wasn't much more promising, so we decided to hit the Fox and the Hound in downtown Fort Worth for some serious man-hunting.
We got there just after happy hour, and the place was relatively busy. We headed upstairs, where I was assured there would be more grist for the kitty mill. We found a table for all five of us, and I was asked to watch everyone's purse. I was very surprised at how these women spoke with one another about guys. It wasn't quite as vulgar or graphic as some of my guy friends but close enough.
Two of the women fanned out into the crowd, and the other two took a position at our table far away from me -- so no guy would think one of them was with me. I watched one of the ladies who bolted head straight for the end of the bar, where she sat alone. Predictably, some guy in a button-up shirt approached within minutes, and she subtly tugged her ear. That was, as I learned, a cry for help. One of the girls at the table went in for a rescue mission, and the two returned.
Only one of the women that night met someone and exchanged phone numbers. All in all, the night wasn't as wild and crazy as I had imagined it would be. All of the girls approached at least one guy, and for one reason or another they didn't meet their standards.
Maybe it was a just a dull night. For most of the evening the women regaled me of past experiences that would have made for a much better story. The one thing I'll take away from my night in Cougarville is that groups of women are almost exactly like groups of men in one respect: They're all talk.