I love Halloween. It’s got hot women, candy, and free drinks. If you’re a girl and you can’t make yourself look hot and slutty on Halloween, you should probably move to England—because everyone there is ugly anyway. This Halloween I planned to do the same exact thing I do every Halloween: spend the weekend lying to random girls and picking up digits for the winter.
Although New York is the best city in the world, the weather sucks. There’s pretty much a direct correlation between the weather and how much ass you can get. In the summertime, the chicks are on fire and so are your chances of getting laid. But once those sweaters start coming on in October, you can kiss your steady diet of random goodbye. That is why Halloween is such a critical night.
Most guys just see it as a great opportunity to have a one-night stand with a bumble bee or French maid—and it is. But it’s much more than that. It’s the easiest way to restock your barren sex cupboard for the long, cruel winter. Instead of cupboard, though, I prefer to use “stable” to describe my roster of women. Many guys have different lingo, but a filly and foal framework works—at least for me.
Unfortunately, once November rolls around, women go out only when they have to. Whether it be for a friend’s birthday, holidays, because someone is getting engaged or leaving the city because they can’t find a man here. It’s a much harder task to find a crowded bar to creep on when it’s shitty outside. It’s just a fact of life here. So I always look at Halloween strategically.
One main issue on Halloween is geography: it can be hell to get around Halloween night, especially in crap weather. One false move can leave you stuck with the same women from fall until the following spring, and there’s nothing worse than a stale stable of women.
(Sidenote on stables. If you are an aggressive guy who is capable of lying through his teeth and keeping his story straight to multiple women, you might be able to pull off having more than four girls in your stable. I prefer four. It’s an ideal number. Two mainstay fillies that are pretty much your quasi-girlfriends and two wildcard young foals whose last name you will never learn and who you will block on Facebook.)
So my goal for the night was to meet enough women to get a good new stable established, as the current one is really not worth discussion—or you would have seen some recent posts about them.
I had a plan. Three stops. Stop one, one hour of face time with my actual real friends, most of whom are married and tell me that I’m a disgrace. If there were any cute girls there, they would be quality older girls, so it would require a good half hour of complete focus to make some headway. Then bust out of there and meet up with some friends at stop two: a loft party, where I was going to do most of my damage on 24-year-old girls who work in advertising. I figured if I met a couple of potential winter stable fillies there, I would then leave and go to a bar in my neighborhood so I could find some geographically desirable foals to fill things out. The plan was foolproof. Also, if I got laid that night, even better, but the focus was long term. At least it was supposed to be.
First stop was at a friends’ dinner and cocktail party. This was a couple that would be mad at me if I didn’t make an obligatory pit stop at their party. I figured one hour, tops, unless there was a potential pony in the crowd. I doubted this because these folks are my age and are purely mare material. Mares can be great life partners, raise kids, blah blah blah, but they have cellulite. I’m fully committed to having fun at this particular juncture with girls who have gaps between their bony legs. I didn’t want to waste my time on old chicks.
I tried to pay attention as my friends blathered on about their jobs, their pregnancies, daycare, Occupy Wall Street—basically things I could care less about. However, when I was about to implement step two, into the party trots Mara, who years ago used to be a filly in my stable. We always got along well, but she knew I had no interest in anything serious, so she stopped answering my 5 a.m. texts when she hit 30. For some reason, I don’t know if it was the misting punch bowl or the 1/2 pill of ecstasy that I dropped before I went out, but she was looking very much like she used to, back in the day when I did filthy filly-like things with her. For the record, though, in the mid-2000s she was a solid 7. Tonight she looked like a 7.25.
After some chit-chat with the hosts, I zeroed in on Mara. I just wanted to do some light flirting to see if maybe she’d be down for old time sakes, as a backup maybe if my night went south. She was, to put it mildly, “more than down.” She was dressed as a slutty cat, which if you ask me, is more appropriate for a girl in her twenties. After a couple of shots of tequila, she tried to start telling me about her wretched life as a single girl in her thirties. I was not having any of it. As vulnerable and sexy as she was looking, there was an entire world of kitty cats, hot zombies, and Kardashian lookalikes for me to explore. I couldn’t rightfully waste the next four months of my life fighting for stable scraps when I could just as easily ditch the mare and find my fillies.
I got a text from my friend saying that the loft party we were going to go to was overcrowded and that we should regroup at another bar in that neighborhood. Already my plan was falling apart. I sized up Mara again. Had she lost ten pounds in her thirties? Or was her cat costume slimming on her? There was really only one way to tell. I hatched a new, improvised plan. Convince Mara to leave the party, go to her place, have sex, then tell her I had to meet my friends. Yes, it was a cold thing to do, but in this winter, I couldn’t risk staying and having no fillies.
She told me she didn’t want it to be obvious so we had to stick around a little bit longer. Jesus, my night was going down in flames, but she kept whispering dirty things in my ear and I was helpless to resist. Mares know things about ear whispering that fillies and foals do not! At around 11:30, I told her it was decision time. She promptly said her goodbyes, and we hopped in a cab. Which was a disastrous move as we were about 20 blocks from her apartment and there was heavy traffic. After some heavy digital remastering in the cab, we finally got to her place.
I told myself one hour tops. Out by 1 a.m., prime time for the young foals to have their defenses low. Mara poured us some more shots of tequila, and I helped her out of her cat costume. She then pulled out some weed. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before, but when I smoke weed I pass out. Every time. Somehow, though, I managed to think that, on this night, it wouldn’t happen. So we smoked maybe two bowls and went to her bedroom. I want to report that, after some memorable sex I said “thanks for the memories, but there’s a stable to be filled,” but I can’t. I want to tell you that seeing her that night changed me and I decided she was more than just an old mare, but I can’t do that either. I have to tell the cold hard truth, I passed the f*ck out.
I woke up next to Mara later, who still had a little smudged black on her nose from her cat costume. But I had no remnants of my desire for her. I checked my phone. 9:00 a.m. I had missed the best night of the year to restock the stable. Not only that, I got the kind of asshole texts only my friends would send— “u missed an epic night,” “so many sluts” and the worst of all of them “so many digits, my stable will be full this winter!” Damn, I may have to work this old mare over, she’s gonna be doing the work of four fillies until I can restock.
By the way, I was dressed as Osama Bin Laden, if anyone cares.