November 12, 2009

ELIZABETH ROSE

“I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.” – Abraham Lincoln

First dates are a painful process which almost all of us have suffered through. Skye, the F’in Man and I were witness to a particularly horrific one just recently.

They seem to range from the ridiculous to the sublime, but my personal history trends almost exclusively to the lower end of the scale.

As the years pass, I have concluded that I am destined to poor first dates, and perhaps this is one of the driving forces behind my own personal brand of courting (shag first, talk later). By way of rationalisation, I will give two of the more choice examples…

Exhibit A

As a younger rose, I had picked up a gentleman in a local vodka bar one evening and we arranged to meet the following Friday for a drink. We passed a pleasant enough Friday and so I took him home with me. We fumbled and tumbled for sometime, during which my delightful under garments remained in place and untouched. While he enjoyed le petit mort courtesy of my oral skills, your poor Elizabeth Rose was barely aroused by his bedroom gambits. I was young, foolish and tipsy – so I didn’t force the issue at the time. Figuring he could make good in the morning, I rolled over to sleep.

Imagine my surprise when I was awakened a few hours later, not to “my turn” as I might have expected, but to a declaration!

“I know your secret.”

“What are you talking about?” I drowsily responded.

“I do. I know your secret.” Here he paused for emphasis. “You’re a virgin”

I stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and amusement while he continued to explain his “faultless” logic.

“You didn’t take your knickers off.”

Forgive me for hoping he would rip them off with his teeth.

“And you made me come in your mouth so I wouldn’t try to have sex with you.”

This from a man who didn’t even have the decency to warn a girl before the final hurrah – MADE him come indeed. Yes, true in the literal sense, but certainly not my intent. I had barely wet my lips before he was finished. This chap had certainly found a new and unusual defence to flopping the show.

Forgive me Skye, I know it’s “Floppin’ the show” strictly speaking, but this Rose is a stickler for enunciation

I was looking up into the eyes of a would-be lover, full of hope, innocence and excitement. Not only had he solved the mystery of his own failed performance, but he was holding a near-naked, honest-to-goodness virgin in his arms.

With a wiser head on those young shoulders, I might have indulged this fantasy for him. I could have used that misplaced enthusiasm to my own advantage, but I was tired, and frustrated by his earlier performance. Most of all – I was amused. So when my lacklustre suitor leaned down and whispered indulgently in my ear, “It’s okay, I know your secret” and began to stroke my neck tenderly: I laughed. I howled, guffawed, convulsed and at one point even snorted. As tears rolled down my face and I gasped for breath, I tried desperately to say something to mitigate the situation – to no avail. He shot out of bed like a rocket, hurriedly dressed himself and ran for the door without even a parting kiss.

To my shame (and eternal bad karma) this just seemed more amusing, and I laughed louder (I snorted again I admit it). I was practically cackling by now and this is the sound that echoed behind the poor chap long after he’d fled my apartment.

Dear readers, I think I broke that man.

Exhibit B

I am not sure my next exemplar counts as a first date. Technically, yes as it was the first time we had been on a date, but I have a sneaking suspicion we had already slept together. (He was Welsh so I can’t imagine I would have agreed to go on a date with him if we hadn’t already had sex.) Our initial contact was at the office Christmas party and my memories of how that night ended are somewhat fuzzy and have only got fuzzier with the passage of time.

So my Welsh colleague, who I shall refer to as Mr. Tea, made contact with me in the New Year and asked me out for drinks. He was tall, attractive, and had an outstanding capacity for beer. At least that is how he appeared in the vague and pleasant memories I had of him from our prior meeting at the Christmas party, so I acquiesced.

At the time I was working in a rather boisterous Northern town in England. We met in the downtown area and walked for a short while to his chosen bar. It was footie (soccer) night meaning every bar in town was showing the game and that most of the city was wearing the local club’s black and white striped shirt. We arrived a little way into the second half, squeezed into the pub, and sat at a table opposite the bar and with a decent view of the screens. We talked, we drank, and I struggled to understand his thick valley accent. (Believe me – so would most of you, dear readers.) The date was going okay, not great, but no disaster loomed just yet.

Until the home team scored…

As the crowd cheered and beer was spilt in the fracas, I looked up suddenly to be greeted by the sight of eight jiggling and naked breasts. It would seem that the four female bar staff had all lifted their football jerseys in celebration to reveal their ample charms. I was a bit stunned, but if it got them a few more tips – who am I to judge. I have been known to flash the “girls” when asked in a musical form:

Get your tits out, get your tits out… get your tits out for the lads.

The game finished shortly after, one nil to the home team. At this point the jerseys came off the bar staff completely. They were not jiggling in celebration as such, but rather getting on with serving their customers in a very business like yet topless fashion. Mr. Tea looked over for an eyeful before turning his gazing toward my own ample charms. (I was wearing a particularly low cut top and affirmative action bra that evening.)

Puzzled, I asked Mr. Tea what sort of bar we were in. From what I could translate of his slurred Welsh musings into my cleavage, we were in a topless bar and the barmaids only wear the shirts during the game so as not to distract the punters from the football. At this point I noticed I was the only female in the bar not serving behind it and still wearing my shirt.

Due to the win that night, and quite possibly due to me being the only girl in the bar who was drinking – Mr. Tea and I were treated to a number of shots by a large crowd of football supporters on the table next to us. (Strange how even when confronted with four pairs of female nipples, men still choose to stare longingly at the fifth and covered pair, hoping for a glance.)

So my memories of that evening are as fuzzy and vague as those of the office Christmas party. This means the mystery of why Mr. Tea took me to a topless bar for our first date remains a mystery. However, I have solved the puzzle as to why I had such pleasant memories of him. After we left the bar Mr Tea exhibited his own ample charm and made a very enjoyable visit to my valley. Although it was possibly not the first, I must confess it wasn’t the last.

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