Downtown Duesche

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There’s a certain breed of guy I absolutely despise: the Downtown Douche. You know the type—lives downtown, is always out, and forever on the hunt. Last week, out of sheer boredom, I texted someone I’d been talking to on and off. I had a feeling he was cocky, so I’d been dodging the meetup, but he invited me to a familiar bar where I know the manager. I figured, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Well.

When I arrived, I didn’t see him right away. I waited at the bar for ten minutes before realizing he’d been sitting behind me the whole time. Great start. He walked me over to his table, offered a drink (vodka tonic, naturally), and a shot. And then came the usual: “You’re so hot.” Sigh. He casually mentioned he lived downtown, and I joked, “Well at least you don’t have to drive.” That’s when the hands started. Everywhere.

He leaned in and said I should just go home with him—because I was drinking. Excuse me? If there’s one rule I live by, it’s this: never go home with a guy on the first night. That’s how you end up with a one-night stand and a blocked number.

He kept going on about his apartment, his view, his car—like I cared. I wasn’t impressed. I need connection, humor, something to keep my attention. Honestly, my ADD was about to kick in. If a bunny rabbit had run across the bar, I would’ve chased it just to escape the conversation.

Eventually, he asked what I thought of him. I told him the truth: You come off like an asshole. He smirked, then told me I was probably insecure—because I was people-watching. Yep, he really said that. I was floored. He left for the bathroom and his very conveniently placed wingman slid into the seat next to me. I knew what was happening.

When Mr. Downtown came back, he didn’t even look at me. He was flirting with another girl at the bar. So I leaned into his friend, said I had to use the bathroom (lie), and walked straight out the front door.

Here’s the thing: this kind of guy isn’t looking for connection. He’s looking for someone naïve enough to fall for his flash. The condo, the cocktails, the charm—all designed to get you into his bed. He won’t ask about your day, your passions, or your dreams. He’s not interested in you.

I texted him later, just to see if I was right: “I left because it felt like you just wanted to get laid.”
He replied: “Yes.”
Case closed.