COSMO's cosmitas

Virgalicious’s June horoscope:

Close to the 24th, grab a single friend and hit a bar to watch the Wimbledon matches. Under captivating Mercury, the prepster hotties will swarm when you and she get into a playful disagreement about who the cutest players are.

This prediction seemed promising at first: hot men doing extremely athletic things. However, there were some difficulties.

Complication #1: Wimbledon takes place in England, so even with a time delay, matches start airing around noon. Which meant we would be daydrinking (yay!), but also meant the bar we chose looked like this:

(Noon at a popular Philadelphia bar. Yikes.)

Not to be discouraged, we took a seat at the bar and waited for the inevitable swarm of men in polo shirts. There was only one other customer, a waitress, and a (much older) bartender to amuse us, but we had faith. We gamely ordered cocktails and decided to wait it out.

Complication #2: When the bartender switched the TVs to Wimbledon (at our request), it was a women’s match.

So scratch those plans for that playful girl fight - unless we wanted to attract a very different kind of prepster hottie.

With one cocktail down, despite our pleasant noontime buzz, the crowd still seemed pretty…unpromising. We started drinking water and considered switching locales. Then, fate intervened.

ESPN2 switched from the women’s match to the men’s. The match was Tsonga v. Ferrer:

Jo-Wilfried Tsonga (France)

David Ferrer (Spain)

Blessed with such fine material, we ordered another round of cocktails. About two minutes in, the lunchtime “rush” of five or six men arrived. And who should sit next to us? Two prepster hotties, whose eyes were quickly glued to the match.

Well done, Cosmo.

We started arguing over who should win. Feisty Pisces was rooting for Tsonga, Virgalicious for Ferrer. Tsonga was buffer, FP argued; Ferrer was graceful, Virgalicious replied. Tsonga spoke French, FP exclaimed. Ferrer spoke Spanish, V rebutted.

FP spitefully noted that Tsonga was winning. V insisted Ferrer would recover. (He didn’t.)

As we argued, the neighboring prepster hotties turned to us. Preppy Hottie #1 asked, “So are you guys really into tennis?” 

Complication #3: We are not really into tennis. (Actually, we do not even completely understand tennis, as we soon proved.)

Thinking quickly, Feisty Pisces asserted we wanted to learn how to play.

Preppy Hottie #2: Where can you play tennis around here?

FP: We were just going to practice in the yard.

PH #1: You can’t really play tennis in the yard. The ball won’t bounce.

V: Oh, but we could practice our…serve.

Though we kept up an occasional flirty conversation, Prepster Hotties paid their check and told us they’d see us later. But with no phone numbers exchanged, that didn’t seem likely.

We’d thought a string of pearls and J. Crew dresses would be enough to seal the deal. Next time, we would have to “prep” ourselves better.