After spending a few minutes nervously lurking in the shadows, I spotted my first target: a rosy-cheeked septuagenarian who was leaning against a pillar. I looked up some pickup lines on my phone because I have no game. “Are you a parking meter?” I...
With spring right around the corner and Facebook getting lit up with little pink marriage-equality icons, it’s clear that ~true love~ is in the air. So when I found out that this “boring” and “irrelevant” little rag called New York magazine was throwing a big, fancy wedding convention—where hundreds of gay and straight couples stroll around planning their rosy, monogamous futures together—I decided to seize the opportunity. I attended the event last Thursday at the Metropolitan Pavilion to find out two specific things:
A) Why do people want to get married so fucking badly?
And (more importantly),
B) How easy would it be to tempt someone to break those stupid vows?
Everyone knows that weddings are just hunting grounds for the horny, anyway.
This was the entrance to the convention, where a long line of glassy-eyed Barbies stood in line to check their coats and Gucci shopping bags. These perfectly preened princesses looked like they would claw me to death if I touched their betrothed. If I wanted to get out of there without a pair of Jimmy Choos in my ass, I’d have to be sneaky when wooing the future hubbies and brides by targeting stragglers who’d fallen outside the frantic gaze of their ball and chains.
You could tell that New York was trying hard to make the giant convention hall seem classy. This jazz band’s only purpose was to reassure the rich people that they were somewhere swanky and that the $60 entrance fee they just paid was worth it.
Most of the room was staffed by babes who stood behind booths giving out wads of flowers and candy. People were grabbing up shit like they were at the last bodega open before Hurricane Sandy would hit.
After spending a few minutes nervously lurking in the shadows, I spotted my first target: a rosy-cheeked septuagenarian who was leaning against a pillar. I looked down at some pickup lines I’d pulled up on my phone (because I have no game). I looked back up. “Are you a parking meter?” I barked into his face. “Because you have 'fine' written allll over you.”
He looked up, then laughed and said that no, he was actually a security guard. Fuck.
“Why would you be interested?” he asked, with a genuine hint of concern. “I’ve got grandkids your age.” Gross. Gross. Gross. I knew it was time to escape. “Thanks for making an old guy like me feel special,” he said as he waved goodbye.
Next, I spotted this gentleman at a booth heaped with a rainbow of thick and watermarked wedding invitations. He looked like a #menswear-blogger type, so I asked if I could take his picture. We introduced ourselves, and he wasted no time asking for my number.
After plugging a random combination of digits into his phone, I inquired if the woman to the left who was casting sly glances at us was his bride-to-be. “No, no” he laughed, “that’s my business partner.” He pulled her into our circle so we could all network and exchange business cards. Striiiiiike two!
Turning the corner, I ran into the belly of this ancient whale. “Are you from Tennessee?” I squeaked. “Because you’re the only TEN I SEE!” Papa Smurf barely glanced up while pushing past me to cram his mouth with a free cupcake.
I was starting to get majorly bummed out by my incompetence, so I did want every loser does: I headed to the bar. That’s when I met this off-brand Mr. Big. “I’m married,” he announced in his British accent, “but I don’t believe in love.”
So did that mean he wouldn’t want to get a drink with me sometime? “Oh, I’m actually separated,” he quickly amended, and started doing this rapid-eye-blinking/shuffling thing that I guess was supposed to be charming but actually just made him look like a cat in heat. It was disgusting.
I scuttled over to a table and slumped next to this bronzed club kid whose turquoise shirt looked promising. “I love your haaaaaair!” he crooned while stroking my head. Oops, a gay. “Thanks,” I said. “What do you think of this DOMA stuff?” “It’s bullshit,” he replied, “Just old white men trying to keep things the same for them. Wanna see a picture of my boyfriend?” Then we spent the next 15 minutes ogling photos of some topless bear on his phone—which was probably the most fun I’d had all night.
Staffers were starting to herd us out, but as I was leaving, I decided to try my luck one last time with one of these bridal vixens. “You look so hot,” I said in my huskiest voice. She smiled at me with absolute apathy. I tried again. “Hey, would you want to have a threesome with me sometime?” (In retrospect, I maybe should’ve eased into this a little more.) She raised an eyebrow, and started wordlessly scrolling through her phone. I stared at her for a couple more seconds before accepting that my evening as a master pickup artist/home wrecker had been an utter failure.
Was my completely catastrophic attempt at creeping on marrieds a win for the monogamists or a loss for me? Probably both. The point is, the types of people who’d wanna sneak off and bang you in the closet while their fiancées picked out cake frosting are probably too rancid to fuck anyway… or just, like, British.
Total Tally: 1 security guard + 2 ardent networkers + 1 spastic British dude + 1 new gay BFF + 1 probable lesbian
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