Whew, me made it to Sunday which means it’s time for another Guy’s Story. For those of you who are newer readers of the blog, let me explain – every Sunday I have a guest post from a guy. This week’s story comes from Jim at plentymorefishoutofwater.blogspot.com (he’s currently doing a very funny series on the girls who got away).
The Remarkable Turnaround
Meet this girl at a party. Arrange to go to the pictures: Get a text 20 minutes before. Reckons she’s wet and bedraggled because of the rain. Should have brought an umbrella, like me.
Kiss her damp cheek as she removes her hat and runs five stumpy fingers through her hair. Doesn’t look bedraggled – looks lovely.
Tell her I’ve already got the tickets, so she insists on buying the popcorn. Picks salted – yuk. Give her a chance Jim, give her a chance.
The film’s called ‘You, The Living’. The review never said anything about Swedish subtitles.
She throws popcorn at me with a smile that reveals dimples. Think she’s the ONE.
Five minutes later her head is resting on my shoulder. Sniff her hair – nothing. Tell her it smells nice anyway – brownie points.
Avoid talking about the film after – don’t want to sound thick.
Find a bar. She picks a table with a candle. Blow it out on the way to the toilet, challenging her to light it before I return. She succeeds. Is this what love feels like?
Tells me about her scrapbook – it’s like a diary but with pictures and ticket stubs to boot. Feel myself going boss-eyed.
There’s thunder outside. Think I’ll kiss her in the rain – she’ll love that.
Go in for the kill as we walk to the car but she retreats. She’s not kissing me in the rain – says it’s cheesy.
Oh well, five minutes later, outside her student house, our lips collide under the gaze of my rear view mirror. Catch a glimpse of myself and like what I see: I’m irresistible.
Her room is a pigsty: dirty bras hang from open drawers and there are plates on the floor.
She hands me the scrapbook on her way to the bathroom but as soon as the toilet door tells me it’s safe, I’m off to investigate those open drawers.
As I do, a sharp whiff of body odour rises up my nostrils – I stink. Find some Dove deodorant and give myself a spray. Hope she doesn’t notice I smell like her.
Scurry back to the scrapbook as her heavy feet lead her back from the bathroom. Turn to the penultimate page.
“This is amazing,” I say.
“Sorry about the mess,” she replies, then asks why my socks say Tuesday when it’s Saturday.
“I’m a rebel,” I answer. Surely that deserves a laugh?
The theme tune for the football match vibrates through her paper-thin walls as we descend under the sheets.
One side is 2-0 ahead – the glory seems certain. Or that’s what I think. Before I know it it’s 3-2 to the other team – a remarkable turnaround has taken place.
As the crowd celebrates, my date – out of nowhere – pushes me away and asks me to leave. It just doesn’t feel right, apparently.
So what was all the screaming about? She put a pillow over her face to mute the noise, for God’s sake.
She texts a few days later to apologise. Says we should have just gone out as friends – that she felt pressured into being a ‘mega whore’ because it was a date. Women!
Reply telling her it’s okay and asking if we’re going to do it again.
Still waiting to hear back.No tags for this post.