#1

I have been accused of being a thief before, yes, a stealer of hearts. My modus operandi, if you will forgive me that lame phrase (which has its uses), is to pick up girls who have low self-esteem. They are easy to spot, eyes scampering the moment yours try to hold theirs. They smile nervously and too much when obviously undesirable men hit on them, being unable to say “Fuck off.”

The other night I was in one of those places where they place bar stools right next to normal chairs with seats and backs. I’m always ticked off by the sight of that arrangement, without reason. That night I chose to sit on a ground-level chair; a good spot where I would get a good long look when girls on the higher-up bar stools got drunk-mouthed and loose-kneed. Any other night I would have sat on a bar stool for a pale view of hills, but hey—variety is the spice of life, right?

So there I was, in the valley of the shadow of drink, when a girl plopped down next to me, feet planted on the ground. Now, I am not choosy when it comes to being a thief; I go for accumulated wealth and accrued value, not big and risky one-time heists. Sure she was plain, this girl, from her shirt and jeans to her big dull black bag. I turned my back on the bar stools anyway. I chatted her up. I asked for her name. I forgot it.

Ten minutes later she coyly said she needed to go to the bathroom. As I watched her back weave through the crowd I decided that the hint was for later gratification, not an instant invitation for a rendezvous in a semi-public bathroom.

Now, I want to stress that before that night, I had never done what I did next. It was only because money was tight, and I had promised myself to be economical. So I picked up her big dull black bag, snapped the magnetic clasps apart, and searched for a pack of condoms or a row of pills.

What I found was sorely disappointing—instead of protection of the sort I had in mind, she had protection of her panties in the form of tampons. I don’t know about you, but I don’t do bleeding girls. No way. So I left. And I’m sure it was just me, but all the tools on stools seemed to be sniggering, their faces turned away from me.

(Thanks to Mike W., brave soul, for sending in the photo.)

Edit: Yes, a little misogynistic; I was trying for a character as far away from the "real" M as possible.