Twelve-year-old boys find me sexy, and they aren’t afraid to let me know it. My fellow female lifeguards and I were constantly propositioned this summer by hordes of pre-pubescent punks. Despite their initial creepiness, I had to give the boys kudos for their ingenuity. It takes a real man to walk up to a woman, hand her a sugar packet and proclaim, “Hey baby, I think you lost your nametag.” These boys are part of a dying breed-the few, the proud, the ballsy souls who actually use pickup lines to “bag hot chicks.”
Back in the day (or so I’ve learned from Bogart flicks) any schlub could walk into a bar, order a highball, address the blonde next to him as “babycakes,” smoke a ciggie and walk out with the lady on his arm. Nowadays, it is de rigueur for women to scorn men who pull stunts like this, calling it degrading and offensive when a man tells us with undiluted honesty that we look “mm-mm good.”
Don’t get me wrong; I’m a big proponent of female empowerment and inevitably reap the benefits. We deserve the same opportunities, pay and respect as men. Conditions for women have improved dramatically in the last 30 years thanks to feminism. But in our struggle for equality, we have lost some of the small niceties that were once bestowed upon us by the opposite sex. Guys rarely open doors for me or take off their hat when I enter a room. As a liberated woman, I put up with this, and always split the check (even though I know Bogie would never make his lady pay).
I cannot stand the irritating subtleties of dating and find the direct approach of the pickup line rather refreshing. If I think you look good too, I might tell you.
I’ll admit, the guys who use lines are a type not usually found in the urbane environment of Georgetown. The men here are too sophisticated to tell a woman she’s “like milk ‘cause she does a body good.” Most of these guys don’t even imbibe real cow’s milk, instead opting for the South Beach-friendly “non-dairy soy options.”
But sometimes, all a girl needs to hear is a simple compliment. Sure, it’s cheesy and, when shouted at you from a car, a little skeezy, but deep down it’s a comfort to us to know we’ve got it goin’ on. Georgetown boys wear Jackie O sunglasses, rock man capris and use products in their hair. I couldn’t date half the boys here because they are better dressed than I and can pull off pastels more gracefully.
The guys I knew in high school did not “dress” for class. They were the breed of men that only wears t-shirts obtained for free from all-you-can-eat burrito bars and insists that pants don’t need to be washed since they’re just going to be sat on. It is this type who can teach the rest of the male population how to pull off the classic pickup line. They are just scruffy enough to make you feel pretty, just goofy enough to keep them from being creepy and wear just the right amount of Axe cologne to signal that they are out to impress you.
The purpose of the feminist movement was to liberate women from societal constraints, not to create new standards we must live up to. I’m no traitor to my sex because I find the occasional come-on endearing; I’m putting my feminist beliefs into action by not repressing my enjoyment of a clever overture. My quest to revive the pickup line is unconventionally feminist but motivated by the same sentiments that inspire my bra-burning sisters. When a guy stares into your eyes and asks if you fell from heaven, your heart skips a beat-you’re just not woman enough to admit it.
