Waiting for a good friend, for mid-week drinks (Wild Wednesdays as they were sometimes known); him being an hour late set the task of getting two phone numbers before he arrived.
“In an hour?! I could get six” I boasted. I had no intention of participating as it would be totally shameful when I was sitting numberless, making up men off the top of my head.
Popping into a bar, I didn’t see any familiar faces, but did see some fit ones (pure MAN-CANDY) . Within ten seconds of ordering a drink and sitting down I had a sharply dressed guy sitting at my table. And that’s not me being vein…
(“Hello? Vanity Fair? You want me for the cover?”), it’s just that this kind of thing wouldn’t happen a lot…
Like, Am I on TV? Cut to me looking for the hidden cameras and Jeremy Beedle with his tiny tiny hand. I honestly had both my feet on my bag because I thought I was on The Real Hustle.
Dressed in a suit with slick hair he seemed reasonably charming, although totes not my type. Then after a further ten seconds of him looking me up and down like he was Janice Dickinson and I was anything with a pulse and licking his lips as though I were gunna be dragged across the table and devoured, nope he wasn’t so charming. Just slimey with no hustle.
“Can I kiss you?” After three or four minutes of light conversation, while after strutting from the station I was sweating like I was menapausal. Erm…Absolutely Not?
“No,” I politely declined, “I don’t kiss guys I’ve only just met in public” – (I know, I could hardly keep a straight face either!) BUT! Seen as the opportunity had arisen, “I will take your number…”
“I won’t give you my number… I’m not going to see you again”
-“OH HELLL NO!!” – Brenda, Scary Movie. The pie-r just got pied! I rejected him and the slimey bitch has turned it around!
“I wasn’t actually going to call you” I confessed, but LATER to admitting he’d been part of a mild Cruel Intentions style wager. (Only with less cars and sexual propositions).
After a minute and a half of THE most awkward silence in history, (think sitting at a dinner table with Alfred Fritzle or Rachel Green in the lift with Ralph Lauren and her boss – “Awk-waard!” ), I broke the silence by saying that I felt like a bitch. Just to reitterate the fact that I WAS the one who did the rejecting. Definitely not about being mugged off by some sleeze in a suit.
“You are such a skeeze” – Regina George. At which point he feels it’s OK to LUNGE at me open mouthed like some guppy fish on heat. Obviously I recoiled like a hooker in confession, using my hand as a shield! Cut to me sitting in the middle of _____ bar with horny flounder’s pouting face gripped in my open palm.
Fumbling with my other hand, I grappled with my bag and hooded gilet and made a stumbling dash for the door. Needless to say, I lost the wager. But definitely made up for it later…