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Hook up spots in nyc something is. A good coffee shop has a feeling of de-stress and coziness. In my lowest moments, I have cruised for sex simply because I needed to be around someone else or forget my problems for a little bit. His name may be less likely outside of sexual-core ramen circles, but everyone should make his torigara shoyu, a scientific fact of mutual-and-seafood work seasoned with North soy rice. Head to Red Hook, a laid-back neighborhood in western Brooklyn that's just far enough from the madding crowds. Also on Stanger's list of no-nos?.
When I was growing up, my recently-divorced mother had a group of recently-divorced friends who all used to go out and together. All of them were looking for love — or whatever rough approximation of it that they could fit in between work, family, and some surprisingly contentious PTA meetings — but my mother had one friend who seemed to be looking a little harder than everyone else. Her name was Lydia, and her drive for companionship seemed to make her a bit of a pariah among the singles mixer crew all of whom were legit looking for second husbands like it was their second job. I , go to the movies alone, and I once traveled to Austria alone. But somehow, to relax has never made it into my regular rotation. I mean, I had gone out to bars alone in the past — but always with the express purpose of getting laid, and generally after I had drinks with a group of friends beforehand. In fact, I met my boyfriend of four years while alone at a bar... But even when it was a regular part of my life, I had never really enjoyed doing it. I always saw it more as a means to an end than anything else. And now that I was partnered, I had a hard time imagining what I'd get out of drinking alone. I'm a feminist, and believe that everyone should be allowed to do whatever they want, whenever they want. And yet, in my own life, going to a bar alone feels unseemly. Even though I am no longer out on the prowl for fresh peen, when I enter a bar alone, it feels like everyone must assume that I am. Bars are many things — refuges from the working world, places in which to hide your secret drinking problem — but they're also highly-charged sexual marketplaces. And I can't tell which frightens me more; the idea that some men might try to put the moves on me, or the idea that no one will. We women are told that any male attention is risky, but also that a lack of male attention makes you worthless. And nowhere does that horrible package deal seem to play out more sharply than when we're alone at the bar. And so, when I was asked to go to some of by myself for the sake of this experiment, I took all of those complicated and, frankly, embarrassing feelings along with me. We laid out the rules: Go in alone. Stay for a minimum of 20 minutes or one beer; whichever comes first. No books or playing around on your cell phone. See if anyone talks to you. My Preparation: Before I could do my first solo Jaegerbomb, I had to figure out how to get people to talk to me. I have many or at least several good qualities, but appearing approachable is not one of them. Like, when you have to pee? To show that you're a sexy sex lady who has all of her joints in working order? Also on Stanger's list of no-nos? Since dark lipstick and oversharing are pretty much my only hobbies, I decided to go back to the smile thing. I really, really tried. But as I read further about the art of bar approachability, I found that a nude lip gloss would only take me so far. The number of people you're out with is also a factor. Apparently, rolling in a group of , and one to two are too few. Setting out solo, the experts warned, could potentially give off the vibe that you're a scary man-eater, or there to drink away your troubles alone because your cat just died. So, scary man-eating cat-mourner that I am, I set off into the night to see what happens when a lady rolls into a hookup bar alone. It's a bar for slightly older indie rockers who may or may not be on mood-stabilizing medication. So needless to say, I have been here a billion times — though I've never picked up more than a hangover. What Happened: I sat down at the very end of the near-empty bar, ordered a beer, and within moments, overheard a man talking about White Russians. He then turned to me. We talked about our dysfunctional families. We even talked, for a second, about the Smiths. We went back inside, where his two very friendly married friends told me that Lebowski had been a three-time winner on Jeopardy. I had been afraid of feeling vulnerable if I went out to a bar alone, but this evening was already presenting a very different challenge. Bars are full of people who are sexually attractive and who are also not your partner. Part of me was able to picture a moment of temporary insanity in which I'd grab Lebowski, pull him into a booth, and ruin my entire life. I spoke too soon. I walked into Joshua Tree, settled down at the only open seat I could find, and ordered my beer. Things seemed as chill here as they had at the Black Rabbit — it was a weeknight, and people seemed clustered in small groups, watching the game on the big overhead TVs — but try as I might, I could not summon the same degree of comfort that I had at the other bar. Joshua Tree is a sports-bar-cum-infamous-pickup-spot aimed at post-frat types and the women who love them, and I had avoided it for many years not because I thought I was too good for it, but because the thought of being so far out of my element made me uncomfortable. Going to bars alone is a lot like being a new kid in a high school cafeteria. It's thrilling if you find your table, but if you don't, the urge to just to call the whole thing off and eat lunch alone in the bathroom is overwhelming. I was afraid of having no one talk to me, I was afraid of having someone talk to me and ask me a question that I couldn't answer. I was afraid, period. To my left, a group of guys around my age watched the game, ate burgers, and tried to explain the to each other. I watched the game, understanding nothing. I had vowed not to use my phone during this experiment, but after 10 minutes in the bar, I caved. I paired my texting with frequent glances at the doorway, as if I was expecting someone, putting on a show that mattered to no one except me. What the hell was I doing here? I felt embarrassed for myself. I was so clearly not interested in the game being shown on TV. I could only imagine the other patrons thinking that I was cruising for D or drinking away the pain. Either way, they steered clear of me. I waited until the bartender was in the bathroom to leave, because I was afraid of him sweetly asking me if I was okay. So I thought that rolling in here after the anxiety of Joshua Tree would be easy like Sunday morning. What Happened: I went in around 8 p. I sat at the first open spot I saw at the bar, and was almost immediately asked to move one seat over by a couple on a date. The bartender, again, was kinder to me than any bartender I had ever encountered in my life. While I had met funny bartenders and chill bartenders in the past, I had never before encountered so many male bartenders who treated me tenderly, like a puppy with its leg in a cast. As I watched the overheard TV which here silently played old classic rock videos instead of sports , I began to obsessively wonder what I looked like to the people here. Must they be wondering what's wrong with me? The bartender certainly seemed to. Did people think I was a loser for being here alone? The fact that I had many friends and a boyfriend and had gone here on purpose without any of them didn't seem to ease my nerves. The bartender came over and passed me a drink token. The closest relationships I had formed at these bars were with the bartenders, and like all relationships that get too intense too fast, I couldn't think of any way to end it besides ghosting. Though it has in the intervening decade, when I rolled in at 10 p. Surely, this wouldn't be the site of yet another lonely humiliation, right? Goddamn it, I've already had sex with strangers I met at this bar! What Happened: Here, the bartenders were too busy to feel sorry for me. They had to pay attention to the seemingly millions of couples on sloppy-drunk second dates instead. Young women pushed past me to order drinks — not rudely, but like I just didn't register. The woman closest to me rubbed her huge mane of curly hair across my face by accident as she ordered. I could smell her fruit shampoo. I felt like a ghost of a single person. I didn't have to wait for the bartender to go to the bathroom to leave this time. In fact, when I went to the bathroom, I came back to find that my seat had already been taken. I didn't feel shame as I walked away from Union Pool, the way I had leaving Joshua Tree or Niagara. I simply felt a wave of relief. I was ashamed about how happy I was to be done with going to bars alone. A place to do research on my own beauty or worth. And nowhere does that horrible package deal seem to play out more sharply than when we're alone at the bar. I was sent into a shame spiral by being ignored I spent a good half hour after getting home massaging various pricey creams into my face , and yet also felt tremendous relief that I hadn't been hit on or harassed by someone who didn't see me as a person, but merely as a body whose anxieties could be exploited — or worse, as a potential victim. We're supposed to accept trading risk for approval, told that these are the rules of going out. This is supposed to be the life of a woman alone at a bar. I thought back to Lydia. She pictured Lydia trading risk for approval on a grand scale, hooking up with every dude she met, receiving confirmation that she wasn't one of the ugly ones. Looking back on it now, I think that Lydia probably just wanted a place to drink a beer away from her seven-year-old kid. We all want a place to be alone with our thoughts and away from the people we live with, although it's still pretty taboo for women to admit it. But for me, a bar still doesn't feel like a place where I can safely be alone with my thoughts. Going to bars alone didn't feel like a refuge for me, but merely another place in life to put on my makeup and ball gown and await the judge's score. Images: Fotolia; ; ; 6.
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