By JUSTIN JONES

There he is, standing at the bar, looking at you with gorgeous, promising eyes. You like him. His lips are full, his features masculine. He looks like he’s a passionate lover, like he’ll throw you around a little, degrade you in a way that turns you on. He’ll call you a name or two, and tell you what to do, but then he’ll kiss you. He’ll cuddle with you and make you feel safe. This will be a good night.

You exchange glances for what seems like too long. You want to lure him to you, so you first try acting bashful. He makes eye contact with you and you smile, look down at your drink, and bite your lip. He returns the smile and nods his head to the rhythm of the music playing, but he doesn’t approach you.

Then you try a more manipulative approach, paying him little attention. You dance a little and laugh and wave at people.

He’ll perceive you as popular and desired. You tell him through this ritual “I can have anyone I want, and everyone wants me.”

This will get him to come over and say hello to you.

Nothing.

Frustrated but determined, you become a little more aggressive. You look at him while you dance, maybe as if you’ve just noticed him and are telling him he’s your pick for the night. Your dance becomes more and more suggestive.

Still, he stands at his place at the bar, smiling and nodding approvingly.

What the f**k? These are brand new jeans. “I know my ass looks good in them,” you tell yourself. “Why isn’t he coming to me?”

At this point, it’s a matter of principle. You’re NOT going up to him. HE should come up to YOU. He’d be lucky to have you.

And what’s he doing? He’s standing there and nodding. Which is kind of creepy now that you think about it.

You suck your teeth and bitterly sip your drink. Screw this.

No. You know what? He’s probably shy.

You shouldn’t be angry. Maybe you should go say hello to him. Maybe he’s that awkward kind of cute. The thought makes you feel better. You take a deep breath, another sip of your drink, and you start approaching him.

He starts moving, too: toward you. At last! He’s going to tell you how gorgeous you are and what an honor it would be if he gets to take you home tonight. So you stop halfway to him. Butterflies fill your stomach (which you suck in extra hard to give yourself the illusion of a bigger chest and smaller waist), and there he is. Right beside you. And… He’s passing you.

He walks past you and to the spot you were standing, which happens to be in front of a cute young couple dancing far more suggestively than you were. They’re practically humping each other.

You stand in shock and embarrassment, immovable. He wanted THEM: The. Whole. F**king. Time. You consider dropping your drink for dramatic effect, but you take a sip of it instead. (Instinct, my love. Instinct.) “You know what,” you tell yourself, “I didn’t like him to begin with.”

Sip.