Last Call
Before I start this entry, I’ll warn B that there is some explicit content involved. Not really, but I do discuss s-e-x (although nothing happened), so if you don’t want to read any hint of your little sister having something that resembles a sex life, you should stop reading now before you throw up all over your cubicle.
Onward.
London proved to be more difficult to crack in terms to meeting people in both the romantic and platonic sense. Now, I’ve always been pretty confident (actually borderline conceited, although some might say that’s a way of hiding insecurity blah blah blah screw you, I’m hot…most of the time), but after six months in London, my confidence went from a seven to a negative eight. While in New York, most men would find it both refreshing and pretty damn cool that a girl would actually take the initiative to disregard gender roles and strike up flirtatious conversation, many men in London seemed to be extremely suspicious of/off put by/confused by said behavior. I actually asked a guy for his name at a bar, he told me and then he proceeded to stare at me with a blank expression on his face for what felt like five hours. After several similar encounters, I decided to scrap the meeting people thing entirely and focus on trying to murder myself with alcohol and spend as much money that I didn’t have as possible.
I did manage to meet some people through friends of friends and coworkers, none of whom I was interested in in a remotely romantic/sexual sense. But time goes on, standards drop, or to put it bluntly, you get desperate.
I really hate the word desperate, so I’ll just say I got really really horny.
On the Friday of my last weekend there, after a bottle or two of wine, I cracked and propositioned a friend who was not even a back-up, but a last, last resort who had been attempting to get into my pants the entire time I was there. He also regularly got on my nerves, but that was okay because that seems to be a prerequisite for every guy I sleep with. We’ll refer to this guy as “Frenchie” as we was half Chinese, half French, but possessed more of the attributes of the typical sleazy Parisian male than whatever attributes London Chinese men possess.
Did I mention that I was really, really horny?
The timing didn’t work out too well that Friday, so it was basically understood that we’d “seal the deal” or whatever cheesy euphemism men use nowadays for humping (that makes me sound really old, I’m 22 people!), the next night.
Saturday night, I’m in round two of a weekend long experiment to see how many screwdrivers I could drink before doing permanent damage to my brain when Frenchie walks over to me.
“So, am I coming over tonight?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say without making any attempt to hide my disappointment that he is going to be the shag that will define British shags for me.
“So you’re not gonna say you’re tired and change your mind again?”
Cheeky.
“I never changed my mind. And if anything, you should be worrying about whether or not you can keep up with me.”
He slithers an arm around my waist, “Tell L to sit up front with Ed on the ride home tonight.”
I pause. Why did he refer to me in the third person?
Motherfucker.
This definitely wasn’t the first time this had happened. He had been confusing my and my flatmate’s names since the day he met us five months ago. It didn’t bother me much before but after five months it had become a little irritating, and especially now. You’d think the fucker would get it right by now, especially when his dick’s satisfaction hung in the balance.
“What did you say?”
It takes him a moment to register. “I meant Cat! I meant Cat! You know what I meant!”
“I know what you meant, asshole, but that’s not what you said.”
He’s stuttering something now, but I can’t hear him because I’m heading back to the bar to continue my screwdriver experiment. I’m on number five now, and nowhere near the level of drunkenness I’m shooting for.
The next night, we all end up at another bar. I’m sitting on a stool nursing a Jack & Coke when he leans in, whispers, “So, can’t we like go to first base or something at least?”
I swivel to look at him with so much force that liquid sloshes out of the edge of my rocks glass.
“Are you serious?”
-L
Onward.
London proved to be more difficult to crack in terms to meeting people in both the romantic and platonic sense. Now, I’ve always been pretty confident (actually borderline conceited, although some might say that’s a way of hiding insecurity blah blah blah screw you, I’m hot…most of the time), but after six months in London, my confidence went from a seven to a negative eight. While in New York, most men would find it both refreshing and pretty damn cool that a girl would actually take the initiative to disregard gender roles and strike up flirtatious conversation, many men in London seemed to be extremely suspicious of/off put by/confused by said behavior. I actually asked a guy for his name at a bar, he told me and then he proceeded to stare at me with a blank expression on his face for what felt like five hours. After several similar encounters, I decided to scrap the meeting people thing entirely and focus on trying to murder myself with alcohol and spend as much money that I didn’t have as possible.
I did manage to meet some people through friends of friends and coworkers, none of whom I was interested in in a remotely romantic/sexual sense. But time goes on, standards drop, or to put it bluntly, you get desperate.
I really hate the word desperate, so I’ll just say I got really really horny.
On the Friday of my last weekend there, after a bottle or two of wine, I cracked and propositioned a friend who was not even a back-up, but a last, last resort who had been attempting to get into my pants the entire time I was there. He also regularly got on my nerves, but that was okay because that seems to be a prerequisite for every guy I sleep with. We’ll refer to this guy as “Frenchie” as we was half Chinese, half French, but possessed more of the attributes of the typical sleazy Parisian male than whatever attributes London Chinese men possess.
Did I mention that I was really, really horny?
The timing didn’t work out too well that Friday, so it was basically understood that we’d “seal the deal” or whatever cheesy euphemism men use nowadays for humping (that makes me sound really old, I’m 22 people!), the next night.
Saturday night, I’m in round two of a weekend long experiment to see how many screwdrivers I could drink before doing permanent damage to my brain when Frenchie walks over to me.
“So, am I coming over tonight?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say without making any attempt to hide my disappointment that he is going to be the shag that will define British shags for me.
“So you’re not gonna say you’re tired and change your mind again?”
Cheeky.
“I never changed my mind. And if anything, you should be worrying about whether or not you can keep up with me.”
He slithers an arm around my waist, “Tell L to sit up front with Ed on the ride home tonight.”
I pause. Why did he refer to me in the third person?
Motherfucker.
This definitely wasn’t the first time this had happened. He had been confusing my and my flatmate’s names since the day he met us five months ago. It didn’t bother me much before but after five months it had become a little irritating, and especially now. You’d think the fucker would get it right by now, especially when his dick’s satisfaction hung in the balance.
“What did you say?”
It takes him a moment to register. “I meant Cat! I meant Cat! You know what I meant!”
“I know what you meant, asshole, but that’s not what you said.”
He’s stuttering something now, but I can’t hear him because I’m heading back to the bar to continue my screwdriver experiment. I’m on number five now, and nowhere near the level of drunkenness I’m shooting for.
The next night, we all end up at another bar. I’m sitting on a stool nursing a Jack & Coke when he leans in, whispers, “So, can’t we like go to first base or something at least?”
I swivel to look at him with so much force that liquid sloshes out of the edge of my rocks glass.
“Are you serious?”
-L
posted by CEO of the World at 11:58 PM
2 Comments:
you make me wish i had an older brother to gross out too.
haha
now i'm having crazy visuals of u manhandling guys, screaming "WHATS MY NAME"... not cuz u're tryin to be rough... but because you're jus double-checking to see if they remember lol
Yeah. I've lived in London for a long time and love it but a lot of the British are pretty weird. Not "they-have-a-different-culture" weird but the "so-weird-they-make-New-Yorkers-look-normal" weird. Don't worry about it.
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