I Played Photographer For A Group Of Girls And My Soul Left My Body

Dent7 years ago

It was shaping up to be a wonderful Saturday night. The drinks were flowing, the music was bumping, and I was gathering up the courage to spit my best game to the tightest skirt in that joint. A skirt that absolutely was not going to be responsive to my advances, but that’s not the point.

What you need to understand is that the conditions were just right enough that anything seemed possible. Unfortunately, my expectations for what was to become of this evening were premature, because unbeknownst to me it would only be a short while before the incident was to occur.

What incident, you might ask? Just one of the most degrading things that can happen to a man, but we’ll get to that soon. First, let me set the scene.

I was grooving on the dance floor, plastic cup filled to the brim with well Vodka and Red Bull in hand, when things first started to go wrong. The soothing melody of Cardi B was interrupted by that undeniable sound. It was the echoing siren of a heavily intoxicated white girl.

“DEEEENNNNNTTTT,” she called out, emphatically.

I spun around to see the origin of the whine.

To my surprise, it was a particularly perky blonde that I am acquainted with — the type of perky blonde that I would not expect to be seeking me out. She embraced me with a more-than-friendly hug, pressing her equally perky chest mountains up against my torso.

“What’s up, Stacey?” I shrieked back, reciprocating her uncomfortably high level of decibel.

She turned to the entourage of babes that were with her.

“This is Dent. He is seriously one of the funniest people you will meet. Like ever.”

Oh shit. This little diddy is going to put me on, I inaccurately thought to myself.

After introducing me to my new squad of friends, Stacey invited me to hang out with them at a table that they had procured in the corner of the bar. I happily followed as she grabbed my hand to lead me through the crowd.

As we weaved through the droves of people, I shot knowing glance after knowing glance to each of my friends scattered around the venue.

“I’m gonna fuck,” I inaccurately pantomimed with a raise of my eyebrows.

“Looks like it, dude,” they communicated back in slow nods and shit-eating smirks.

We arrived at the booth and had sat down for no less than five seconds when I started to realize that something was very very wrong.

“OMG Stacey, you’re so right. It is like perfect here,” chimed one of the girls.

“Trust me, there is no better spot,” Stacey reassured.

Not knowing what was going on, and afraid of being left out, I threw in my two cents, as well.

“Yeah, this is my favorite bar in the city.”

They both let out a condescending schoolgirl giggle.

“We’re talking about the light, silly. The light in this corner is perfect,” Stacey explained.

“Perfect for what…?” I was completely ignorant to the trap that I had walked into.

While the wheels in my head were trying to churn to a conclusion, Stacey continued to press on in a mission that I did not know existed. She reached out and delicately placed something in my hand. Before I even had time to process what it was, she went in for the kill:

“For pictures, of course.”

I peered down to my hand, and there sat an iPhone X wrapped in a sparkly purple case. Ignorant no more, I now realized what my role had been in this charade.

I’m the fucking photographer.

“You wouldn’t mind snapping a few for us, would you?”

I froze at the realization. How could I have been so stupid? Hot girls don’t just come up to you in bars, at least not to guys like me. But what do I do now? Are my friends watching? Do you think they’re recording it? Fuck, I can already see the caption: “RIP to this guy.”

Trapped, and unable to muster up a legitimate excuse, I accepted my fate. I swallowed what little pride remained and took the fuck out of those photos. All 38 of them. Portrait, landscape, filter, black and white. You name it, I took it.

When I finished, Stacey, hellbent on pouring the salt deep into my open wound, threw in one last dig.

“Thanks, Dent. You’re the sweetest friend.”

Quietly, I handed back the phone, put my head down, and walked straight on out of the bar — accepting an embarrassing defeat.

Be on high alert, fellas. If something doesn’t feel right, then there is a good chance it probably isn’t. As for me, I will learn from this experience and move on. In the words of the great wordsmith Eminem, “Next time, there will be no next time.”.

Image via Shutterstock