It's fair to say I'm not a heavyweight drinker. Periods of random sobriety render me a dreadful drunk if I go beyond 3 drinks, and seemingly 4 small glasses of fine Shiraz was enough to tip me over the edge in sending a text that has probably sabotaged any chance I might have with a chap who I am keen to get to know better. Of course, you want to know what the message entailed, but short of imploding with shame, I'll summarise with 'I want to get to know you better, I sense chems...' - what?! Chems, sensing them. Oh dear god I'm so uncool. He didn't reply. And probably never will.
Yet whilst I'm having trouble even getting to have a conversation of any length with a 'potential' chap, I am batting off the ladies with a shitty stick - proper stunners as well; totally out of my league. I'm flattered of course. I'm flattered by most attention, but it's attention that I can't do anything about. I imagine it's the same redundant feeling as when you pass your Latin GCSE.
There's a predatory lesbian at my workplace, everytime she stalks the water cooler, it's 'fronts to the wall'.
I have never tried to be a lesbian, well that's not strictly true, I did once share a dare snog with a friend, but found the entire experience to be akin to nuzzling a peach; it's all just too soft. I like the roughness of a man; the hair growing in places it shouldn't, the calloused plate hands, the unapologetic defiant bum stinks. I mean that's not to say I haven't thought about lady love (after all, boobs are great), I've also irrationally thought about wanting to kill Richard Vranch 'at-the-piano' on more than 53 occassions but I wouldn't actually slay the floppy haired smug fop.
Maybe I just haven't found the right girl for me.
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