PeterJamesBourke.com

The Story of My Random “date” with a Pretty Girl and the Biggest 3 Day Crush I Ever Had

We all have those certain people who are just inexplicably delicious. You might know them through a friend; may have creepily stumbled across their page on facebook; or maybe you’ve seen them out clubbing.

There isn’t any particular reason why you like them so much; they’re usually conventionally good looking, but if you were to compare them to the first picture on the closest fashion magazine you might find their bone structure lacking or their make-up subpar.

But nonetheless, you fancy them a hell of a lot; it’s something unique about them and their immediacy and nearness to you in the world. The way they’ve caught your eye irresistibly marks them out as something “yummy” (an adjective usually and appropriately only reserved for edible treats); some seraph which has descended from the heavens riding a moonbeam, with the sole aim of tantalising your poor heart.

In short, and to borrow a fantastic word from “A Very Potter Musical”, they are to you: SUPERMEGAFOXYAWESOMEHOT.

Now, I wanted to wait at least a few weeks before writing this story just to be sure that I could lay it down objectively. I wasn’t even going to write it at one point. It’s not marvellously eventful. But it had such a strange effect on me that I think it’s worth telling. I am now, thankfully, sufficiently free of the spell of the girl which this story concerns to do it justice, so allow me to launch into it.

It all began very unexpectedly and very early on a bright February 15^th 2012, which is, as you’ll know, ironically, the day after St. Valentine’s Day.

The previous day had involved some friends, some vodka, no hint of a viable woman, a heartfelt chat, and a fitting conclusion of a bottle of dark rum.

At about 10am on the 15^th, after scanty sleep, I descend to my sun soaked kitchen, my laptop tucked under my arm, to chug a chocolaty protein shake.

Physically, I could not feel closer death. But at the same time I feel happily carefree and reckless. As if the world owes me no favours and I’m not expecting any. I’m full of the “couldn’t give a fuck” attitude that always rushes through me when I’m powerfully hungover. I see the world as a strange and magical place where anything could happen, but where I’ll probably just end up having a wank.

In a stupor, I open my laptop, log on to facebook and scan the list of early birds on chat.

There are about twelve people online but amongst them is a person of the variety that I’ve described above.

She is to my eyes, absolutely and unequivocally, SUPERMEGAFOXYAWESOMEHOT.

Not that I know her that well, or at all really. We’ve met each other once or twice in person, briefly whilst out. We share a good few mutual friends but the extent of our recent interaction has amounted to nothing more than my adding completely unsolicited comments to her statuses.

Here she is online though, and though I know I’m probably risking being ignored, she is pretty.

So I click on her name (let’s call her Jessie) and type one word:

“Perdy”

Nothing.

Then…

Jessie is typing…

“HUH?? Perty? “

Me: “Nothing, forget it. I’m drunk and possibly hungover.”

I mash the keyboard.

“Ashfadskjdas”

Jessie: “meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee toooooooooooooooooooooooo”

She’s drunk too.

Interesting.

What follows is a smidgeon of mindless banter and discussion regarding our respective previous nights, at which point I get bored, decide to throw discreetness to the wind and begin complimenting her appearance (which, let’s be frank, is the only reason I’m talking to her at all).

Me: “I’m not trying to be dramatic but you’re like the one person in life that looks unbelievably aesthetic with short hair. I mean, wtf. It doesn’t suit many girls.”

Jessie: “aesthstic?? is dis a complement or insult?? :/ ” (Yes, she did spell what I just typed wrong)

Me: “Aesthetic is like the alpha way to say “beautiful”. It’s the epitome of physical attractiveness.”

Jessie: “awwwwhhhh! why thank u!!”

Me: “You’re welcome. Notice I complimented your hairstyle which you have control over rather than just your looks which you don’t. I fucking hate when girls get so flattered by someone telling them they’re good looking. I mean, I have a fucking pretty face but that’s just genetics. I had to work for this body however “

(Yes, I am typing cocky shit, but honestly, what have I got to lose?)

More mindless, drunken twaddle for about ten minutes and then I decide to crank things up a notch. Right now I note that she’s being unexpectedly fun and receptive to my odd breed of teasing. Time to start quoting love songs…

Me: “If you feel like leaving, I’m not gonna beg you to stay ‘Cause soon you’ll be finding, You can run, you can hide but you can’t escape my <3 “

In response she sends me a link to “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris.

I’m starting to realise that this girl is cooler than I thought.

Me: “I love black people, like.”

Jessie: “so u love me” (She’s not actually black)

Me: “No…….. I’m IN love with you. I just love them. There’s a difference. We’re in love.”

Jessie: “WHY DIDNT U SAY THIS YDAY? IM AFRAID UR TOO LATE”

This pattern goes on for a few moments…

Me: “I don’t believe that ANYBODY feels the way I do, about you now… </3”

And then…

Jessie: “ I WANT A CURE¬!!! PUB?”

I shan’t bore you with any more direct quotes from our instant messaging. However, the next quarter of an hour is markedly tense. Jessie has suggested that we go to the pub and I can tell that she’s at least a little bit serious. Maybe even deadly serious. She is DRUNK after all, and sent me a song with words stating, “I wanna, li-li-li-lick you from yo’ head to yo’ toes.” Either way, if this is to happen, I know I need to act quickly.

I must grab this opportunity with both arms, despite feeling violently ill; despite the fact that it’s 12 o clock in the day; and despite the fact that I have no money.

Still chatting to her, balancing witty banter and seriously advancing the conversation towards somewhere we could actually meet up, I call my brother and ask him if he has any money I can borrow. He gives me a 50… and two condoms.

Sweet.

Jessie seems surprised that I actually want to meet up. (Of COURSE I do you hot, scrumptious piece of ***)

Frustratingly, my internet connection chooses this time to cut out repeatedly as we’re talking around the idea, but EVENTUALLY (thank sweet baby Jesus she stayed online!) we fix on meeting in front of a phone shop in the city at 1:15pm.

Which gives me like 20 minutes…

And I smell bad.

My shower head never rained upon a more frantic man.

Shampoo and shower gel bottles firing liquid like a cow’s teat squeezed by a retarded farmhand. I actually fall out of the shower… No time to brush my teeth. I dress, pulling on the nearest clean t-shirt, which is reassuringly tight; grab my phone, keys and wallet, stuff my earphones in and begin to run out the door and towards town.

Strangely, it never occurred to me, as I was trotting towards my destination, that she mightn’t actually turn up. It probably should have but I was still in possession of a strange feeling of drink-induced invulnerability.

As I near the meeting place, though, a twinge of nervousness ripples through me.

Women are pushing prams and old people are walking past me in the weak sunshine.

That dude in a suit over there eating a banana is probably having “brunch” for fuck sake!

What is going on?? Ok; it’s early afternoon, I’m still tipsy, and I’m going to meet up with a hot girl to go drinking. This is simple. This is good, in fact. Like a happy continuation of last night… FUCK! I forgot the two condoms. Should that worry me? Why should I think she’s planning to have sex with me? She seemed cool on facebook though. A little frisky even, dare I say! Maybe there’s another one tucked inside my wallet… I haven’t had cause to check in a couple of weeks… Who’s to say she’ll even turn up?? Ok, she WILL turn up. Relax, Pete. Concentrate on the music. She’ll be there. It’ll be awesome.

I arrive in front of the shop at a minute past the time we agreed to meet. Nonchalantly peeking inside I can’t see her. Still confident, I take a seat outside and wait.

After a couple of minutes I spot a blonde female wrapped in a black jacket making her way up the street towards me.

Is that her?

She’s obscured for a moment behind a phone box and then she fully comes into view; a cute round little face with a good complexion and golden bangs strewn across her forehead; a neat little nose and angled eyebrows, all of which gives her an unusual, yet intriguingly attractive, feline appearance.

I stand up to greet her.

Me: “You don’t look scruffy!” (She had warned that she would)

She smiles and begins talking. Immediately, the depth of her voice surprises me.

We all have an idea of the classic bimbo. The fake blonde girl who sounds as though she’s just sucked the shit out of 20 helium balloons (if nothing more sinister) before she speaks. Classic bimbos witter on in piercingly high tones with minimal regard for the ears of others; their cries are to me as the songbird’s dawn time warble is to the sleeping bum on the park bench…

A fucking annoyance!

Now, Jessie wasn’t necessarily a fake looking girl smothered in makeup but I had imagined her to possess a high pitched voice. It’s what we pessimists associate with good looks; head-wrecking voices which spoil the package. Girlish whines, which, due to a suppressing necessity, make oral intercourse preferable to sex. What emerges from her throat, however, is surprisingly deep. Husky. It sort of scratches my ears a little; though gently and unassumingly. Maybe she has a throat infection. Who cares!

I, of course, say nothing of these thoughts to Jessie herself, and we engage in small talk as we continue down the street walking side by side.

Jessie: “Do you actually want to go to the pub?”

Me: “Eh… yes.”

I can’t reasonably see how alcohol could hurt the situation. What else could be on the agenda? Should we just do lunch, shake hands and head home?

Nah…

Pub!

The conversation is flowing well and with laughter, even if we’re a little more reserved and polite in person than online, and our steps lead us to the door of a bar. She makes to enter and gestures with a pretty inclination of her head:
“Do you want to go in here?”

“Why not!”

I am quick to volunteer to buy the first round of drinks. It’s not a gesture proceeding from the type of nonsensical chivalrous theory that “the man should pay” but rather a way of ensuring that there will BE a second drink.

Jessie sits down as I say: “I’ll get this round, alright? You can buy the next one.”

The hairy man behind the bar, however, demands proof of age from both of us. Jessie has none with her and begins spluttering about how she knows people who work there.

He couldn’t be less receptive to her if she were a pair of scissors.

Hairy Bartender: “I don’t give a fuck who you know! Look, I’ll give you a drink each and then ye can move on!”

I have to resist the temptation to give him a full salute and an “Aye, aye, Cap’n!”

I bring Jessie her glass of wine and sit down next to her with my pint. We occupy the next half an hour talking about people we know and how arbitrary our meeting up was.

Me: “Strange how we were both still drunk this morning and online at the same time. I guess it must have been fate…”

Jessie (arching her angled brows with a quick smirk): “Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t drunk.”

I am mildly abashed and suddenly eager to buy more drinks.

I can’t stop staring at her, but do it confidently and casually enough to make it appear normal. I can’t help wondering what’s going through her mind.

Are we on a date? Does she think so? Is she interested in me? Or are we, as far as she’s concerned, merely fellow drunkards, who woke up drunk, and wish to continue being drunk, and are drunkenly happy to have drunken companionship whilst drinking further and maintaining, and perhaps even furthering our drunkenness?

I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if the culmination of this confrontation results in copulation or masturbation. Is it wrong that I’m already thinking about her naked? She’s actually such a sweet girl. Nah, it’s normal. It would be wrong if I wasn’t. Naked Jessie, naked Jessie, naked Jessie. Believe to achieve.

We finish our drinks and Jessie disappears upstairs to use the bathroom while I fall into conversation with two old timers beside me.

They’ve come up to Cork from Killarney to visit a friend in hospital. I give them some directions and talk about rugby with them until Jessie returns and I get up to leave.

Me: “Well, we’ve got to go. Hope you have a good time here anyway lads!”

Old Timer 1: “You’re gonna have a bett’r time than us by the looks of it!”

He utters this remark, with an accompanying glance at Jessie, in SUCH a “creepy old guy” manner that I don’t even dare to look at her to read her response; I just give an awkward laugh and lead her out while naturally inwardly affirming: “By God, I hope you’re right, old man!”

Our one pint restriction has forced us to look for another pub and I’ve suggested one near my college (where, strictly speaking, I should be at this time!) and Jessie has agreed. I tell her that it’ll be an adventure, which I immediately think was a retarded thing to say, but she just laughs it off.

It’s a bit of a walk and on the way Jessie mentions that she has a friend living in an apartment close by.

Jessie: “Maybe if I text her she’ll want to come for a drink.”

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! THIS COULD RUIN EVERYTHING!

Visions of the three of us sitting at a table assail me; the friend mashed in between us; maybe drinking a water; symbolic of what a dull, cockblocking, infuriating bitch she must be!

Me: “Ehm, yeah maybe. That’d be… cool.”

Thankfully, the friend never texts back. Or Jessie never sends the next. One way or another it’s still just the two of us and I breathe normally again.

When we arrive at the pub we find that the doors are shut. It’s closed.

Me: “Shit! Sorry for dragging you all the way up here. But you know, I was thinking, I don’t have THAT much money and the day is young… Do you want to get a naggin? There’s an off licence right here.”

(A “naggin”, if you’re unaware, is a fifth of a litre of spirits, and more often than not alludes to vodka. I’d been worried that this idea might turn Jessie off but she embraces it.)

Jessie: “Good idea! Let’s just get one between us.”

I can deal with this. The last thing I want is for Jessie to get too drunk and start getting sick or something. In spite of her attractiveness she’s really fun to talk to. I reflect honestly, though, that if she were ugly, I wouldn’t give a monkey’s willy for the “fun” of her talk.

We pick up the vodka and an energy drink to chase it with and walk back towards the centre of the city.

Me: “There’s a nice little park off this street. We could drink it there and then go to another pub?”

Jessie: “A park? Really?” (Mild disgust) “Why not just sneak it in and drink it in the toilets?”

What toilets? The unisex toilets in a gay bar? We’ll really blend in with the crowd at this hour…

Me: “Ah, no, I don’t really want to do that. Plus, the sun is shining, it’s a beautiful day. Come on! Park!”

She grudgingly acquiesces.

The park is empty except for a row of flowers along its side, a few trees and some benches. We make for one of the furthest benches and on the way Jessie stoops and plucks a flower out of the ground. I try to take it from her but she won’t give it to me.

We sit on the bench and start passing the small bottle of vodka to each other, slugging the contents. It tastes horrid but after a few drinks it reawakens a familiar warm fuzziness in my brain. I can’t deny to myself that it feels really good to just be here on the bench beside Jessie. It’s a gorgeous day, the breeze is wafting persuasively and we’re lazily laughing in each other’s company. I’m not even thinking about sex. It feels good just to be with her. Just talking. Just drinking.

I look across the park and notice a tall, lone flower standing in the grass.

Me: “Look at that poor flower. Was probably all alone for Valentine’s day yesterday.”

On an impulse, I grab the flower Jessie has picked and walk over to the one in the grass.

Bending down, I prop it up against the other, so that it’s as if they’re mutually intertwined.

As if this weren’t gay enough, when I get back to Jessie I say the following:

“Look, they’re together now. Just like you and me.”

Now, there are a couple of ways one might deconstruct this image of the two flowers.

On first glance one might assume the tall, erect flower to be me and the flower leaning for support to be Jessie. One might note that Jessie’s head (as a flower) is relatively near to where the genitalia of my flower might be supposed to be. A simple image representing a woman’s inherent weakness and disposable essence. A woman as a tool utilised for physical pleasure and nothing more concrete. The leaning flower after all isn’t anchored to the ground like the erect one. It will blow away eventually and another will blow along.

However, let’s presume for a moment that I’m the flower leaning for support and Jessie is the flower standing tall. Does this symbolise a power which women can have over men? Beautiful women especially. They can make certain men bend and pander to their will with a flutter of their petals before releasing them mercilessly to the cruelness of the winds.

Something to think on, but perhaps that’s enough of the English lesson and the park diversion.

Jessie and I finish the vodka and leave the park.

On entering another pub we find it empty but for the manager and a staff member sitting at the bar browsing on a laptop. Crates and boxes containing bottled beers and soft drinks are piled in the middle of the floor where people would usually dance were it night-time. There’s soft, chilled out music from the 90s playing in the background and coloured lighting, which seems unbefitting given the emptiness of the place and earliness of the day. I see fake roses in containers by the walls.

The manager hops into position behind the bar once he sees us (OMFG PAYING CUSTOMERS!) and after talking with the two for a minute we take our drinks down to seats at the front.

Jessie begins to really open up and talk more freely as we sit there facing each other, not shying away from eye contact; a fresh confidence which I can reasonably attribute to the previously consumed vodka. She removes her jacket for the first time since I’ve been with her, apologising again for her “scruffy” clothing.

The top she has on underneath is a pretty ordinary dark long-sleeve as far as I can tell, but hats off to the designer, who made very generous provision for the exposure of cleavage.

Her breasts are full and by Irish, unoperated standards quite magnificent.

This sudden, partial revelation of boobies draws my eyes away from her face and fastens them to her chest with magnetic power. It’s as if they want me to look at them. As if they’re jostling against each other for the best position, trying to hold my gaze and lock it in so they can stare into the depths of my soul. An intake of breath makes them rise a little with a gentle corresponding throb as they descend. Not quite as violent as a “jiggle” and nothing as pronounced as a “bounce”, just a friendly little throb, to let you know they’ve got a bit of life in them.

WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY SO DAMN APPEALING?

Before they start verbally taunting me and shooting milk, I avert my gaze from them and hastily slurp some beer. Jessie, it seems has noticed nothing improper and is still talking.

“…I’m usually really shy but once you know me you won’t shut me up. Do you mind if I get cigarettes?”

The cigarette machine in the pub doesn’t stock menthol cigarettes so Jessie decides to run across to a shop to buy a box while I get the next round. She doubles back before she leaves to grab her bag from the seat.

“Better take this with me.”

“Why?” I hang onto the strap playfully. “Why not leave it here with me?”

She giggles. “There’s 300 euro in there…”

“So?” Not removing my hand. “Don’t you trust me?” (I feel like a drunk version of Aladdin)

“Alright then…”

She puts it back on her seat. After I’ve bought the drinks I amuse myself with the idea of taking off with it. Skipping through the streets with a pink bag thrown over my shoulder singing “FUCK DA PO-LICE!” I could spend that 300 euro on a stripper and the champagne room. Shit… I’m a little more drunk than I thought.

I don’t steal her bag and after Jessie returns we have a fag out the front and then relocate to the heated smoking room.

I quickly realise, however, that we are now no longer alone.

A man with a vacant expression, who seems to be in his late thirties or early forties, is sitting against the right hand wall. He’s a little rough around the edges but looks to be good humoured. There is an empty pint glass on the table in front of him and he’s got another, half-full, pressed to his lips.

Now, I’m hardly in a position to judge, but it’s about half past 3 in the afternoon on a Wednesday for crying out loud and as far as he knew there was nobody else in here!

The alcoholism is strong with this one…

I give a brief salute acknowledging his presence and we sit against the back wall with Jessie facing him.

“How’re ya love?”

I blink in indignation at his coarse comment.

Jessie (whom he addressed): “Eh… good.”

I turn my head to look at the man with mingled curiosity and disdain.

He takes this as a clear cue to start talking to us.

Probable Alcoholic: “I always come in here on a Wednesday y’know if i ‘ave the money. They all know me sure. Pints o’ Becks for 2.50!”

Me (suspiciously): “Oh yeah? The guy out there said that the keg of Becks was gone…”

Probable Alcoholic: “They JUST opened a new one! HEH! HEH! HEH!”

Me: “Rriiight…”

3 way conversation initiated. Probable Alcoholic starts hitting on Jessie more than I am but I don’t feel threatened. He’s a harmless old fella. He tells us that he’s an actor.

Jessie: “Have you been in anything we might have seen?”

I snigger into my drink.

It emerges that he’s “between jobs” right now.

He tells us about his family. He seems to have numerous children and has only been granted visiting rights to see two of the youngest very recently. I feel sorry for the man in one way, but then again, he seems content with life. What more can one hope for?

We talk with Probable Alcoholic for a while longer until he becomes more interested in his phone and conversationally retreats. One song ends and “Wherever You Will Go” by The Calling begins playing softly in the background. Nostalgia starts being kicked up like dust in the pit of my stomach and I tell Jessie how much I love the song.

I watch her smiling and sipping her wine, her attractive little lips cupped to the glass, and start thinking to myself: I have to kiss this girl sooner rather than later. This day is not ending with a platonic goodbye. Alcohol is my ticket but can only take me so far. What to do… How to initiate a move… The day is young, but time is ever wearing onwards, and chances are perpetually passing me by.

Jessie starts talking about where we might go later. She says she has free passes to a couple of clubs. (Wow, she wants to stay out with me that long.) I don’t argue but merely suggest that we see where the night takes us. It’s about 5pm after all. Clubs don’t open till 11.

I excuse myself and go to the gents, pausing for a moment to laugh heartily at the prospective conversation between Jessie and our newfound friend in my absence.

I use the urinal and then stand in front of the large mirror on the wall surveying myself. My t-shirt is fitted well, wrapping my shoulders and back tightly, showing them off to reasonable advantage. It isn’t baggy or too long and reveals the slenderness of my waist. The lighting is enhancing and the full muscles of my upper arms hang free. I’m satisfied with the way I look.

If I felt ugly I wouldn’t enjoy being out with a pretty girl like Jessie. Having to depend on charm and wit alone. Knowing that she could be construed as superior, being beautiful. Knowing that she may think so herself. I feel more comfortable with an athletic body than I would with a fat wad of cash. It’s easier to identify with your body than it is with money, and though I’m sure some people would say that it’s unhealthy and pathetic to wrap your identity up with your physical appearance, I am satisfied to do so right now.

We are two gorgeous people out together. It gives me more confidence to view the situation like that. If we’re superior because of it then we’re superior together. It’s like mentally assuming a role for the sake of enjoying a game. I can always reject the importance of physical beauty in the future. For now it’s fun to embrace it as worthwhile.

Before leaving the bathroom I consider doing push ups to create a skin-swelling pump in my upper body. Then I just laugh in the mirror so I can see my teeth, which are slightly yellowed, reject the idea and leave.

Soon after I return, Jessie gets up to visit the ladies’ room, which leaves me alone with Probable Alcoholic.

Once she leaves I immediately take her chair which puts my back against the wall and the nearest heater and allows me to face PA.

He starts telling me about a girl he’s seeing in an enthusiastic tone, his sentences spilling out impetuously and messily like water: “She’s only 17 like, but age is jus’ a number! She says she loves me and evert’thin! Hah! This is her now textin’ me!”

Jesus, 17…

Me: “And you’re how old again?”

Probable Alcoholic: “32!”

Me: “Well dude, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy for you.”

He grins widely as though he hasn’t a care in the world. Then again, he is tapping seventeen year old ass… Not bad for a jobless, divorced, middle-aged, chronic alco.

Jessie returns.

She glares playfully.

“You took my seat.”

Probable Alcoholic asks us if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. I answer quickly and slyly saying that we’re just friends. I add that when he makes it big as an actor he must use his influence to cast us in a movie together.

Me: “Preferably with a kissing scene.”

Then I attempt to initiate flirtation. I’m sick of waiting and guessing.

I kick Jessie’s shoe lightly under the table. Then a little harder. Then a lot harder so that her legs uncross and her previously dangling foot hits the ground. She gives me a surprised look and I just smile, meeting her gaze.

I suggest that we leave soon and go to the off licence again.

Jessie: “Yeah, we need to get something for you. You need to be as drunk as me.”

Her voice resembles a deep purr.

We finish our drinks.

When we rise to leave Probable Alcoholic comes over to us. He hugs Jessie and asks her if he can give her a kiss.

PA: “Come on, Blondie. Jus’ one on the cheek.”

She allows him to press his whiskers against her cheekbone.

PA: “How ‘bout on the lips?”

She hesitates.

Me: “You’re not even offering me one?”

I step forward and hug the old goon and we say goodbye.

On the way out Jessie picks one of the false roses out of a container. I turn and notice that the guy behind the bar has seen her do so. He stares at her and then at me, exasperated.

I just shrug and level him with a bemused kind of look which says: “I guess bitches be lovin’ dem fake flowers…”

He seems to nod his understanding.

Outside it’s beginning to get dark. I am very lightheaded and Jessie is walking close beside me. I reach down and grab her hand, interlacing our fingers. She doesn’t resist.

Holding hands we make our way across the city to an off licence where I pick up another 200ml of vodka.

After a little debate we slip down a quiet lane and start drinking it.

Jessie, being drunk, begins to get a little flustered.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Drinking down a lane. I don’t even know you. I met you in front of a phone shop.”

Me (Drunk Aladdin): “So what? Don’t you trust me?”

Jessie: “I suppose. You do know some of my friends. I can trust you, can’t I?”

Me: “No, I’m going to rape you.”

Jessie: “What? Haha!”

Me: “Look, everything’s fine. We’re having a good time.”

We’re positioned in the corner of a tiny recess in front of a gate leading into the back of some yard. We’re pressed quite close together. I put my hand on her waist as I take a large quaff from the vodka. I don’t even bother chasing it with the soft drink which I’ve left on the ground. It’s quite dark and my vision is a little blurry, but her features look all the prettier, glimpsed momentarily, sliding in and out of focus.

Everything is going swimmingly.

It’s time to move in for the kill.

I move my head forward to kiss her, gently drawing her body towards mine with my free hand.

REJECTED!

She pulls away.

DOUBLE YOU TEE EFF!

If there was one thing I wasn’t expecting, it was to be rejected for a kiss right now.

I look at her in stunned disbelief.

Me: “Seriously? You don’t want to kiss me?”

Jessie: “I’m sorry, look, I don’t know you at all. I just met you. You’re hot and everything, I just don’t want you to think I’m easy.”

DO YOU WANT ME TO THINK YOU’RE A FUCKING NUN?

WTF.  Seriously! Either she has some sort of personality disorder, is frigid as a block of ice, is gay (maybe I should have paid more attention to her haircut) or just likes teasing guys. I was worried about forgetting condoms. I shouldn’t even have brushed my teeth! Oh wait… I didn’t. Maybe she’s just nervous. Actually no, that’s retarded. Should I just go home now?

These are the slightly unfair thoughts which whirl around my drunken brain as I’m standing in front of her.

“Look, it’s fine I guess.”

I seriously consider going home straight away. The profound disappointment must show on my face because Jessie chimes in:

“Do you want to leave? It’s ok if you do…”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No. But if you want to, don’t feel bad.”

“So you want to stay out?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, then, let’s stay out.”

This is not over. This is far from over. In fact, this has just become “Operation: Get a Fucking Maul.”

There always seem to be parts in these stories which I write, where I reach peak drunkenness and my memory lapses slightly so that specific details elude me. The following sequence in this story is such a part, so you must, with my apologies, accept a vague summary instead.

We share the rest of the vodka and wander out of the lane. Holding hands again we pause by a shop front and she sits against me. I attempt to kiss her again and am rejected.

We return to the first bar we were in. There is no sign of the hairy barman. I pay for a round and we take a seat next to a very fat man who is watching a soccer match along with most of the other patrons. I notice young people just arriving for what looks like their first drink of the evening. I can’t fathom such a state of mind. I am quite drunk. I realise I haven’t eaten solid food in almost 24 hours, unless I count the protein drink I had this morning.

Despite the fact that I had most of the vodka in the lane, I see that what Jessie did have has almost tipped her over the edge into a pit of messiness. She begins talking animatedly and unsolicitedly to the fat man, who looks simultaneously awkward and pleased at receiving attention from such a good looking girl.

After a minute (a minute which I spend downing half my pint) he becomes quietly subdued, probably realising that despite her drunken friendliness he still has man-boobs.

Jessie turns to me, nestles closer and strokes my left arm, wondering aloud whether it’s “big or not?”

I exchange an indescribably strange glance with the fat man.

We go outside the front and have a cigarette. For some bizarre reason I extinguish mine with my hand half way through smoking it. It burns a nasty little hole through my thumb and forefinger. When we get back inside I blame Jessie. She offers to kiss it better. I make her do so again a minute later.

Jessie tells me that she has a six pack. She lifts up her top a little. She doesn’t have a six pack but I take the opportunity to stroke her stomach which is nevertheless smooth and warm.

As I’m finishing my pint I notice that Jessie still hasn’t drunk most of her wine. She notices too and pours some of her wine into my glass before I can stop her.

I almost bitch slap her there and then.

After a while we confusedly leave the bar.

Jessie insists on returning home briefly so that she can put in her bag and change her clothes.

We start walking in the direction of where she lives and five minutes later she asks me why we’re going there. I remind her of what she said.

“Ohhhhh yeah! Can I get on your back?”

“No.”

Ten minutes later I’m walking with her on my back, her arms almost choking me, and her pink bag swinging like a pendulum from my neck.

When we reach her place she tells me that I have to wait outside. She says she’ll be really quick.

I spark up a cigarette and put my earphones in while I’m waiting.

After five minutes the door opens again and her face appears. She’s still wearing the same clothes. She has a weird expression on her face. Her eyes are half closed.

She beckons me towards her. I make my way over to the threshold. Her voice comes out in a husky whisper:

“Come on, let’s go upstairs to my room and just have a rest…”

I hesitate.

The bitch who wouldn’t kiss me in the alleyway wants me to go and “have a rest” in her bedroom?

Me: “I don’t know… Why don’t we just go out again like we said we would?”

I don’t even know why I’m saying this.

She tugs at the sleeve of my jacket and tries to coax me in as though I were a child.

I’m a child at heart.

I go inside.

The first thing which hits me is darkness. There aren’t any lights on. I bump against the wall before I find the staircase.

Jessie: “Just go upstairs.”

I need night-vision goggles for this shit

Up the stairs and into her room. There are clothes everywhere. I immediately think of the episode of Friends when a girl brings Ross back to her house and it’s so messy that he can’t even find a place to sit.

Allow me to paraphrase:

“You know how you throw your jacket on a chair at the end of the day? Well, like that, except instead of a chair, it’s a pile of clothes. And instead of a jacket, it’s a pile of clothes. And instead of the end of the day, it’s the end of time, and clothes are all that have survived!”

She immediately turns off the light and gets onto her bed which is the only thing without clothes on it.

Unless you count bedclothes.

Sorry, terrible joke…

I join her.

Jessie: “You can leave your pants on.”

So as not to make the place messy?

Who does she think she is? Seriously. She invites me up to her room and tells me to keep my pants on. We’re young and drunk. Sex is what we do!

I keep my jeans on and lie behind her, wrapping my arms around her stomach. She backs her ass into me so that my body cups hers.

(Actually, I think the kids call it “spooning” these days…)

Then my friend texts me. He asks me if I’m going out for the night. I tell him that I’m already out. Kind of. I look at the time and tell him that I can meet him at about quarter past 10. Jessie knows who he is and says she’s fine with coming along.

We lie there. Half asleep.

Suddenly Jessie jumps up saying: “I have to get changed. Don’t look.”

All I have is the light of my phone and I use it wisely.

I quickly learn how her room has become so messy. Looking for her outfit she doesn’t flip methodically through drawers of clothes until she finds the right item. Instead she tears great bundles of clothes out of the drawers all at once, flinging them on the ground.

Well, flinging them on top of other clothes, technically. There is no ground anymore.

She strips off, and knowing full well the creepiness of my action I sneak a glance. Her tits look amazing in just a bra.

Fully clothed again, this time wearing green pants and a light top she rejoins me on the bed.

Me: “Alright, I’m setting an alarm for 10pm. So we rest until then.”

I set the alarm.

Then a few things happen.

First, underneath the covers, she turns so that she’s facing me. Our noses are centimetres apart. I keep whispering that we’re “just friends” intending to provoke her into action. It works. The second I “accidentally” rub my nose against hers, she tries to kiss me. Our legs are now interlocked but I reject her kiss.

BOOM! WHO’S TOP DOG?

My feigned rejection and pride only lasts so long. We start kissing and I slide my hand up her top.

Jessie: “We’re a little more than friends now…”

I love it when you talk dirty to me.

After a minute she stops me because she wants a drink of water.

Jessie: “Don’t worry, there’s a sink right there.”

I look to my left as she leans over me to reach it.

Dafuq?  Chick has a sink right beside her bed?

I take this opportunity to surreptitiously turn off the 10pm alarm. (I am one cheeky kunt I know)

When she kisses me again her mouth is wonderfully moist. There’s nothing less attractive in a kiss than dry, abrasive lips and nothing more attractive in one than lips which are lubricated. She suddenly mounts me and dry humping ensues.

The fuck is wrong with her though?

The purpose of dry humping is so that penis and vagina can get to know each other under controlled circumstances; a layer of clothing operating as a comforting intermediary. But she’s trying to grind my stomach.

Does she think that if she keeps moving up my body like this she’ll eventually be able to suffocate me and then won’t have to have sex with me?

Hell no, girl.

I move her back onto my crotch and attempt to hold her there.

It’s more difficult than you might imagine.

She eventually falls off me and I attempt to sneak my hand into her pants.

However, she notices and gently pulls it back out again.

I suddenly realise I don’t even have the strength of will to try anymore.

We lie there again until Jessie says:

“Peter, I honestly won’t be going out. I’m way too tired. I have no foundation on.”

I argue momentarily until I realise that it’s futile.

Jessie: “You can stay here if you want, but I’m just going to be going to sleep.”

I’m torn between staying here with Jessie and going to meet my friend. I look at her again. She’s adorable. I don’t want to leave her. But am I honestly going to stay her just so I can sleep next to her and leave awkwardly in the morning? Fuck that.

Me: “Alright, I think I’m gonna go. But, are we ever going to see each other again?”

Jessie: “Look, take my number.”

Me: “And we’ll go out again sometime?”

Jessie: “Text me and you’ll know from my response. I won’t text you first, you have to text me.”

I bend over her, kiss her on the cheek and leave.

I could probably write another story about what happened afterwards that night, but let us treat it as we would a movie, and let’s pretend this is a boring part. So, as I leave Jessie’s and start jogging across the city to meet my friend we hit the fast forward X30 button. We catch a brief glimpse of me dancing like an idiot, getting new condoms from girls walking around with safe sex packs for S.H.A.G. week, my friend flinging some boisterous asshole across the dance floor and then getting him thrown out of the club, and me pissing on the front of restaurant. We see me tossing and turning rapidly in my bed for a sped-up 3 hours and we hit play again as I descend to my kitchen, open my laptop and put on some melancholy music.

Now, for the part of the story which I didn’t want to write. But which I really must. And which, if I’m honest, is actually quite funny.

If I didn’t know it the previous night when I was with Jessie, I knew it then as I sat in my cold kitchen listening to Savage Garden.

I was obsessed with her. And I had no idea why.

As I sit I compose a text. I can’t wait. I have to send her a text right now. It’s about 8:30am.

If I hadn’t deleted it from the sent items folder on my phone I would type it verbatim, but I’ll put it down here to the best of my memory. It was definitely something like this. Prepare to cringe. Hard.

The text:

“Hey, it’s Peter. Did yesterday even happen? Or was it a dream? It feels like one. I didn’t expect to have such an amazing time with you, but I truly did. Post-valentine pub crawl, drinking in the park, flowers, chilled out love songs, meeting strangers and menthol cigarettes. I had no idea how cool you’d be. Honestly, Jessie, I had a blast <3”

And yes, I did actually use that love heart icon.

You must be thinking to yourself, “What a fucking idiot”. If I had any chance of meeting up with her again, then surely with that text I would have blown it. A better course of action would have been to wait a couple of days and send a casual, “Had fun the other day. Wanna meet up again some time?”

If this is what you’re thinking then I completely agree with you. But you have no idea how I felt right then. It was like a mixture of nausea and hypertension. Like my heart was in my throat, choking me with every beat. I have no explanation for this. I certainly haven’t felt anything like it in years, despite being out with plenty of girls.

The next few hours are almost torturous as I wait for a reply, and none comes.

Again, I have no sensible rationale for what I did next.

I rang her…

Jessie: “Hello?”

Me: “Hey… how’s it going?”

Jessie: “Hey. Eh, who’s this?”

Me: “Peter…”

Jessie: “Oh… right… hi.” (The pauses are fucking ten months pregnant)

We talk for a few minutes and I explain that I didn’t know if my text actually sent.

Jessie: “Yeah… it did. I just thought it was too early to text back…” (Cringe)

I tell her to give me a text later if she wants. She says she will. I hang up.

I can’t stop thinking about her for the entire day, until evening rolls around and I make Retard Move Number 3.

I text her.

Again.

I tell her that my parents are away and invite her over. My proposition includes the line: “I can teach you how to play the piano.”

(Seriously, am I a fucking human being or just a socially awkward penguin…)

Jessie: “Can’t do anything today.. I have to… (blah blah blah)”

Standard excuse.

I know I can’t contact her again without there being grounds for harassment.

The next day I meet my friend Cooke at the health spa he goes to, and once he’s finished his workout we go to the pool area and chill out in the Jacuzzi. He knows who Jessie is and I tell him a brief summary of the story you’ve just read. He tells me not to worry about it. “She’s one of those girls who you’ll definitely be able to hook up with sometime.” He tells me about someone he knows who fucked her. He also tells me about a night he spent with her when she wouldn’t give him sex either.

None of this puts me off her. I still think she’s gorgeous. And when I go home, I’m still thinking about her.

I feel as if I’m about to burst. I try to read but I can’t concentrate on the words. I begin to feel like those kinds of controlling, obsessive people I despise and scorn. It’s Friday night. What’s she doing? Who’s she with? I check her facebook page. I then send her a teasing text.  No response. Eating seems like a chore. I don’t even have an appetite to go out, so I turn down another friend’s invitation.

A brief pause for statistics might be helpful right now. 2 days after we’ve met up. 3 texts initiated by me. 1 phone call. 2 texts have gone unanswered. The invitation of the other was rejected. I am plumbing new depths of pathetic.

How on earth is this what I’ve become? I mess around with girls. I think I’m above them most of the time. Two days ago she was just some hot girl whom I might masturbate to thinking about. Why is she suddenly so special? This is the worst feeling in the world.

I wake up at 3am and can’t get back to sleep. I pull open my laptop and log in to facebook. I feel as if I’m about to go crazy. There’s another pretty girl whom I don’t know on chat. In the past I’ve sent her random messages, trolling, for my own amusement. Now, for no other reason than because I feel like crap and want to talk to somebody, I message her seriously:

“Can I ask your advice?”

Girl on FB: “em yeah?”

Me: “I know I don’t know you or anything and for once I’m not even trying to be funny, but what do you do when you can’t stop thinking about someone?”

Girl on FB: “em ok! Well I confront them and see how they feel i suppose. Why, whats up?”

I briefly explain the situation to her.

Me: “…And for some reason I have SUCH a strong feeling for her. Wish I didn’t but I do.”

Girl on FB: “Ya i get ya im going threw that situtation at the mo and i finally had the balls to do it, and it workd out, u should just say it to her and all u can do is hope, if u have such a strong feeling then u need to find out and not bottle it up that what i did and i literally went insane, whats the harm in been honest? must people prefer an honest person, no need to be afaird of rejection can happen to anyone but for now all i can say to you is to confront her and move forwadrs from there hopefully”

I thank her for the advice and tell her that the only reason I added her was because I thought she was beautiful. (I really am an emotional ball of shit, but I guess I’m speaking from the heart)

“Aww nice one, na serious go for it.. cant go forward if u dont act right away. do not leave it till later, never no who might step in she might meet another guy, u give her the heads up so she wont get the chance u no? i no its so hard but u have to no dont you? the faster u no the faster u can get on with life, ifs its not a good result but im sure it will be. let me no how it go’s anyway i must head to bed ”

The next morning Jessie is online. At this stage, even I, in my deluded state, know that I probably don’t have a chance. But I have to know for sure. I message her and say the following.

“I wish I didn’t find you so annoyingly gorgeous.”

It’s honest after all.

In the end the final rejection is quick and painless.

She responds: “look really enjoyed it company the last day but in just not into u that way sorry”

The moment I read these words it’s as if a valve is opened in my chest and all the pent up tension is released into the ether. Honestly, it’s the strangest thing: I immediately feel a physical alteration; feel more relaxed and actually feel happier. Lighter. Freer.

Me: “I kinda guessed. Can’t blame me for trying though. Thanks for telling me honestly, appreciate it. I won’t bother you again don’t worry. Just letting you know that you’re absolutely beautiful. Take care ”

Jessie: “Aww thanks…had fun thou.. take care ”

I then close the conversation and delete her as a friend.

And that’s pretty much it… Ended just as it began.

I’m honestly glad that it happened; that I did meet up with her and feel like that for three days, because I definitely learnt something from it.

I learnt that you should always take a chance if you want something to happen. You should never think that somebody is out of your league or “too good for you”. Beautiful people are just the same as plainer people. They can be lonely too, and they can be eager to interact with you too. It’s the person who puts himself forward that’s going to succeed. And if not at first, then eventually.

Life’s too short to bite your tongue all the time and never make an offer to anybody because you fear what their response may be. They might be waiting for that offer. Just as reserved as you are. Are you honestly going to let chances pass you by until the world stops handing them to you?

I also learnt that you should never text somebody 3 times in succession, unless you want them to think you’re a certified creep.

But above all I learnt firsthand that human emotions can be extremely unpredictable and powerful, and that’s given me the gift of empathy. Everybody feels vulnerable and down sometimes. I’ll think of that next time I’m about to laugh at someone else.

It’s ridiculous how quickly I stopped caring about Jessie after she sent me that message. It was as though she had been my treasured pet goldfish whom I had kept in a jewelled fishbowl and now… well, she was just another pretty shell stuck to a rock in a little corner of a vast ocean of beautiful sea life.

Looking back, now, at how I felt just one month ago feels absurd. What a fool she made me. Or what a fool I became. Either way it’s just strange. But I have to admit to it happening. And I’m the better man for it.

By the way, I have absolutely nothing against Jessie at all. Of course it wasn’t her fault that I turned psycho. She’s a sweet girl. I wish her the best.

The next day (19^th of February) I’m chatting to Cooke online and I say the following:

“It’s probably unnecessary but don’t mention anything to anyone about my little “date” with “Jessie” Lol. Because I messaged her again and she said she had no interest. I don’t give a shit now but I MAY write a story making her anonymous and wouldn’t want people to know it was her for her sake. She is a really cool girl.”

Cooke: “Oh yeah cool…what a hoebag tho…DAFUQ is her game? what she say?”

Me: “Lol. I know right! Dafuq? She just said she had a really good time but she doesn’t like me in that way. I don’t know. She did call me hot when we were out. Moral of the story is that gangas are going to gang when they’re drunk but when they’re sober it’s a different ballgame. I don’t blame her though. We parted amicably “

Cooke: “Meh…you still scored her and touched her boobies! she is a wierdo with guys…bones uggers and is afraid to get intimate with the hot kids. fuck it…you had a fun day with her so it’s all good.”

And he’s right…

It was a fun day.

And it is all good!