Ava Adore

DSM of Dbags: Type C: “Screwdriver.”

Installment three of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type C, the “Screwdriver.”

The psychology of Screwdriver takes ‘sex sells’ to heart. These men are total tools only interested in spending time with you if you’re going to go home with them after the club. (Which, by the way, is illegal.) They confuse strip clubs with brothels. As with other douchebags, propensity toward not tipping.

I think this conversation explains itself:

Lilah: (Sitting with three new men.) Oh hey, this is my best friend Ava, have you met her yet?
Douche: We’ve met before. She doesn’t like me.
Ava: I think he has me confused with another girl here. I don’t know him.
Douche: I think you do. [TOWN NAME], right? You don’t like me. You said you don’t like men like me. (Insinuating his race.)
Ava: No, [OTHER TOWN NAME]. Lilah and I both live there.
Lilah: We grew up together. She’s very sweet. She wouldn’t say that.
Douche: Well then (pulling me closer, trying to feel me up below the waist), I guess you like me.
Ava: Sure, I like you (removing wandering hands to establish boundaries).
Douche: Are you going to come home with me?
Ava: (Shyly/coyly) No, I don’t do that.
Douche: Then you don’t like me.
Ava: I like you fine, in the club.
Douche: No, then you don’t like me. Are you going to come home with me or not?
Ava: No, I don’t do that, we can hang out here but I’m not going home with you.
Douche: If you’re not coming home with me then I don’t want you. You don’t like me.
Ava: Then you’re right. I don’t like you. Thank you for your honesty.

At which point, I walked away to visit the DJ to find out when my last set was. Lilah came over shortly after; apparently she’d been having a similarly rude conversation with one of the other men in the group and also had an attempt at a vajayjay feel-up.

She’d also received a ripped-in-half dollar only as tip (which, bee-tee-dubs, is a direct insult). Our DJ said one of the bouncers was looking to throw the group out and getting pretty angry, so Lilah went to go tell the manager what happened. After discussing the set with the DJ, I headed back and walked in on the explanation.

Turns out I had a half-dollar waiting for me, too.

It doesn’t sound awful in words, but it was. Especially considering I hadn’t even been sitting with them any longer, it was insult to injury. I don’t have a good analogy, but it’s kind of like leaving a waitress a quarter, only with more emotional weight, and a kicked puppy thrown in for shits and giggles. Yeah.