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My FBF, “Donald,” is a trader.  This means he is taking clients out every night models and bottles style.  Well, not exactly models.  You see, my FBF is cool, but his clients are still awkward around women, despite the fact that most of them are nearing 40.  Enter the Bottle Poppin’ Girls (aka Cokettes). 

Bottle Poppin’ Girls are the girls your FBF calls on a random Wednesday night to come party with his clients.  They can be counted on to drop all prior engagements at the words “bottle service” and any finance guy worth his weight in gold keeps a few on speed dial.  The exemplar Bottle Poppin’ Girl is a D-list model with a day job in the service sector.  She has no hopes of independently achieving financial stability and spends her money on highlights instead of La Mer, which is why she is desperately seeking a life sponsor.  She goes through life as a blond rather than as God made her, has exactly one designer bag and you can bet its Gucci and covered with those tacky “G”s.  A Bottle Poppin’ Girl would commit a felony to date someone with a membership at Soho house and although often in the company of finance guys, finance guys don’t actually date, let alone marry, Bottle Poppin’ Girls (which is tragic because they fall asleep dreaming of Tiffany’s engagement rings and a proposal just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman).

To the untrained eye the distinctions between a DABA Girl and a Bottle Poppin’ Girl are difficult to detect.  Unlike the Bottle Poppin’ Girl, the DABA Girl is gainfully employed.  Her occupations span the gamut from fashion PR to finance.  DABA Girls adore Alexander Wang, Chanel, and Lanvin but show restraint and accessorize with vintage since wearing all designer just isn’t stylish.  Sure they love designer bags, but the market they create for knock-offs made in the black market by children under deplorable conditions weighs heavily on the DABAGirl’s pretty little head.  Dirty hepatitis carrying dollar bills are kept safely away from her nasal passages and it’s been at least 3 years since she was spotted in the meatpacking district (except for the occasional drop by at Pastis and Louboutin).  Beatrice is her own personal Valhalla.

Prior to the recession, Bottle Poppin’ Girls and I had happily co-existed, but, like wild animals in a diminishing habitat, Bottle Poppin’ Girls are aggressively vying for taken FBFs. 

Per usual, Donald was with clients and some Bottle Poppin’ Girls at The Box on a Wednesday night.  I planned on making a quick one hour cameo appearance before pretending to jet off to some charity event after-party (my excuse du jour for going to bars overly dressed up).  I arrive, greeting the doorman warmly and head to the bar before making my way over to my FBF’s table.  Call me classy if you will, but I really am simply too good for bottle service.  I do not want some sh*tty, vodka heavy, ill stirred tequila sunrise.  When I go out, I want to be served by a professional (ideally the talented Matty G of the Randolph).  I order a well-shaken martini, gin not vodka, less calories thank you very much.

My martini and I approach my FBF’s table.  These particular Bottle Poppin’ Girls all know full well that I am the girlfriend.  Yet, on this night they cavalierly refuse to rearrange themselves and their Guess by Marciano handbags so I can sit next to my FBF.  The mutiny continues as they block me out and circle closer in on my defenseless FBF.  I’m perplexed.  What could be causing the usually innocuous Bottle Poppin’ Girls to behave like desperate women in their late thirties making a last ditch effort to get fertilized?  Something was amiss.  I scanned the room.  The Bottle Poppin’ Girls were performing their girl-on-girl-invite-me-to-your-table mating dance with far more bravado than usual.  I looked to see if the finance guys were taking note of the dance ritual.  Wait a second- where were they?  Only a few tables had bottle service.  I inspected the Y chromosome members of the crowd.  They were dressed trendier than usual, hmmmm, they had more facial hair, interesting. OMG!  These aren’t finance guys!  These are hipster guys! All DABA Girl Alert! Retreat, Retreat!

Actually, it made sense that the place was overrun with hipsters who likely had Sociology 101 with the door guy.  The finance guys, who had lost their jobs a few months ago, must have given up on finding new Wall Street jobs and had begun their exodus out of the city back to their respective low rent hometowns.  Most finance guys who were still in the game weren’t out clubbing.  They were desperately working overtime trying to figure out their next trade and they certainly were not throwing down for bottle service.

Realizing that my FBF was part of a rare breed of men on the verge of extinction, I charged past the Bottle Poppin’ Girls and staked out my territory by plopping myself squarely on my FBF’s lap.  I had planned to stay just an hour but it was clear I could not leave him unguarded.  I kept an eye on the clock.  Midnight. One a.m.  Two a.m. F*ck I am not going to make my 8 a.m. yoga class tomorrow.  I start pouting that I am not getting enough attention, but to no avail.  I try nagging my FBF to take me home.  He offers to put me in a cab.  I demand that we leave. He can’t, “Its business honey.”  That’s when the martinis kicked in on my 110lb frame.  I tell him he is out of his d*mn mind if he thinks he is staying here with these gold diggin floozies (yes, I used the word floozy).  He suggests I stop making a scene immediately.  I decline.  His voice raises, he has a LOT GOING ON RIGHT NOW AND CAN’T DEAL WITH MY DRAMA!  The Bottle Poppin’g Girls and their Lycra Express dresses all but break into a victory dance.  This is more than any self-respecting DABA Girl can take.  I hoist up my glass.  “Don’t do it ma cherie,” my martini begs in his soothing French accent.  Tooooooooo late, I splash it across my FBF’s face.  10 Points, perfect execution, just like in the movies.  The crowd goes wild.  I storm out. My Jimmy Choos fill the air with a gratifying clickety-clack.

Based upon the “shaky Bridge theory” (the theory that people are more likely to fall in love when there is danger and excitement), I assume Donald would be following on my heels.  He wasn’t.  I check my phone compulsively.  Nada.  When I don’t hear from him the whole next day, I launch a preemptive strike and send him a “I want to see other people” text at 3:59 p.m.

Unforunately, I failed to do proper pre-text due diligence into my FBF’s mood. The market had fallen 500 points and soon as I heard the news I scrambled to my phone to send a retraction text- but it was too late. My FBF had already submitted his final ruling: “Good because you obviously don’t understand what I’m going through.” Just like that, we were donezo.