Trying to bring a bit of perspective to my somewhat biased view of the world, I called the boss and asked for a few cab shifts around Christmas. Also my bank account, after two months of heavy abuse, was well overdue a breath of life.
Central Finland on Christmas
I guess you can call finding yourself in Savonlinna, after a 400e gig, on Christmas morning, a change of pace. Especially when you've got an angry mother shouting at you over the phone for being 300 km away when Christmas dinner starts in 45 min. I figured I'd never make it in time, so I didn't exactly step on it on the return leg. Instead I went to fill'er up with some of that wonderfuel.
The euros buzzed on the meter while I did the teacup-stance refuel. Meanwhile, an age old Volvo entered the scene with a weak drift attempt. A regular farmboy driftking, I thought, as he exited his vehicle, smoking a joint. I raised an eyebrow for the lit up cigarette, as it is considered a hazard to smoke in that sort of area. He then proceeded to insert the fuel pistol into his car with his engine running and cigarette in the other hand. At this point I raised my other eyebrow, giving me a total of one hugely alarmed look, and scurried off into the Audi. The quattro system gave its best to complete my getaway, and only nearly did I steer clear of the huge explosion resulting from the idiot's cigarette meeting his fuel tank. Too bad my cab didn't actually have quattro and the guy didn't really really blow up. Spiced up the story though, didn't it?
People suck pt.2
On another day I got a call for a street name I didn't recognize. I took the call instantly, it was a quiet day and I'd find the street name on our mandatory GPS system. Oddly, when I got to the scene, the number 4 house was nowhere to be seen. Where there's usually 2, 4, 6 and so on, there was A1, A2, A3, etc. I did what I normally do when a wtf strikes and pulled over to wait for anyone exiting a house. I waited for almost six hours. No, I waited for the regular ten minutes and thought fuck it, this is not worth my time. Luckily, as I exited the street from the other end, I noticed a small sign that said "Number 4 located in the inner yard" or whatever the Finnish equivalent. I did what the sign said, and true enough, number 4 was located between the houses and a lady was waiting patiently in the middle of the yard. I let out a few curse words.
After maneuvering the Audi, which, frankly, is as wide as a fishing boat, through the tight playground, I apologized for being late and told the lady the address is a bit hard to find. She said it says 4 on the door. Fair enough. I found my fare anyway, so we left. On the way out I saw another cab trying to fit into the yard. She said that was the other cab she called, since I took so long to find her. At this point I had a hard time not expressing my emotions. I mean, can anyone be so dimwitted as to order a cab into a bloody maze of unfathomable addresses, then wait for 10 minutes and order ANOTHER cab when the first one doesn't show? Haddock would call this person a donkey, and I'd have to agree. It probably never even entered her mind to go and look for the first cab. I imagine these are the people who get run over by parked cars or something similar.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Primates Hominidae Sapiens
Ok, granted, men are pigs. And women always fall for pigs. I've always had a few laughs with the entire "Ugh, he's such a pig"-remark, as if the overall pigdom of men, and womens' interest in the pigdom of men would have changed over the ages. Just to disregard the accurate term, I'm gonna use the word pig to encapsulate the alpha-male type of guy with several ongoing sexual relationships. The word for the women playing into his game, well, they'd probably fall under the word "sheep" under this context. That won't work for cases of mere sport-fucking, mind you, where the pig meets a man-eating siren-type of creature, but that's not the point.
This might be a good point to clarify that I don't frown upon pigdom. The pig, not really interested in anything but having fun and switching ladies sooner than socks, rarely has time for lasting relationships. As long as this blunt fact is clear between the two (or more) participants, I'd say bloody good work for the pig. This would of course then lead to, and fall under the rather curious topic of sport fucking.
Anyway, I spent this weekend in the middle of a sexual dominity feud, when a "pig" was set against three of his ex-girls. I'd imagined there to be catfights, beer bottle throwing and an thick atmosphere of hostility. After all, as a founding member of the friend zone-society, I'd always been the one hearing all the horrible stories of the selfishness of these poor blokes who are the pigs. As logic would state then, this might lead to conflict. It is, however, the mind of the woman, which works a twisted logic.
The problem seems to be that women rarely do get that they're not the only one in the guy's life. Which obviously leads to heartache and tears. Which would lead to hatred. And spite. Pure logic of the diploma-engineering level, right? Wrong as hell. It seems as if all of the negative feelings are channeled into a competition between the other girls in the same space, just to score the approval of this alpha male, suffering of major pigdom. Later then, reciting legends of men being heartless and inconsiderate bastard pigs, women conveniently forget themselves playing the main role in the grand theater, "Men are pigs."
So the question remaining is this: how the hell do I end up in a cabin in the middle of a spin-the-bottle-game with two girls and the pig, where the only true point is placing yourself higher in the hierarchy of the pig's harem of sexual conquests?
This might be a good point to clarify that I don't frown upon pigdom. The pig, not really interested in anything but having fun and switching ladies sooner than socks, rarely has time for lasting relationships. As long as this blunt fact is clear between the two (or more) participants, I'd say bloody good work for the pig. This would of course then lead to, and fall under the rather curious topic of sport fucking.
Anyway, I spent this weekend in the middle of a sexual dominity feud, when a "pig" was set against three of his ex-girls. I'd imagined there to be catfights, beer bottle throwing and an thick atmosphere of hostility. After all, as a founding member of the friend zone-society, I'd always been the one hearing all the horrible stories of the selfishness of these poor blokes who are the pigs. As logic would state then, this might lead to conflict. It is, however, the mind of the woman, which works a twisted logic.
The problem seems to be that women rarely do get that they're not the only one in the guy's life. Which obviously leads to heartache and tears. Which would lead to hatred. And spite. Pure logic of the diploma-engineering level, right? Wrong as hell. It seems as if all of the negative feelings are channeled into a competition between the other girls in the same space, just to score the approval of this alpha male, suffering of major pigdom. Later then, reciting legends of men being heartless and inconsiderate bastard pigs, women conveniently forget themselves playing the main role in the grand theater, "Men are pigs."
So the question remaining is this: how the hell do I end up in a cabin in the middle of a spin-the-bottle-game with two girls and the pig, where the only true point is placing yourself higher in the hierarchy of the pig's harem of sexual conquests?
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
There's always room for one more using Rexona
Bright ideas such as this don't come into play too often. I tend to have a problem with deadlines. That's to say I rarely manage to meet them head on. Usually end up making a nifty detour from the leftish. Last night's deadline was no exception. A school report had been waiting its finishing touches for four days and having more important things to do, such as watching camcorder versions of the Hitman-movie, I hadn't really gotten around to it. So last night I figured I'd finally give it a go.
I had it all set up. Files opened, word processor ready, a pint'o'Battery just waiting to be engorged. And before my finger hit a key, my new ring tone made itself heard and in a flash I was off to the nearest pub playing billiards with the gang. So at about five o'clock in the night, or morning I guess it's called at that point, after a long Messenger chat and a failed attempt at getting properly blitzed, I opened the report again. Sure enough I got it done (and there was much rejoicing), but I haven't slept for a second. And being awake just on the power of too many energy drinks, well, just makes you feel a bit wobbly.
So I took it as my duty for the day to seem hungover and tired as hell. Indeed, it was fun for a while, until the morbid fatigue caught up with me.
I've come to the conclusion that people suck. I, as a significant superior to other people, don't suck, which means I'm immune to criticism on this subject. I generally have no problem with suckage, because I usually find ways to take advantage of it. I do however have a rapidly inflating issue for when, usually through the manipulation of bureaucracy, this suckage gains leverage over me. What I'm talking about is people, with a tendency to suck massively, abusing their authoritative position to force their inferior ideas as some prominent divine revelation. My patience grows mighty thin if my personal interests are jeopardized by despotism of this sort.
Also, another way in which people suck. Now, we've established that I don't suck, since I'm far superior to anyone else. But this works only because I know this. Let me explain. See, if I'd lie around whining about not being a superhuman, while rightly been clarified a superior individual, I'd, frankly, suck. I'm finding grand trouble in not issuing huge suckage for people who don't emphasize their strengths, but instead go about whining about their downsides. As a Finn, I realize we're not supposed to admit being good at bloody anything, but I've had enough of people whining about their epic failings in life, instead of throwing beach parties honouring their strong sides.
A while back, I wrote about planning awkward stuff to say to people. Tonight I noticed my output is hugely awkward, even without planning for it. So there we were, four guys waiting for a lift to take us to the party upstairs. A couple of girls asked if they'd fit in the same elevator. I, being the chatty sort of quick-witted bloke, briskly established that they'd be perfectly welcome, unless they SMELLED TOO BAD. Dunno really what the fuck I was thinking, it didn't even rank as one of the overdone wisecracks I usually make. The guys, with a look of "say what" on their faces, slapped their foreheads in a beautifully synchronized motion, and began a huge rant about my not-so-excellent oneliners. The girls also quite clearly explained they didn't think women should be addressed in this fashion.
Go down with a sinking ship, I thought, so I played my role to the end. In the elevator one of the girls apologized for their lack of humour, explaining that they'd evidently been given crap service by a cab driver. I saw this as an excellent opportunity to ante up, so I expertly pointed that I'm also a cab driver. Aye, fucking victorious.
I had it all set up. Files opened, word processor ready, a pint'o'Battery just waiting to be engorged. And before my finger hit a key, my new ring tone made itself heard and in a flash I was off to the nearest pub playing billiards with the gang. So at about five o'clock in the night, or morning I guess it's called at that point, after a long Messenger chat and a failed attempt at getting properly blitzed, I opened the report again. Sure enough I got it done (and there was much rejoicing), but I haven't slept for a second. And being awake just on the power of too many energy drinks, well, just makes you feel a bit wobbly.
So I took it as my duty for the day to seem hungover and tired as hell. Indeed, it was fun for a while, until the morbid fatigue caught up with me.
I've come to the conclusion that people suck. I, as a significant superior to other people, don't suck, which means I'm immune to criticism on this subject. I generally have no problem with suckage, because I usually find ways to take advantage of it. I do however have a rapidly inflating issue for when, usually through the manipulation of bureaucracy, this suckage gains leverage over me. What I'm talking about is people, with a tendency to suck massively, abusing their authoritative position to force their inferior ideas as some prominent divine revelation. My patience grows mighty thin if my personal interests are jeopardized by despotism of this sort.
Also, another way in which people suck. Now, we've established that I don't suck, since I'm far superior to anyone else. But this works only because I know this. Let me explain. See, if I'd lie around whining about not being a superhuman, while rightly been clarified a superior individual, I'd, frankly, suck. I'm finding grand trouble in not issuing huge suckage for people who don't emphasize their strengths, but instead go about whining about their downsides. As a Finn, I realize we're not supposed to admit being good at bloody anything, but I've had enough of people whining about their epic failings in life, instead of throwing beach parties honouring their strong sides.
A while back, I wrote about planning awkward stuff to say to people. Tonight I noticed my output is hugely awkward, even without planning for it. So there we were, four guys waiting for a lift to take us to the party upstairs. A couple of girls asked if they'd fit in the same elevator. I, being the chatty sort of quick-witted bloke, briskly established that they'd be perfectly welcome, unless they SMELLED TOO BAD. Dunno really what the fuck I was thinking, it didn't even rank as one of the overdone wisecracks I usually make. The guys, with a look of "say what" on their faces, slapped their foreheads in a beautifully synchronized motion, and began a huge rant about my not-so-excellent oneliners. The girls also quite clearly explained they didn't think women should be addressed in this fashion.
Go down with a sinking ship, I thought, so I played my role to the end. In the elevator one of the girls apologized for their lack of humour, explaining that they'd evidently been given crap service by a cab driver. I saw this as an excellent opportunity to ante up, so I expertly pointed that I'm also a cab driver. Aye, fucking victorious.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Vacancy 5:25 am
While heading for today's lecture by Mr. Sarasvuo and the gang, I realized I needed my Battery. The nearest store had one of those automated revolving doors that revolved slower than Mars revolves around the Sun. I was in a damned hurry, so I figured I'd manually encourage the door to give its best effort at it's purpose in existing. At times like this I feel I'm merely a pawn in my own huge puppetshow, controlled by someone with a horridly twisted sense of humour. Because, the very instant my hand shifted momentum, my eyes met with a note on the glass wall that read "Please do not attempt to manually speed up the opening process, or the door will freeze. Thank you and have a nice day." Even my fox-like reactions didn't help to avoid the inevitable. I heard the universe laugh in the distance while I waited for the guard to let me out of my glass prison.
The guys called me to join our school Christmas party, and obviously I couldn't miss that. I thought taking a car might be the right solution here, considering I'd been out four nights in a row. Coming up with wheels at that point on a Sunday though, would've required undue effort, so I ended up taking the bus after all. I mean, why not. I'd take the last bus back. No problem. I would not, for instance, pay the night fare or grab a taxi.
So what actually happened was this: the last bus had left an hour earlier than I thought and they apparently don't do night shifts on Sundays. The cold breath of an empty Helsinki puffed down my neck as I banged my head on the locked up doors of the bus station. Not trying to make a scene, I promptly set foot towards Espoo, whimpering of desperation. With every passing step, my desperation slowly turned into spite, and from spite into pure rage. After crossing the bridge leaving downtown, I turned towards the cityline and proceeded to form horrible curses in an epically booming voice, speaking languages I'd previously never heard of. My hair blew in the wind roused by the thunderstorm I summoned over the city, through the force of sheer fury. My wrath was to bring an end to civilization! The skies turned red, and maelstroms swallowed entire beaches! Or at least I could've done that. I actually ended up grinding my teeth and giving in to the bloody taxi fare after walking for a few km.
Anyway, back to the party. Seems like the excessive amount of nights out last week didn't go entirely unnoticed by the mischievous puppetmaster sitting at the universal control box. The Christmas party started from Pikku Klubi, a lounge type bar. Contrary to what I thought, about the bar being a dull alcohol dump with a plastic interior designed only to suit the needs of mindless teens, the place actually had a cool decor and a nice overall feeling to it. And that's saying a lot for a modern bar in downtown Helsinki.
There was this cute girl playing Guitar Hero on a Playstation 2 they'd fixed up in a corner of the bar. I asked her if I could have a go next. Surprisingly she answered me in English, smothered by a thick Australian accent. I thought that was mighty hot, and we ended up chatting a bit. I bought us drinks and half by instinct drew a playah card I didn't know I held. I gave her the beer and a small "You're welcome," and immediately took off to hang with my friends. Not too surprisingly my small move made the desired effect, and she came to talk to me a while later. So I got an Australian bartender girl's phone number. Neato.
The guys called me to join our school Christmas party, and obviously I couldn't miss that. I thought taking a car might be the right solution here, considering I'd been out four nights in a row. Coming up with wheels at that point on a Sunday though, would've required undue effort, so I ended up taking the bus after all. I mean, why not. I'd take the last bus back. No problem. I would not, for instance, pay the night fare or grab a taxi.
So what actually happened was this: the last bus had left an hour earlier than I thought and they apparently don't do night shifts on Sundays. The cold breath of an empty Helsinki puffed down my neck as I banged my head on the locked up doors of the bus station. Not trying to make a scene, I promptly set foot towards Espoo, whimpering of desperation. With every passing step, my desperation slowly turned into spite, and from spite into pure rage. After crossing the bridge leaving downtown, I turned towards the cityline and proceeded to form horrible curses in an epically booming voice, speaking languages I'd previously never heard of. My hair blew in the wind roused by the thunderstorm I summoned over the city, through the force of sheer fury. My wrath was to bring an end to civilization! The skies turned red, and maelstroms swallowed entire beaches! Or at least I could've done that. I actually ended up grinding my teeth and giving in to the bloody taxi fare after walking for a few km.
Anyway, back to the party. Seems like the excessive amount of nights out last week didn't go entirely unnoticed by the mischievous puppetmaster sitting at the universal control box. The Christmas party started from Pikku Klubi, a lounge type bar. Contrary to what I thought, about the bar being a dull alcohol dump with a plastic interior designed only to suit the needs of mindless teens, the place actually had a cool decor and a nice overall feeling to it. And that's saying a lot for a modern bar in downtown Helsinki.
There was this cute girl playing Guitar Hero on a Playstation 2 they'd fixed up in a corner of the bar. I asked her if I could have a go next. Surprisingly she answered me in English, smothered by a thick Australian accent. I thought that was mighty hot, and we ended up chatting a bit. I bought us drinks and half by instinct drew a playah card I didn't know I held. I gave her the beer and a small "You're welcome," and immediately took off to hang with my friends. Not too surprisingly my small move made the desired effect, and she came to talk to me a while later. So I got an Australian bartender girl's phone number. Neato.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Cynical and jaded
I have to use public transportation. That sucks. It also sucks when a drunkard, reeking of sweat, puke and age old booze, chooses to torment you by occupying the aisle side seat, thus blocking your escape route. Seriously, there should be a strict limit on the amount of smell allowed to emit in public spaces. I would've rather just told the odourmonkey to fuck off, but instead, being cunningly diplomatic, I asked him to let me pass, since I would be leaving at the next stop. When the guy noticed that in reality, I just moved to another part of the bus, he gave me some major evil eye. I played around with the mental image of the bus suddenly collapsing and brutally crushing the stinkwad between some horribly disfigured steel frames.
I suppose there's more than one way in unintentionally failing with women. There's the case where people don't end up having sex or being friends. Then there's the intervening form, where sex seems unavailable, but the friendship really isn't there either. There must be a better word for this uncanny valley of sorts, but I'll use the word blockhead to describe the unfortunates who end up there.
Tonight I went to a friend's housewarming party. Nothing much to be expected, a few drinks and a bit of fun. Surprisingly, there was this one girl getting awfully friendly with me. I had been under the conception that she had a boyfriend, so I didn't take much notice. But it went on and on. I let myself think that perhaps they had split up, and started giving similar signals back to her. First mistake. Things progressed to the point where I ended up in a bar with this girl. Second mistake. I spent the rest of the evening being awfully unsure what my part was in the whole picture, missing every chance to score tonight with some other, more probable target. Third mistake. A blockhead doesn't realize he's been demoted to a servant, until the moment comes when the girls go home and leave him standing. You may call me Mr. H.M.R. Blockhead.
Also, being in the position where you're asked for favours is not the place to be. Now don't get me wrong. I'd help my friends any day, and they'd have to owe me huge amounts of favours before I stop doing that. Unfortunately, this arrangement loses its functionality when you fall into the uncanny valley. And what you can't get it into your blockhead, is that the sexual relationship is not going to happen. Actively avoiding "mere" friendship ends up making you way too accessible. And in the futile hope of advancing out of the uncanny valley, you end up being the blockheadeded servant suitable for more or less quick favours. Until I need you again, Mr. Blockhead, they'll say.
I've now begun to comprehend, after excessive head bashing into various wall-like structures, that whoever said "nice guys always finish last" was a bloody genious.
I suppose there's more than one way in unintentionally failing with women. There's the case where people don't end up having sex or being friends. Then there's the intervening form, where sex seems unavailable, but the friendship really isn't there either. There must be a better word for this uncanny valley of sorts, but I'll use the word blockhead to describe the unfortunates who end up there.
Tonight I went to a friend's housewarming party. Nothing much to be expected, a few drinks and a bit of fun. Surprisingly, there was this one girl getting awfully friendly with me. I had been under the conception that she had a boyfriend, so I didn't take much notice. But it went on and on. I let myself think that perhaps they had split up, and started giving similar signals back to her. First mistake. Things progressed to the point where I ended up in a bar with this girl. Second mistake. I spent the rest of the evening being awfully unsure what my part was in the whole picture, missing every chance to score tonight with some other, more probable target. Third mistake. A blockhead doesn't realize he's been demoted to a servant, until the moment comes when the girls go home and leave him standing. You may call me Mr. H.M.R. Blockhead.
Also, being in the position where you're asked for favours is not the place to be. Now don't get me wrong. I'd help my friends any day, and they'd have to owe me huge amounts of favours before I stop doing that. Unfortunately, this arrangement loses its functionality when you fall into the uncanny valley. And what you can't get it into your blockhead, is that the sexual relationship is not going to happen. Actively avoiding "mere" friendship ends up making you way too accessible. And in the futile hope of advancing out of the uncanny valley, you end up being the blockheadeded servant suitable for more or less quick favours. Until I need you again, Mr. Blockhead, they'll say.
I've now begun to comprehend, after excessive head bashing into various wall-like structures, that whoever said "nice guys always finish last" was a bloody genious.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Declared involuntarily gay
Brian Eno - Oblique Strategies
http://awkwardthingsisaytogirls.com/
I didn't let the idea of meeting new people slide, though. So I headed towards Spacestreet for the annual Christmas party, planning to make a run for the nightlife of Helsinki later. Not too long outside my house, I bumped into some girl who'd lost her way. I gave her a quick tour of the nearby surroundings, trying not to smell too much like I'd saturated myself with tequila only moments earlier. She said they were having a party nearby and I'd be welcome to join.
At this point I'd like to say I was there in a jiffy and we shagged all night. But I won't say that. Not because I don't do all-night-shags, but mainly because in actuality I completely froze, like the regular iceman I am, and failed to make the bloody initiative. A not too rare scene of me kicking myself in the head occurred later.
Spacestreet hadn't changed. While giving a mini-growth training session to Mr. Rough, I was confronted by this little woman, who was giving me an awkward face, like the face an underage kid has while approaching the store clerk with the porn magazine he knows he's not allowed to buy. I've noticed, as it would be hard not to, that this little lady is not one of the sharpest tools in the shed when it comes to reading and knowing people. So she, first politely informing that a personal question was on the way, asked me IF I'M GAY. I pondered for a sec if I could make her uncomfortable by making a witty remark at this point, but I think I just made matters worse. After a tad of WTF, mate, I told her I damn well wasn't.
Now I have nothing against gay people. I don't give a damn where peoples' sexuality lies. Except for lesbians, 'cause they're just hot. For this being gay-thing, I realized I'd never actually thought of it. I've always been attracted to tight pants, pretty faces, be it blonde or brunettes, just as long as there's a pair of tits and a woman's head to go with them. Nope, guys just haven't floated my boat. Sorry Mike.
This conversation was getting way too rough for my ego to handle. Had I really been out of contact with women for so long that people were starting to question my sexuality? I headed for the city to find a member of the prettier sex to help me correct these rather twisted ideas. And as I expected, the old Baker's was loaded.
Taking a girl home or even catching phone numbers wasn't exactly familiar territory for me, so it took me a while to get warmed up to chatting up strangers. What really boosted my confidence was this not at all ugly lady grabbing my ass on the dance floor. I danced her off to the bar and told her to chill out, 'cause that seemed to annoy her enough. I then joined two girls who seemed lonely. With the other being a bitch and the other completely canned, I had trouble finding the motivation to drag either out of the bar. I'm probably disrespecting my sovereign duty as a man when I say this, but if this is all there is to offer, these one night stands aren't really my thing.
I would have to make a return trip another day though, because the last bus would not wait. It of course filled up and took off right from under my nose and I was left to either walk or get creative. Surprisingly enough, it was Ladybird who half offered to pick me up at that point. Tempted by the thought of a warm Astra, a ride home and the cosily grouchy Ladybird, I still said no. To let her sleep for one thing, but also not to get into a situation where I'd get kinky ideas with the wrong person. I'd just been hunting for women for fuck's sake, my level of subtlety wasn't exactly at its highest. Nah. I took the night bus 45 min later.
- State the problem in words as clearly as possible
- Only one element of each kind
- What would your closest friend do?
- What to increase? What to reduce?
- Are there sections? Consider transitions
- Try faking it!
- Honour thy error as a hidden intention
http://awkwardthingsisaytogirls.com/
I didn't let the idea of meeting new people slide, though. So I headed towards Spacestreet for the annual Christmas party, planning to make a run for the nightlife of Helsinki later. Not too long outside my house, I bumped into some girl who'd lost her way. I gave her a quick tour of the nearby surroundings, trying not to smell too much like I'd saturated myself with tequila only moments earlier. She said they were having a party nearby and I'd be welcome to join.
At this point I'd like to say I was there in a jiffy and we shagged all night. But I won't say that. Not because I don't do all-night-shags, but mainly because in actuality I completely froze, like the regular iceman I am, and failed to make the bloody initiative. A not too rare scene of me kicking myself in the head occurred later.
Spacestreet hadn't changed. While giving a mini-growth training session to Mr. Rough, I was confronted by this little woman, who was giving me an awkward face, like the face an underage kid has while approaching the store clerk with the porn magazine he knows he's not allowed to buy. I've noticed, as it would be hard not to, that this little lady is not one of the sharpest tools in the shed when it comes to reading and knowing people. So she, first politely informing that a personal question was on the way, asked me IF I'M GAY. I pondered for a sec if I could make her uncomfortable by making a witty remark at this point, but I think I just made matters worse. After a tad of WTF, mate, I told her I damn well wasn't.
Now I have nothing against gay people. I don't give a damn where peoples' sexuality lies. Except for lesbians, 'cause they're just hot. For this being gay-thing, I realized I'd never actually thought of it. I've always been attracted to tight pants, pretty faces, be it blonde or brunettes, just as long as there's a pair of tits and a woman's head to go with them. Nope, guys just haven't floated my boat. Sorry Mike.
This conversation was getting way too rough for my ego to handle. Had I really been out of contact with women for so long that people were starting to question my sexuality? I headed for the city to find a member of the prettier sex to help me correct these rather twisted ideas. And as I expected, the old Baker's was loaded.
Taking a girl home or even catching phone numbers wasn't exactly familiar territory for me, so it took me a while to get warmed up to chatting up strangers. What really boosted my confidence was this not at all ugly lady grabbing my ass on the dance floor. I danced her off to the bar and told her to chill out, 'cause that seemed to annoy her enough. I then joined two girls who seemed lonely. With the other being a bitch and the other completely canned, I had trouble finding the motivation to drag either out of the bar. I'm probably disrespecting my sovereign duty as a man when I say this, but if this is all there is to offer, these one night stands aren't really my thing.
I would have to make a return trip another day though, because the last bus would not wait. It of course filled up and took off right from under my nose and I was left to either walk or get creative. Surprisingly enough, it was Ladybird who half offered to pick me up at that point. Tempted by the thought of a warm Astra, a ride home and the cosily grouchy Ladybird, I still said no. To let her sleep for one thing, but also not to get into a situation where I'd get kinky ideas with the wrong person. I'd just been hunting for women for fuck's sake, my level of subtlety wasn't exactly at its highest. Nah. I took the night bus 45 min later.
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