August 31, 2010

A Guest Post by XN

My Most Frustrating Date Ever.

Let’s be fair: not all dates need the golden fleece of fornication to qualify them as worthy pursuits. I’d be rather disappointed in myself if my sole motivation to spend time in a stranger’s company was to be drenched to the scrotum in their heady funk. But we cannot be fair unless we are also honest: we relish those exceptional occasions where personality can be damned, and the unadulterated determination of unbridled romping guides your libido steadfastly. Such dates are prime Odyssian territory, but if you’re not careful can leave you insatiable and shipwrecked, when your sole aim is being Calypso’s captive. I recall the folly of my pursuits from the solitary abandonment of the sex-barren island of Friendshipopolis, and offer the simple advice: FUCK etiquette.

I am ever in praise of forward girls, and she was just that. She was a petite paragon of far eastern beauty: stunning Javanese physiognomy, with a smooth sheet of café crème skin adorning a well-pronounced clavicle. A trained barista, she wowed me with the sophistication of her palate, reprimanded me for my espresso indiscretions. This was the subtlest of poisons, which she used to devastating effect: she proceeded to make me the sexiest cup of coffee I had ever drunk, all silk and texture and heady aroma; the coffee was her in concentrated liquid allegory, and within the ecstasy of the first mouthful I resolved to have her. Both direct and exotic: a double-whammy of a honey trap if you ever saw one, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m no Eric Bana (go to 5:26), so I can’t really blame myself. Just as she had designed it, my proposition was forthcoming and simple, and she chose the venue.

The restaurant (it was a restaurant but I call it a trap) itself carried an eroticism about it: a transformed disused power plant, its detritus refashioned into industrial chic with strategically placed tealights in disused pipes and cavities. Pink neon lighting beamed from the high whitewash pillars and cast a seedy aura on everything and everyone. Were the preachings of Nick Cave not droning from the wasp-eyed corners of the room, I would have concluded (quite excitedly) that she had taken me to an exclusive art-house sex club and dinner was just a front; that she was not only keen, but had no intention of dining on anything but my cock. Unfortunately this was not the case; instead she opted for the bovine kind that’s best medium rare, and glided her fingers over the voluptuous bowl of her wine glass whilst teasing me with coy glances. It wasn’t until dessert that she exposed those beautiful shoulders of hers and let chocolate torte smear her lips. Having been admirably contained to this point, my lust tore itself from its restraint: I set my hand under the table and overturned it violently, sending burgundy and torte flying towards the wall, leaving an unobstructed path to this foul temptress.

At least, that is how I imagined events unravelling; and this is where I went regrettably wrong. Being brought up in England I have a debilitating gravitation towards decorum, where action of an extravagant nature is deemed to have no purchase. Instead, I did the boringly decent thing of opting for coffee in a more intimate location; all this meant was sipping espresso whilst staring at her breasts, thinking about the dark chocolate of her areolae and awakening those buds, wet with the dew of my lascivious tongue.

The fact that, over the following weeks, she would reveal both a complete obliviousness to the libido-torturing hold she held me in and her fanny-munching leanings (an ‘experiment’, if that harlot is to be trusted), is I suppose rather comedic: it’s Sappho, not Plato, having their fun. As much as I’d love to curse her name with instant coffee breath, I admit she did nothing wrong and is perfectly lovely – but she literally had no idea what she was doing to me, and we would have both been better off knowing. After all, what good is another untouchable Facebook plus one? Ending the night with her palm impressed across my stinging face (not to mention a hefty bill for damages), or knuckle-deep inside her whilst tattooing our shoulders with dental impressions (with a justifiable bill for damages): either way, it would have been infinitely more memorable than the crushingly cordial end to the evening. A hug, a hop on a tube, then a flaking poster promising I could find romantic harmony online. She couldn’t have planned that any crueler (yes, yes, I know she wasn’t).

Odysseus had it easy: if a nymph is going to keep you to herself for seven years in the middle of nowhere there’s going to be some serious repercussions of a copulative persuasion. Unfortunately, true mythological nymphs don’t exist. Instead, we just have to deal with a perpetually frustrating game of reading the signs, which we find impossible to learn from and more often than not leave us in the wrong place. So next time you’re feeling that irrational desire, roll up those manners in your moist underpants and toss them to the wind.

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