I’ve been generously given lots and lots of little bits of advice on getting into journalism and that by someone off this very site. The word is sometimes just getting involved is more useful than racking up life debts at uni. So this is my potential blog wot I wrote an it’s about girls and that. It got pretty long so this is just the first half. If you tell me what you think of it, like: ’this is rubbish and it’s too long!’ or ’yay this is what I’ve always been waiting for, I need your words in my life!’ or ’did you really expect me to read all that you moron!’ then I can properly think about what I need to do eg. I’d better go to uni ’cause I I can’t write and stuff. That’d be massively helpful and maybe even make me feel a bit less terrified of the next few years or so. If you don’t want to ’cause you don’t like me or don’t have time I wholeheartedly understand.
I was initially wary of using the terms ’girl’ and ’boy’ but soon realised I couldn’t give less of a shit. If you can’t be bothered to read the whole thing, I’ve summarised at the bottom. :)
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My night is turned on its head when I strike up a conversation, in which I seem to come off fairly well, with two girls visiting my workplace. They recount an Eddie Izzard sketch where he goes to the late night petrol station to acquire a loaf of brown bread with hilarious consequences. I haven’t seen the sketch but tell them I’ll be sure to look it up.
Later that evening, I fantasise that two girls (not the same ones) are so enthralled by my charms they come and pick me up when I finish work. Their car is dark blue with 2 doors and is kind of block shaped, like those old Volvos you might’ve seen as the top prize on a seventies game show but much smaller. It looks clean but not shiny. One of the girls is considerably more attractive than the other, which allows me to focus the bulk of my attention on one target - I get a massive ego trip from going for the better looking one, as for most of my teenhood I never got a look in with new females on account of my more experienced, more attractive friends. I hated them for it. Now is the time for glorious, victimless revenge.
I have brought a 2 litre bottle of drink which is tucked away in the bottom of my bag, and in a turn of events requiring factor 90 (CSI: Miami) suspension of disbelief, I’m wearing my Tesco uniform whilst maintaing an understatedly roguish and handsome appearance. The two girls have turned to face me as I settle into the back of the car. Defying logic once more, I have chosen to occupy the middle seat but this goes virtually unnoticed by either of them, who seem eager to hear what I have to say. My opening gambit is:
’So... are you two girls the type to look down on a man who enjoys his Tesco value cider?’.
My voice is far too deep and the question sounds like a joke, or worse a threat. I refocus, rewind and try again. Easy does it, I think to myself. Smooth, but not cliched; mysterious, but encouraging further investigation...
’Hey... so would you think less of me for having a bottle of Tesco value cider in my bag?’.
It’s not perfect but it’ll do. Simple, at least. Christ, if that’s the best line I can fantasise it’s no wonder I’m still single.
The two girls look to each other for a few seconds and silently confer. Their body language is positive. The more attractive girl, who is of course driving, had thrust herself towards me as I spoke, a gesture which I hadn’t noticed until she resumed a normal seating position. This adds to my general impression that she is unconditionally infatuated with me. They turn back to face me, nodding amicably.
’No, it’s a good thing. We *approve*.’
She speaks these last two words with a sweet smile, making it clear that she’s joking. In the infinitesimally brief silence which follows, a brief chuckle is allowed to escape her lips. Her friend, however, who has now become little more than a silhouette, wide-eyed fascination etched into her shadowy crevices, lets a loud, excitable laugh burst from her lungs. Subtly, in such a way that the friend will perhaps not latch on but clearly visible from front on, the attractive flicks a cool, condescending smirk to her right. Within a second, she has refocussed her gaze to my lips. Their size doesn’t seem to put her off. I register how her eyelashes, a deep, voluptuous black, flick upwards from about halfway along, like the wing of a butterfly preparing to take flight...
Trying my hardest not to fall in love with the girl, I spread my arms and rest them casually atop the back of the seats, where you might find the headrests if the car had been manufactured this side of ’94. I have little to say in response to their giggles and this change of posture asserts my manliness, while passing the baton back to their side. It’s quickly picked up on.
- ’Where are we going then, *mystery stranger*?’
My instant discomfort with her choice of the term ’mystery stranger’ is soon brushed aside as it dawns on me that I have no idea where next to take my fantasy. Eager to keep things flowing, I buy myself some time.
- ’Do *you* have anywhere in mind?’
It’s my first sign of weakness and she senses that I’ve lost face. The guise is slipping away. We’re verging on catastrophe.
- ’Nope. We’re all yours’
She smiles, but not quite as broadly as before. I’m losing her. We need to get moving. I decide to suggest we go for a drive.
- ’Well, why don’t we just... go for a drive?’
Too unsure of myself.
’Well, let’s... go for a drive!’
- ’Your wish is my command, lover boy!’
It’s cheesy. Excessively cheesy. But I want cheesy - and did she wink at me as she twizzled towards the steering wheel? It was discreet, but I think it was there. I’m back on top, success can be salvaged. Everything is in order. Except for...
Should I have let the friend in on this? I suppose I wanted the challenge of shaking her off but it’s proving more difficult than I thought... I quickly form a plan to get her dropped off at home, which’ll give me free roam to capture my prize fox without interference. Of course, I could cheat, disappear her. But at this point I’m so entranced I feel that not to follow the fantasy to its conclusion would be a wasted experience. Besides, it’s great practice. Just because I’ve never been in a remotely similar situation doesn’t mean I never will be.
As the girl drives along the unlit country roads her posture is assured, and her hair flows behind her as she goes - an irrational breeze has given her the disturbing appearance of a Nuts cover girl. I am weak and I need this. Cheap pleasure pumps vibrancy into the darkest corners of my imagination until each grain of energy is being spent distracting myself from the real world, and every ray of focus is pinpointed on those wisps of soft black hair, blowing delicately on their imaginary breeze. We do not talk for a while but this is fine - I feel that she senses my admiration.
Why did I bring cider? Of course she’s driving. She was paying for petrol - that’s how I met her. I mutter something under my breath as I fumble around in my bag, hoping they understand that I do not condone drunkenness behind the wheel. The silence needs breaking and I’m getting nervous again. With a flash of inspiration, I half-chuckle and settle on a condom story:
’This guy came into work today - he was about forty, short hair, bit of a bloke, y’know... - he came in and he looked around for a few minutes as if he was in a massive hurry or something, and he looks up at me and goes "not got any condoms mate?". As if he was asking me personally! So I kind of laughed and pointed to the shelf behind him - where they were - but he just glanced up there for a second then quickly darted off. Didn’t say goodbye or anything!’
There is a second or two’s pause once I have stopped speaking. This time, it is the girl in the passenger seat who chuckles briefly. The driver acts as if I said nothing at all. Curiously, the car has picked up pace and the attractive is perched forward on her seat, in such a way that her breasts brush the steering wheel every time we hit a bump in the road. She throws herself into every corner like a rally driver, as if her momentum is pivotal in changing the car’s direction and she has an expression of intense concentration on her face, as if the dark road has more to offer than what I have to say.
’I guess we didn’t have his size’, I offer as an afterthought. I hadn’t expected a punchline would be necessary and frankly, it didn’t help, only serving to amplify the silence left in its midst. I tell myself this is only a hiccup, that it’d be unrealistic if every line was too well-honed and slick, but I am only lying to myself. It is quite an advanced level of trickery, to tell yourself that your daydream is on the right track, when you are fully aware that its early promise is all but diminished. When you’re in this position, and I find myself in it rather too often, it’s always comforting to assure oneself that nobody will ever need know.
So to summarise:
1) Fantasy is for pussies and doesn’t guarantee satisfaction anyway
2) Condom stories do not work on strangers. Nor do bad jokes
3) I’m a desperate single man and writing about it doesn’t help - my ineptitude with females is crippling and insurmountable