Maybe it was that people refer to Tavern in the Square as “Tits” for short.

Maybe it was that I always found myself sitting at a table with an HD television screen within six inches of my face and music so loud that the only real conversation I could have with my friends was: “It’s so loud in here!” To which the other would respond, “WHAAAT?” before taking another slurp from the Purple Haze fish bowl drink centered in the table.

Most likely, it was the guys looking around like they were trying to catch a fish, meaning a tiny-skirt-wearing Boston University student, and pull her by her pink straw right from that giant plastic bowl of icy neon blue alcohol and into his Allston bedroom.

Whatever the reason, I didn’t like Tits. Whatever social outing this decision would prevent me from experiencing would be a sacrifice to the decency of humanity. I would never return.

Soon, however, detached hatred wasn’t enough to satisfy my Tits rage. No, that bar, coupled with my similar experiences at The White Horse, had lit something inside me: I needed to go back to Tits to document the Tits culture in writing.

But to write about Tits, I would need to become Tits, emulating my understanding of Tits and its “biddie” culture through both actions and dress one evening. (Biddie: See Urban Dictionary entries 1 and 2, “A girl that is attractive and available. … Damn I’m gonna meet some biddies tonight”; “footwear consists of Uggs, boots with fur on them, heels, or some combination of the three”).

For me, that meant dressing up in Ugg-like boots, a miniskirt, a low cut, somewhat off the shoulder neon yellow shirt, and just enough glitter makeup.

It didn’t start well.

“So, do you know why they call them the Denver Nuggets?” I asked the boy next to me as I twirled my hair, attempting sports talk after two vodka tonics during pre-Tits pre-game at T’s Pub on Comm. Ave. I was talking so much “I’m-from-Colorado-Therefore-I-Know-Stuff” sports talk that the boy was gone within 10 minutes.

After a brief moment of defeat and a slice of pizza, I was ready to sashay with my friend and fellow biddie-for-the-night deep into the heart of Allston. Because if there’s anything journalism has taught me, it’s you don’t take no for an answer. I too could be a biddie.

We went straight to the bar when we arrived at Tits, drank two beers and then set out to cruise for boys who were cruising for biddies.

We walked up to a trio of guys sipping drought beer off the dance floor and waited for them to make the first move. Twirling my hair and flaunting my turquoise-lined glitter eyes, I asked: “So, what brings ya ta Tits?”

Turns out they were BU law students taking a break from reading arduous casework. Not what I expected.

I found that other guys’ reasons for coming to Tits were similarly wide ranging. For some, it was the actually quite amazing fried pickles; for others, it was to watch the Celtics game, for many, they were just tagging along with friends for the first time; but they all had one thing in common: they were having a genuinely good time and didn’t just look like they were trying to get some.

Suddenly I felt very out of place.

Where were all the creepy guys looking to hit on us? Shouldn’t they be flocking in their slimy fishbowl ways? And more importantly, why has every guy I’ve spoken to thus far been genuine, nice and a really good conversationalist? The closest I got to a guy hitting on me was some dude passing by me and yelling, “I like your scarf!”

When we went out for the night with the mindset that boys would flock to us in our blatant attempt at biddie sexual appeal, use trashy pick up lines, or anything they could to reel us out of our fishbowls and into their arms, and then the only thing we got was an, “I like your scarf,” we suddenly found ourselves upset, offended even. We wanted to meet slimy guys. We wanted to be hit on. We wanted to have superficial conversations. We wanted to … wait, were we, do I dare say, too “biddie,” even for Tits?

As the music pounded our ears into an echoing whirlwind, the crowd and our drink tab were both far larger than desired. It was time to pack up what was left of our pride and attempt to confirm stereotypes via a relentless quest to pick up guys and head home. Either we out-biddied ourselves on a Friday night, or I should stop being such a nay-saying, judgmental Tits hater and sip from my fish bowl quietly at the bar by myself, where I belong.

About The Author

Taylor M. Miles is a Blast correspondent

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