DENVER, CO – Samantha O’Brien finished her 2nd IPA and waived down the bartender to closer her tab. As the 34-year-old business traveler signed her bill, she muttered to herself, “Wow, only one douchebag hit on me this entire time. That’s got to be a record.”
O’Brien, a pharmaceutical rep for a well-known painkiller company, was by all accounts “easily an 8,” according to the heavily tattooed and bearded bartender named Steve. Killing time after a lengthy flight delay, O’Brien popped into an airport bar and ordered some fries and an IPA and steeled herself for the inevitable stream of dipsh*ts and goobers that would vie for her attention.
Most nights, O’Brien would avoid an airport or hotel bar, and do her best to not make eye contact with fellow male business travelers who would inevitably consider her glance an open invitation to conjugate. She’d gotten quite good at deflecting the unwanted (and often unseemly) advances, and the ridiculous pick-up lines.
“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” didn’t seem to work anymore so O’Brien had resorted to more exotic rebuffs like sneezing loudly into the man’s face, or accidentally dropping an STD kit out of her purse, but even those methods didn’t fend off some men.
But tonight, was different. Aside from one fifty-year-old CEO who actually wasn’t half bad looking, it was uneventful. O’Brien killed the two IPAs in relative silence, finished up her Wordle for the day, texted her boyfriend, and walked out of the bar feeling pretty good about herself.
“Not bad, O’Brien,” she thought quietly, “Maybe there’s hope.”
Her hopes were quickly dashed when standing in line to board her delayed flight the pilot asked her for her number.
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