Want her number? Don’t play it straight

So there I was, a straight guy, dancing in one of West Hollywood’s most popular hot spots, dressed like a cowboy.

Wait. I should back up a bit.

It started with a head wound.

Earlier that day, I accidentally banged my head into an air conditioner, resulting in a large, ugly cut on my forehead and an even larger, uglier bandage. I hadn’t made plans to go out that evening, but I realized that life was short, especially if you’re as accident-prone as I am.

However, I felt self-conscious about the bandage. I needed a cap or a hat, but the only thing I owned that’s even remotely fashionable was a black cowboy hat I bought for a costume party. It covered the bandage but looked wrong with the rest of my clothes, so I changed into the matching rhinestone-studded shirt I bought with the hat.

I decided to start the evening by watching a Lakers game. I could have gone to someplace trendy like Dublin’s on Sunset or the El Guapo Cantina on Melrose, but I had no one to impress, so I hit the Shakey’s Pizza on Santa Monica Boulevard instead. It’s probably the least hip place to watch a game, but its ceiling-mounted televisions are huge and the $4 margaritas unexpectedly potent.

Afterward, I was still in the mood to party but in absolutely no condition to drive.

Then I remembered a neighbor said he tended bar at someplace called the Abbey in West Hollywood. I hopped a bus and shouted, “Go west, young man!” to the driver, who wasn’t the least bit amused.

Stepping off the bus in West Hollywood in my black cowboy hat and shirt, everyone was very friendly. Strangers pointed me toward the Abbey and told me what I had secretly suspected: I looked fabulous!

I don’t know what I was expecting to find at my first WeHo bar experience, but there were definitely some surprises -- namely hot, single women. “There’re always some straight girls here,” shouted Billy, my neighbor/bartender, over the din as he poured me a margarita. “They come with their friends.”

Hmm. I realized then I may have stumbled onto something. In a typical bar/nightclub situation, I often get overlooked as guys with better looks, better moves or more money hit on the girls and get their numbers.

Here there were still guys with better looks, better moves and more money, but none of them were hitting on the girls.

I wandered over to the tiny dance area and spotted a cute woman dancing by herself. Striding past the other fellows, I made my move.

Soon she and I were dancing -- she in a tight, low-cut number, me in my cowboy duds. By the end of the evening, with the bump on my head swelling and my confidence soaring, I had the woman’s number.

At least I think she’s a woman.

Dog Davis can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.