Ava Adore

DSM of Dbags: Type I: “Runaround Sue.”

Installment nine of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type I, “Runaround Sue.”

The psychology of the Runaround Sue is rooted in commitment issues, a misplaced sense of power, and a disproportionate ego. He makes promises he does not intend to keep, strings you along, and then hangs you out to dry—all before you realize he’s a jackass and not actually a respectful client. He actually believes you’d prefer you’d go to dinner with him instead of pay your bills.

_{Ed note: On a sliding scale of douches, Runaround Sue seems to be a mix of the Bank Run/ner and That Guy, only with less skill and naivete, respectively.}

So, back to that part of the evening where I wasted two hour of my life that I’ll never get back. Lilah and I sat with Paulie and Reggie Roo, respectively. Reggie gave me a jackass vibe right off, very guido-feeling, but he seemed to prefer me while Paulie liked Lilah, so I tried to work Reggie up.

That was well and good, since they tipped intermittently and were kind of fun, and they were pretty straight-up; at least, I know Paulie promised Lilah a dance, and mine said he wasn’t going to get 6, but he would at least get one or two. They were party boys; that is, they were there for the ‘bar experience’—fun night out, with boobs.

So a lot of it was kept light-hearted, we joked around a lot, he wanted to see how ‘crazy’ I was so I showed him my riding crop and he said he’d get a dance after I went on stage in my Pinot Noir leather costume. Well I come back off stage and Paulie gives Lilah hers and mine slides me $4 and said he’s not getting one. I was like, the fuck you are.

We had some serious words of Douchebaggery where he pulled the line ‘If we were out to dinner I’d spend hundreds’ and I said, ‘What makes you think I think you can spend hundreds on dinner when you can’t buy a lapdance—or pay me the same cost, since I’d spent the time?’ and he wheedled and whined and—audaciously—asked for my number.

I told him to fuck right off. I was so frustrated at him. I said, You’ve been spinning my wheels all night about dances, you make me change clothes, do this, do that, and I should have just seen: You’re a pansy. No, you can’t have my number. You will never see me again. And stalked off before he could reply.

That was pretty much verbatim. And I went back to work. Douchebag.