Pretty Lady

Sometimes I think I fall in love too easily. I use the word lightly here, but it’s a dangerous mistake, to begin associating the word ‘love’ with a crush. I get worried I’ll be on a date that’s going well, only to declare my love as she discovers my member in the bottom of her popcorn. Not just lying there. It’s not dismembered. How terrifying would that be? I love you! Have my willy!

The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.

Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.

So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”

Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”

Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?

I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”

My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”