Asking people out
Tell us your biggest successes and most embarrassing failures. Not that we're after new chat-up lines, or anything.
( , Thu 10 Dec 2009, 11:36)
Tell us your biggest successes and most embarrassing failures. Not that we're after new chat-up lines, or anything.
( , Thu 10 Dec 2009, 11:36)
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My first
Being a bit of a late developer, I didn't get my first proper girlfriend until I was 21. She was called Janet, 18 and fit. Her best mate was a mate of mine's girlfriend and when I saw her for the first time it was love at first sight. I did all the usual stuff, asking others if she was seeing someone, getting on the right side of her friend, getting her to put in a good word for me and all the other painful ground work that could have been avoided had I actually had the balls to talk to her myself.
I was at Poly at the time and so I didn't get to see her very often, but I did manage to get her home address and so thought a romantic hand-written tome would get her knickers off quicker than Gary Glitter on a council estate.
I sat at my student digs desk, gazing wistfully out of the window, constructing a love letter of such heart and beauty that I was sure, nay convinced, that the lovely young Janet would be mine. I sent it off, sure that she would be between my legs within the week.
I never got a reply but I was undeterred (this was back in the day before I realised that women were capable of ripping a chap's heart out and sticking it in a blender whilst cackling maniacally). I visited home a couple of weeks or so later and made it my mission to run into her.
And run into her I did. She saw me, she smiled, she walked over to me. My 'line' was all ready: "Hi Janet," I said, so nonchalantly that I would have won first prize in the 100m nonchalant race, "did you get my letter?"
"What letter?" came the reply.
Arse. I should really have had a follow-up line sorted out. I was fucked.
It turned out that I'd been given slightly the wrong address. My letter declaring undying fancyment had gone to number 47, not 147. 47 was a fucking hairdressers.
She never did get the letter but I can imagine a bunch of Tracys pissing their knickers at reading my childish scribblings. It did break the ice though: she asked what I'd written, I bumblingly told her that I was asking her out, she threw her arms around me, we kissed and dated for a year.
( , Thu 10 Dec 2009, 14:39, 2 replies)
Being a bit of a late developer, I didn't get my first proper girlfriend until I was 21. She was called Janet, 18 and fit. Her best mate was a mate of mine's girlfriend and when I saw her for the first time it was love at first sight. I did all the usual stuff, asking others if she was seeing someone, getting on the right side of her friend, getting her to put in a good word for me and all the other painful ground work that could have been avoided had I actually had the balls to talk to her myself.
I was at Poly at the time and so I didn't get to see her very often, but I did manage to get her home address and so thought a romantic hand-written tome would get her knickers off quicker than Gary Glitter on a council estate.
I sat at my student digs desk, gazing wistfully out of the window, constructing a love letter of such heart and beauty that I was sure, nay convinced, that the lovely young Janet would be mine. I sent it off, sure that she would be between my legs within the week.
I never got a reply but I was undeterred (this was back in the day before I realised that women were capable of ripping a chap's heart out and sticking it in a blender whilst cackling maniacally). I visited home a couple of weeks or so later and made it my mission to run into her.
And run into her I did. She saw me, she smiled, she walked over to me. My 'line' was all ready: "Hi Janet," I said, so nonchalantly that I would have won first prize in the 100m nonchalant race, "did you get my letter?"
"What letter?" came the reply.
Arse. I should really have had a follow-up line sorted out. I was fucked.
It turned out that I'd been given slightly the wrong address. My letter declaring undying fancyment had gone to number 47, not 147. 47 was a fucking hairdressers.
She never did get the letter but I can imagine a bunch of Tracys pissing their knickers at reading my childish scribblings. It did break the ice though: she asked what I'd written, I bumblingly told her that I was asking her out, she threw her arms around me, we kissed and dated for a year.
( , Thu 10 Dec 2009, 14:39, 2 replies)
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