Saturday 27 September 2008

Blunt Blokes

Hi Benjamin,

What's up?
Beside the lack of proper meat substitutes in the supermarkets, there's one British issue I'm definitely not accustomed to yet: the guys. Up here they are incredibly... straightforward.
For example, I was dancing Monday night when a British boy came up to me to offer me a drink. I asked for a Smirnoff Ice, because you know it hasn't been spiked since it comes in a closed bottle. While we walked to the bar together, he asked me my name, which course I was in and... my age. Teasingly, I replied it was not a polite thing to ask a lady, but I told him I was twenty four anyway. He faced the bar for a while, and then turned back to me: “I'm sorry, I don't have enough money. Would you like anything else?”
“Oh, sure,” I said sympathizingly. “Just pick something you can afford.”
He exchanged some words with the girl at the bar and then said to me: “I'm sorry, I haven't got anything left. I spent it all.”
I couldn't help but think that he was cancelling the offer because I exceeded his own age with six years. Yes, the youth are though when it comes to age. Yesterday morning, a sober chap even called me a milf. To my face! It was a joke, which I provoked by listening in on a 'private conversation' (“Are you into milfs?” “What are we talking about milfs for, while there's all these freshers to fuck?”), but still. Unbelievable! Thanks for educating me, darling. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have known what it meant and would have been unable to respond appropriately. Anyway, this lad did look genuinely sorry, so I said it was okay and went back to the dance floor.
However, on my way down the stairs I ran into Kayne, who offered me a drink too. We had met a week earlier (“Do you know the wrestler? No? Do you know the Old Testament, Kayne and Abel? Yes, that's my name.”) and I thought he was good company, so we returned to the bar. I was waiting for him to order our drinks when someone tapped me on the shoulder. There he was, the British eighteen year old, with my Smirnoff Ice. Apparently he had borrowed money from his friends to get me the drink I had asked for. I had to refuse it, though, because I don't trust drinks that are already opened. Plus there was Kayne, whom I pointed out to him with an apologizing smile.
Okay, perhaps this chap wasn't even that bad. But certainly, in all other cases, British blokes are so blunt!
Generally, they have a little chat, before they literally state that they are hitting on me. Just like that. And I'm supposed to either accept their offer or decline it, and then that's it. The first time this happened to me, I just laughed for I thought he was joking. But he insisted I would explicitly turn him down. Second time: same story. And the third time, last night, was even worse.
The DJ at the Academy's wasn't doing a very good job. Somehow people didn't feel like dancing unless they were really pissed, which, obviously, I was not. By eleven I was on my way to the ladies for the third time out of sheer boredom, when a familiar face greeted me.
“Hi!” I yelled, “How are you?”
“Fine. I thought you said you'd text me!”
“I did? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't recall...”
“That's all right. To be honest, I don't remember your name.”
“Same here. I'm Deborah. And you were...?”
To protect the wasted without wasting my narrative, I'll call this young fellow C.
“Are you going to freshers fayre tomorrow?” I informed.
“Definitely!” C said.
“And are you planning on joining any clubs? Do you play any sports?”
“Just drinking,” he said, and lifted his glass. It was a lame joke, but I tried to make the best of it.
“At least you'll train this muscle,” I said, pointing at his lower arm. I shouldn't have – it was just as childish as his joke, and gave him the opportunity to sink even deeper.
“I don't jerk off that much!”
I laughed halfheartedly and looked around to express my boredom.
“So, what are you planning to do tonight?” he asked.
“You mean right now? I think I'll go back to dance,” I said. He didn't look like he cared to join me. “There's not much else to do, is there?”
“Well, we could go back to my place.”
“Hah hah, very funny.”
“We could, you know...” C insisted.
“Yeah right, it was worth a try.”
“But you're not coming?”
It was only at this point that I realized he actually thought he stood a chance.
After I turned him down, C felt no need whatsoever to keep up appearance and pretend I was an interesting person to exchange information with.
I suppose it's honest and quite respectful toward women, for no female has to endure unwanted attention. But I miss the innocence in their flirting. It takes the fun out of getting to know new people and the casual banter, when it's this explicit what outcomes they are aiming at. And the worst part is: as soon as I'm exposed as not interested in those results, I'll be disposed of. Denying all goals but one makes me feel offside; everyone knows that even in a football game you need at least two to keep it interesting, right?


No comments:

Post a Comment