On the Pull: Stellar Magazine
Title: On the Pull
Author: Jonathan McCrea
Date: 16th Jan 2009
Publication: Stellar
Title: On the Pull
Author: Jonathan McCrea
Date: 16th Jan 2009
Publication: Stellar
I went out on the pull last week. Well, technically I was the wingman to my sweaty and sexually undernourished friends Paul and his mate Brad who was over from the States, but for all intents and purposes it was the same thing. I was in foul humour after a ridiculous scrap with my girlfriend over who would take out the recycling, so it was doomed to begin with.
It’s entirely counter-productive to announce that you’re going “on the pull”. It’s like making a formal declaration that you’re all going to have a shit night out. Yes, there’s the obvious pressure to get results (which can lead to doing deeply regrettable things on the dance-floor), but also there’s an entire shift in the male psyche. Actual conversation is impossible. You’ll spend the whole night repeating something that you’ve only really half-said to someone else, who’s only really half-listening because you’re both scanning the horizon like a pair of endangered meerkat.
We started out on familiar territory, a coolie place in town that played remixes of obscure TV theme tunes and had furniture that didn’t match. Of course, the lads had more chance of scoring weapons-grade plutonium here than a loose woman, but we had decided to aim high. We were only in the door and Paul had set his eyes on a curvy looking thing with savage legs. Paul had a killer technique for places like this. First, he makes some sort of one-liner opening gambit about the girl’s shoes looking like Dorothy’s from the Wizard of Oz. Risky, Brad and I agreed, but if she’s any craic it’ll get her attention and this time he’s in luck. She counters back at him with a smile and he’s off away, smooth as you like. Exactly three minutes later, before it gets awkward, he turns around to some guy beside her and starts yakking to him about what goes into a Margarita, leaving her to go back to her friends. It was genius to watch, but our American visitor didn’t get it.
“It’s groundwork for a long-term play, Brad, he’ll bump into her again and and casually invite her to some electronic punk reggae gig or an impressively indie gallery launch”, I explained.
“But why can’t he just go over and ask for her number?” he asked me.
“Well, it’s simple, Brad. Because she’d tell him to fuck off.”
According to Brad, in America men can just approach women they want to have sex with and ask for their contact details and then the women will just write out their mobile number on a piece of paper.
‘Why don’t you try it?” I dared him. “Go up to that girl and ask her for her number”. And he did. Twenty minutes later I was still alone at the bar like a berk, watching the two of them work the room.
In the end, neither could negotiate a short-term agreement that would lead to immediate sexual gratification, so we proceeded to the next venue. On a normal night out, we’d head to a late bar with good tunes where you might bump into one of your friends. On a pulling night, men go directly to the club with the worst reputation in town. On this occasion it was a place that had a no-trainers policy and a DJ who actually talked in between records making announcements about birthdays and drinks promotions. It was not unlike Hell, except there was a €20 cover charge.
We all know these places, all men and women of Ireland. They could be in the north or the south, but socially and sexually they’re on the wrong side of the tracks: big giant barns of desperation, with insides writhing in the heat of primary colour flashing lights. Here, in the dark corners of the city’s underbelly, all bets are off. Standards start low and plummet by the hour.
By now we’re pretty pissed and pathetic. All conversations have ceased except for formalities like whose round it is and toilet trips. Brad is dancing like an American with a brunette who’s unfortunate enough to be sweating heavily, and I have to provide support (essentially just be there so he doesn’t look like a loner). He is using the primitive but universal Lambada technique, essentially staring at a member of the opposite sex and incrementally increasing the sexuality of your moves, hoping for a similar response. After a while I notice Paul has left without saying goodbye. This means he’s probably agreed to head out to a party in the suburbs of nowheresville chasing the wafer-thin hope of a shag. Even though Brad is his houseguest and will now have to sleep on the doorstep we both know man’s unspoken rule of being on the pull – all obligations to your companions are void.
By the end of the night Brad had slipped a couple of grades from the sweat machine to a girl with ridiculously close eyes who seemed to have very little English, but she had an apartment in town and so our American friend would indeed sleep on a bed tonight. I was freed from my duties. I left them to flag a taxi and stumbled home to drunkenly wrestle with bin tags and Tetra-paks with a new-found love for Her indoors.