AFTERS
When I used to flat share with my mate Posh John I’d usually end up flirting with the succession of girls he’d bring round to fuck. It was pitiful. Sitting there exchanging flirtatious small talk with this random girl in the living room while John attempted to scrape the remnants of jizz and fanny batter off his sheets from his previous conquest, getting ready to get them all slick with hot human excreations again.

One night I was sat drinking Vimto out the bottle and eating chicken wings, watching some Japanese film on the box where a bloke was fucking a woman and using live shrimp to spice it up a bit. And all the time I could hear Posh John and this latest peice of ass banging away in his room. I was going through a dry spell, I hadn’t been laid in months and was feeling pretty fucking dismal.

I carry on watching the film as the hooting and screaming eminating from John’s room fades. Then after a while this girl, an attractive girl with dark hair cut in a neat little bob and wearing John’s t-shirt pattered into view. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hello again,” I said. Feeling icredibly pissed off. She was a nice looking girl. Nice legs. I pretended not to be trying to catch a glimpse of her fur burger as I continuted eating my chicken wings. The girl sat down on the other sofa chair and explained John had passed out. She said she was hungry. I offered her a wing. She accepted.

And then we talked for about fifteen minutes or-so. The usual empty, pointless flirtation. I commented that she was far too good for an ugly fucker like John. I said she was a bit classy. She said she liked my tattoos and asked me what they ‘meant’ (fuck knows, they’re just pretty pictures).

And then she came and sat next to me so she could nick my food easier. And then she was touching my arm.

Ohhhhhh, fuck!!!

And then she said: “We could, you know. Go to your room...”

And miliseconds later I had her on my bed, kissing her, kneading her tits like big mounds of mallable hot dough. I slid my hand down into her panties as she breathed soundlessly and I felt that she was incredibly wet. My fingers wiggled round her sopping cunt lips and I found her clit and gave it the patent pending super-speed three finger rubdown. She writhed and bucked and her pussy shot out a load of sticky liquid. God she was HOT!!!

Then it occured to me.

I stopped, lifted my hand out of her knickers and examined my hand. It was covered, my fingers were webbed together and I had a trail running down my wrist... it was John’s still oven-fresh manfat, slick, globby and hot to the touch and attempting to make my hand pregnant.

“You don’t mind, do you?” said the girl, pulling me back towards her.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 12:03, 17 replies)

Flirting vs. Harassment
A mate of mine told me about his mate who worked in HR for a bank on the South Coast who had to 'manage' an employee complaint brought about by prolonged flirting.

Young lad worked in a bank customer service centre, and sat opposite a fit bird. Every morning he'd say hello, and she'd smile sweetly back. Every day he'd play tents in his trousers and walk with a stoop to the coffee machine.

One day, he broke down. His gusset could handle the flirting/teasing no more. As she walked in to work in the morning he dived across the table and grabbed her top-bollocks with both hands screaming "YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT!!!".

Turns out, she didn't.
(Tighthead, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:49, 4 replies)

A man who was very good with his hands.
The seven year itch exists - fact. It might not always be seven years, but that kind of equates to the time in a serious relationship when there might well be small children about.

It did for us; I was on maternity leave for the second time. Our eldest was almost four and the baby was just a few months old when my father-in-law died and we came into about £15k. This was the early 1990s and that was a lot of money. We'd been living in our little house in Isleworth for about five years and still hadn't got around to replacing the kitchen that had been there when we moved in - and for the previous ten years, by the look of it. Ben (my husband in those days) kept promising to do something about it, but his skills in the DIY department would have left the Chuckle Brothers tutting and shaking their heads.

At this time, our marriage was looking a little bit shaky. The reduced income while I was on leave, plus the increased out-goings due to the baby would have been bad enough, but she was one of those babies that wouldn't get into a regular sleeping pattern no matter what we tried. Kid 1 had been brilliant, Kid 2 was a nightmare, which meant that neither of us had had a good night's sleep for fucking ever. Or rather, I hadn't; Ben had taken to sleeping downstairs on the sofa-bed during the week so that he could function at work.

I still can't figure out whether I had post-natal depression or just chronic fatigue exacerbated by lack of sex, or any physical contact really (with anyone over three feet tall anyway). I assumed that Ben 'got his' on the sofa, courtesy of late night channel four, as he rarely pestered me for sex at this time. Looking back on this time later, after I kicked him out, I suspect that he might have had a bit on the side too, though I can't be certain.

Wow - that's quite a back-story isn't it. Paints a picture though - a blurred, impressionistic picture - like one of Turner's maybe: 'The River Thames on a Misty Morning with Boats and Smoke'. We both knew that things couldn't carry on as they were; we both knew that things would get better once Kid 2 learnt to sleep through the night, but meanwhile...

It was the start of the summer holidays, so I was practically living in my dressing gown, baggy leggings and tee-shirt at this time, as I didn't have to take Kid 1 to school. They were permanently stained with baby sick and breast milk and I must have looked a total fright. When Ben suggested that we use a chunk of his inheritance money to get a new kitchen fitted, I actually cried, as it felt like the nicest thing anyone had said to me ever. Once I got control of myself and thanked him properly, he said he'd do some asking around at work for a recommendation.

Later that week, a guy came round to have a chat about it. His name was Mark and I was a bit scared of him. He came in the evening when Ben was there, but he was still scary, he had his sleeves rolled up and there were tattoos all over his forearms and I guessed they didn't stop there. I'd already decided that I didn't want to be alone in the house with him when he showed us some photos of other kitchens he'd done, brought out samples of woods and finishes, discussed the merits of Belfast sinks and dishwashers. By the end of an hour I'd changed my mind and he started work four weeks later.

At first I was nervous about being in the house with just him and the kids, but very soon he showed that he was not just a very good kitchen designer/maker, but he was brilliant with kids. It turned out that after a bit of a rough start to life, which included children's homes, a spell in the navy and a couple of spells in prison, he'd turned his life around when his girlfriend gave birth to their first child and he'd had to miss being there because he was inside. He'd trained as a joiner and had never looked back. His kids were all teenagers and somehow, he showed me that my kids were at the best possible age. I started to enjoy being a mum again.

Gradually, I pulled myself together. I started doing yoga again, showered every morning, got dressed, went to the hairdresser's, bought some new clothes, took the kids out to the park everyday, chatted to Mark, saw my lovely kitchen coming together.

I don't even know if this was a flirtation, or just a very nice man helping out a struggling woman in need. I tend to think it was just that, but knowing men, I can't be sure. Sure, when I got back from the hairdresser's he commented on how nice I looked, sure he made me laugh, boosted my confidence. Sure he changed somehow when Ben got home from work, or if he worked on a weekend...

By the time the kitchen was finished, Kid 2 was sleeping through the night and I'd persuaded Ben to come back to our bed. He hadn't taken a lot of persuasion - when you whisper into a man's ear "How would you like a blow-job?" I've found that that can be pretty persuasive. He wasn't to know that I was imagining myself on my knees in the kitchen with my mouth round Mark's cock, or later, that I was imagining myself lying on my back on the kitchen table with my heels up on Mark's shoulders as he fucked me amid the scent of freshly sawn pine.

There are some things that are best kept to yourself.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:37, 15 replies)

Ooops!
I've literally just walked past the bloke who was delivering those big water bottles for the office and come out with the immortal line 'I bet you don't have to go to the gym at night when you do that all day'

*I'm male.
Edit *Straight
*Holds head in shame.
(Kip, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:34, 8 replies)

I am useless at flirting, and recognising flirting,
and far too proud to ever consider dating events/websites.

Thus I will die a lonely man. Happiness is accepting this state of affairs as unalterable, and giving up.
(Land of Green Ginger It's dreamy weather, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:29, 7 replies)

SCFW
Back in the haze of my youth, when I was an inexperienced gangly virgin, I encountered Scary Confident Flirty Woman.

I saw her in a club, it was near Christmas, she was wearing a little Santa outfit. Her body was pretty good, face nothing to write home about, but not a write-off.

I'm pretty bad at flirting, but that night it didn't matter, and pretty soon she was devouring my face like some kind of Cthulhu-faced mind flayer, literally her tongue was all over me, it was horribly inappropriate in public (all my mates were finding it hilarious), extremely wet and a little bit arousing.

I was also a bit scared that she was going to eat my brains, and this was hardly the way I had dreamed of 'losing it', but I thought, fuck it, might as well, so I asked her if she wanted to 'get out of here'. She did, and we left.

At that juncture, the walk home seemed a little long, so we led each other to a dark secluded area nearby and proceeded to grope away. Pretty soon, I felt her hand going down towards my belt, and then yep, she was in my pants.

But where the hell was my penis? My boner had managed to get wedged down the side of my leg, and the incredible stiffness had combined with my boxers to affix it there like a fucking splint, hiding it completely from her willing fingers. Her brief, confused grope ended fruitlessly, and we sort of lamely drifted our separate ways. I can only assume she thinks I have no cock. Fucksticks!
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:07, 4 replies)

I Stopped doing it a few years back...
... now I'm the slightly mysterious broody one in the corner who never gives a straight answer and always leads a lady to ask more questions. I used to be the attentive, always witty one, but I had more female friends than I knew what to do with, and over the years many of them have piped up and said they fancied me at first... at first you should have rammed your tongue down my neck and shut me the Fuck up, because the only reason I was talking to you was because it was knickers off time in my head!!!

SO, this playing it cool thing is alright, I'm quite good at it... the only problem is I'm really a bouncy rubber ball full of fun and stupidity, so when I bump into, 'the one' next, I'll have to ease her in very gently...

But for the moment, I'm doing OK, get much more attention than a short guy should. And I'm not even Tom Cruise, which is a bonus - more like a scale model of a wrestler with my little bald head and stuff :0P
(hengushrh is found at the Dole office every second thursday, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:07, Reply)

Manchester Farceness
In the early 2000s myself and a friend had travelled down to Manchester for a gig. It was at the Old Trafford Cricket Ground, so there were plenty of folk drinking and it was very crowded. Anyway I had lost my friend and was waiting for him to find me in the crowd after sending him a txt.
An attractive Mancunian girl who was with a group of blokes asks if I have a light, I don't smoke so pretty much told her that. The young lady starts flirting (judged on hindsight) so the other guys bog off. After some chat about her and the gig, she lights up with a lighter from her pocket.
Even my Jade Goodyesque brain thought there was something in this. "She was using the lighter as an excuse!"
A few more minutes of chat ensues where she keeps mentioning her flat in the city centre. Whilst speaking about her flat, she often drops in that she lives alone. These factors (coupled with the clumsy snog which followed) may direct you to believe that this is one of my flirting triumphs. Well it bloody should have been!
Mancunian girl said she had to nip to the toilet and told me to wait there. Sounds easy right?
I thought I would help her out as the toilet queues for these things are awful, and that's just for the guys. I quickly realise I can save her the pain of a queue.
At least that's what I attempted to convey to her, fairly sure she didn't take it that way. What I actually said alongside a helpful point was.....
"The Disabled toilets are that a way!"

Now this might not have been a deal breaker, but I think I said it a little too loud and with a dodgy laugh.

She looked disgusted and walked away, funnily enough she didn't come back.
(muzzvsworld, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:03, 2 replies)

I think the first time I actively tried to pull a girl was when I was about 13.
It was at a local disco-type thing, and the French exchange student and I flipped a coin to see who would do the honours, and I lost.

The thing is, apart from the three girls sitting at a table near the DJ, we were the only ones there.

But I'm a man of honour, and will not go back on my word.

I strode over to their table, and as I got to within speaking distance, the nearest girl turned and said "No thanks."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:03, 1 reply)

"That top looks very becoming on you.."
"Of course, if I was on you I'd be coming too."

I'll let you decide whether it's a triumph or a disaster.

Please note, I've never ever used this line.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:01, Reply)

Pickup lines where even if you win you lose.
"Hey, is that a copy of 'The Fountainhead'?"

"You know, when I first saw you I thought you were Sarah Palin."

"Excuse me...did you say you wrote 'Twilight' fan-fiction?"

"If you're giving it, I'd love a free personality test."

"Do you come here often? Well, not literally here...accident sites in general."

"You know, I could help you get BNP membership. They let blacks in now."

Add more in the replies!
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 10:48, 5 replies)

I was a very experienced teen....
..experienced at videogames that is.

One summer night whilst on holiday with the parents I was wowing everyone with my unearthly skills at Karate Champ in the campsite's arcade and had gathered quite an audience for I was awesome.

There were a few young lasses in the audience and after I'd run out of 10p's they followed me back to into the main bar where my parents were.

The nice thing about this campsite was it wasn't particularly strict about the licensing laws (I'm looking at you Ocean Heights Campsite in NewQuay in the 80's) so I was able to get served with Cider as did the laydees and a few other of my arcade audience. This meant we were able to get well on our way to being merry, fully endorsed by the parents and proceeded to have a whale of a time.

Towards the back end of the night my parents left to go to the campsite we were stayin at up the road leaving us kids to get on with our fun.

Come the end of the night and it transpires that 2 of the girls were staying on the same campsite up the road so our posse headed back.

The fat lass and one of the my audience members disappeared into a nearby Cenetaph and I was left alone with this other lass. We decided to forge on ahead for surely fat lass and dude would catch us up.

"I'm cold." Announced she.
"Here, have my coat." I galliantly offered.

And on we marched.

"I'm a bit nippy now but you keep the coat." I declared she as she put her arm round me for warmth.

And on we marched.

"I'm tired. Let's sit on this bench until the others catch up." Said she after walking for 1/2 mile or so.

And so we sat waiting.. and waiting.

"Let's head back to the caravan. We'll have to be quiet my nan will be in bed." and on we strode.

Sneaking into the caravan and indeed it appeared deserted we sat in the dim light you can only get in 80's style static caravans.

"I got really sunburned today. It's so sore. Look." as she unbuttoned her shirt to show me quite a red chest, 15 year old norks heaving against the strain of her bra.

I'm sure I offered words of sympathy as the 2 stragglers stumbled into the caravan waking up nan.

"I'd better go back to my tent." says I.

"I'll walk you up there." Says she.

"We'll come too!" says the 2 stragglers.

So back to my tent we walked. Exchanged a few brief words and I retired to bed.

The next morning it came home to me that I'd been completely oblivious to the endless flirting this young lass had been throwing my way. It was brought home to me by my dad opening the back door to their motorhome and knowingly asking,"How many sugars does she take?"

I don't think he forgave me for years. Until I found that computer games and laydees can co-exist in my life.

She even wrote to me once but I never got round to replying. Was probably too busy trying to become - E L I T E - or something.


Edit: Apologies for length. She never got to find out.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 10:46, 1 reply)

I've always wanted to try the following scenario... but never had a willing partner so far, will try on the next gullible lass.
Go to a hotel with the Missus, walk in separately and sit at different ends of the bar, chat her up through the barman/woman and eventually take her upstairs to your room.

I'm sure this could be made a lot funnier if the flirting was really bad/outrageous/perverted etc...

But I bet the bar-staffs face would be a picture.
(Kip, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 10:32, 5 replies)

i can only hail a cab from inside another cab. metaphorically speaking.
For some reason, i seem to be rather good at flirting with women, but ONLY when i'm in a relationship. i think it's because when there's no pressure from my balls to get me some, i relax and act like a regular human being instead of some sweaty leering proto-rapist. i'd equate it to driving long journeys with a couple of bored kids in the back. 'dad are we there yet? when? i need a wee! can i have an ice cream? are we nearly there yet? ad nauseum.. makes me distracted and more likely to utter retarded sentences, the sort of thing i can't even bring myself to fabricate for the sake of an anecdote in the cold sober light of day with a full 8hrs sleep under my belt and empty balls., or miss obvious cues, like 'i've never kissed a guy with a lip ring before ' *pointed look* *pete rambles on oblivious*
THANKFULLY, i met the current gf/fiance while dating another girl, so with the pressure to empty my knackers off, i was able to be witty, charming, slightly edgy and all that shit that women like. i did miss the more subtle clues, but it kinda gave it away when she grabbed my hand, put it on her arse, and said she wanted to fuck me :D thank god she's direct, i was well on my way to munted. i managed to get her number, avoid being a cheating douche, then get rid of the incumbent unsuitable girl in double quick time,(19yr old bellydancer.. easy on the eye but her immaturity and lack of connection with the real world grated on my brain) and we hooked up. now it's 2 and a half odd years in and we're talking about houses and pets and stuff.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 10:24, Reply)

I'm a guitarist and vocalist in a band
so I flirt with certain ladies in the crowd as long as they aren't fat or ugly. One day I spot this gorgeous girl, fantastic arse and gorgeous features, I mean she could have been a model if she wanted. So I flirt with her from the stage. Amazingly she responds. We spend the rest of the night with lips locked. I can't believe my luck here is this incredibly hot woman and she wants me! We make love. We get together officially. Her friends try and break us up telling her that I'm a womaniser and tell me that she's frigid and boring but we don't listen. 12 months later we are married and three years on from that we are still married with a child and have bought our first home together.

And that, good people is my flirting disaster. Her friends were right.
( Peej, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 10:23, 3 replies)

I was hanging around at art college, chatting to some girl
and she was whining on about how rich her dad was. So I said, buy us a drink then.

Then before I knew it she said "You look pretty poor - shag me". For some reason, this wasn't enough of a green light for me, so I took her to Tescos and spent half an hour telling her how miserable everyone looked, and to shut up about her dad. She just laughed and said "you're so funny".

Etc.
(sabre-tooth monkey, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 9:56, 9 replies)

I worked out some time ago, that
all the women in the world fancy me, but they do tend to play 'hard to get'.

Y'know - by seeing other people to make me jealous, changing their numbers all the time, threatening to call the police ...

It's cute. I love women.

LOVE them.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 9:47, Reply)

Advice required
I don't drink coffee. Really don't like the taste. Never have. I'm sure it's great if you're into that kind of thing, but it's really not for me, and I manage to live a happy and productive life without it.

What then, is the least feckless answer to the question "do you want to come in for a coffee?"?
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 9:24, 12 replies)

Online flirting...
... to my shame I've given the whole online dating thing a go, if nothing else to brush up on flirting skills for my "in the field" attempts.

I have now learnt important lessons about the women you meet through online dating:

- Single
- Attractive
- Mentally stable

Pick 2 out of 3.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 9:21, 14 replies)

If years of chronic masturbation have left you shortsighted like me
I’ve got some advice for you.

If you’re harmlessly flirting with the barmaid in your local do not, and I repeat, DO NOT, remove your spectacles and give them a perfunctory cleaning rub on the hem of your t-shirt whilst making whimsical, eloquent small talk.

From her point of view on the other side of the bar where she can’t see the bottom half of your body, it looks like you’re furiously throttling the one-eyed trouser monster while engaging her in a bit of idle chit-chat.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 9:16, 5 replies)

I was working in a bike shop
Yeah, it was late 96 and I was at Uni, working part time time in the bike shop to fund my habit, two Konas and an orange, when in to the work shops walks a beautiful smile with a person attached behind.

All I saw was the smile. She wanted her brakes fixed, I obliged and chatted, sunning my self in the radiance of that smile. She giggled at my lame jokes, I told her how to fix a brake pad right and then I was finished and she rolled her bike away from me.

The other mechanics, a lad of about sixteen, a guy closer to fifty and my mate, about the same age as me, fell about laughing.

They had just seen me flirting with a rather ugly, rather spotty, gap toothed, track suited, over weight Ginger girl.

All I saw was the warmest smile in the world. I still feel no shame. Where ever you are ugly, spotty ginger girl, I hope it made your day.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 8:20, 4 replies)

Flirting with danger?
Some mornings I like to get out of the wrong side of the bed.
(roysin, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 8:07, 3 replies)

Gym Fun
There is a pretty girl I regularly see at the gym, and we've been flirting with each other while jogging on the treadmills ever since she accidentally left her ipod on the machine before I started using it, then playfully accused me of stealing it.

The first of us to arrive usually tries to orchestrate it so that we can be on the treadmills next to each other, i.e. I usually pick 3 empty treadmills and go on the one in the middle so she can go either side when she arrives.

A month or so back, I did this, but two old biddies showed up and shotgunned the ones either side of me, choosing to barely jog while talking across me. Cheers. I then see my jogging buddy come in behind on the mirror at the front, notice, give a slight scowl and hang back on the cross trainers so she can wait till one leaves.

As soon as the one to my right gets off, I see her jump off the cross trainer, walk briskly towards me, jump onto the treadmill and turn to speak. Unbeknownst to her, the old fool hadn't actually turned the thing off and I'm greeted to a blur of a girl yelling 'Hiiiiiiiiiyaaaah' while having her legs thrown from under her. She actually fell horizontal across it, got rolled over and spat off the back.

I had to stop running cos I was laughing so much. I would have died of embarrassment if it was me, but she just gets straight up, turns it off, jumps back on, gives the brightest of smiles and says 'can't you go one day without sweeping me off my feet?'


Update: Wont leave you guys hanging, yes, we've been dating about 3 weeks. She's a geotechnical engineer, half-turk and confident to point of it being intimidating at times, but also funny, cute and very intelligent. And we run at the gym together a few times a week, still doing the whole 'trying to be next to each other' thing as we don't finish work at the same time. We're like two kids.
( Regger, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 8:02, 10 replies)

Hogarth vs Orwell (An epic one CTRL+C & CTRL+V'd from my memoirs)
Pulling up a couple of chairs, I strategically placed myself next to a pretty girl who hadn't yet been introduced to me. "My name's *Theremin*." "Hi, I'm Senia." She had a slight American accent.

"Hmmm, OK. So you get this all the time, but, that's an unusual name." "Yeah, I was brought up in Russia until I was eight, and then my parents moved to America." "Oh right, Glasnost, Perestroika, all that." "That's right."

And so we chatted, ignoring my friends nudging each other and smirking "Oh look, *Theremin's* at it again..." I didn't care, talking with this girl was easy, it just flowed. She liked poetry, I could quote some, she wrote poems, I told her about a poetry night I knew about (and frequented for the purpose of looking a bit deep and hoping to cop off with a deeply troubled egomaniac fret-fanny - it never happened).

We talked about art and literature, and all the time I didn't even have to try, unlike the usual situation of sitting there staring at my drink thinking "MUST. SAY. WORDS. BE. FUNNY. CHARMING... Hey, where'd she go?" The promoter of the event got onto the little stage and instigated an open mic session, leaving a semi-acoustic guitar next to a chair. Of course, someone immediately got up and played some songs, and whilst this was going on, everyone at our table was egging me on to have a go. Initially I refused because I didn't want to look like a fool in front of this girl, and I wasn't really in the mood.

However, my companions were insistent, and all it took was Senia saying "Oh, I'd really like to hear you" to get me to assent. Eventually I agreed to do something on the condition that one of my other friends would as well, and he said "Fine". A short while later, my name was called out, and I went over to the guitar. I sat down and quickly assessed it, string tension, action, tuning, that sort of thing. I introduced myself and the song I was about to play (one of mine - "N* S***** H*******") to the pub, and began to strum the opening chords, and then into the verse. I promptly forget the words. I launched into the song again, and remembered the lot, garnering a respectable smattering of applause (most fervently from my table).

Following the mild success of the first song, I embarked on something more adventurous, a Motown cover, hoping that my voice would hold and not do a Le Bon at Live Aid. I was lucky, and people were even doing the backing singer bits. Quitting whilst I was ahead, I mumbled "thanks" into the microphone and returned to my table.

Senia praised my performance, and then, gathering her belongings, bid us all goodnight. "See you around" she said. Around? Around? Where's around? What's going on? What do I have to do? If there are such things as past lives (which for the record, there AREN'T), I like to think I would have been a luckless suitor, killed in a pointless duel, throwing my life away for a woman who didn't really care either way. "Ummm. OK. Bye" I said to her retreating form, hoping she'd be at one of the indie clubs I frequented.

Later on that night at *venue x*, a band went on stage playing a godawful racket, eerily similar to the band "BluesHammer" from that scene in 'Ghost World'. My mate and I had been at the pub all afternoon and into the evening, and hadn't had any tea, so we stopped off a kebab shop. I ordered a large doner, because frankly, it didn't seem to matter anymore.

The following week, Senia turned up at *an indie club in London*. Eagerly (but hopefully not looking too eager) I sat down next to her and struck up a conversation. Her mobile buzzed, and she read the text message. "Excuse me" she said, before going up the stairs. She returned with, surprise, surprise, a fella. Normally I could handle this. I'd just accept my place in the pecking order and slink off to the bar to drown my sorrows. But this time it was different, I knew the bloke she'd brought down. He was occasionally at the poetry night I went to.

He was a ripped jumper wearing snaggle toothed hippy freak dipshit, whose brand of garbled yet obvious poetry never failed to raise a mental sneer from me. Immediately I knew that this girl was after the fake Boho chic thing, believing his vacuous nonsense, and speciously thinking that "Gee, he looks poor, that means he must be really deep!" He was Hogarth's 'Gin Lane', I was Orwell's 'Keep The Aspidistra Flying' and doomed to lose this fight.

The bar was calling me, ready to sooth my troubles, when another girl sat down with us, another American, and a friend of Senia's. She introduced herself as Jamie, and I promptly offered to buy her a drink. A few drinks later, and we were dancing, all thoughts of Senia stricken from my mind. Jamie was better looking anyway. There was nothing doing though, she left at about 1am, and I wandered off to find my mate so I could moan about women and how they've done me wrong (part 156 of a series of drunken lectures).

Later on that night, outside the club at 3am, a strange man pestered me for five minutes for Jamie's number, because he knew she'd given it to me (when she hadn't). I had to get out my mobile and cycle through the names to prove that no-one called Jamie was in my phone.

I may have bought a dodgy Oxford Street hot-dog that night.
(theremin put the lotion in the basket on, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 6:12, 6 replies)

I came up with this pickup line all by myself
"Baby, we should get together and breed a master race, because you can't spell 'eugenics' without 'you' and 'I'."


So far it's only been tested under laboratory conditions, and I'm yet to deploy it in the field. Maybe if I end up moving to Germany. I'm sure it would go down well there.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 5:39, 4 replies)

Long distance but worth it
Back in 2000 I was working in London in marketing for a large American corporation. I ended up on a business trip to San Francisco and briefly met a very attractive American girl who was in the US marketing department of our division. I even remember the bright red jacket she was wearing.

Two months later: Frankfurt at a conference. Same girl shows up. This time, an hour before we leave, we get chatting.

Back in Blighty, my colleague mentioned that the American girl was quite flirtatious and I didn't seem to mind.

Long story short: quick, flirty 'hi nice to meet you' email led to more and lengthier emails, which led to long weekend in US with her and......we've now been married for 7 years.

Result!
(Thomas_The_Spankengine, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 5:12, Reply)

A long, long time ago (2000ish)
I was in the pub with 2 mates of mine, my brother, his missus, and her mate Elle*. Night went on, bit of chatting, this and that, you know how it goes.
As we're leaving, Elle pulls me to one side and asks
"Where are you going now?"
As I was seeing someone at the time (we're not all bastards), I said "I've got to walk home. It's 5 miles, but there's 3 of us, it's OK."

"Would you like to come back for a coffee?"
[this needs NO translation, ever.]

[Apart from my testicles, who said:]

"No thanks, I don't drink coffee."

Quick as a flash, she responds with "cup of tea?"
[You can't get more in than that]

[Unless the balls respond:]

"I'd love to, but it's a long walk home, we'd better get going"

It's not that my mates gave me a hiding for being a stupid twat, it's more that the girl I was being faithful to was seeing a friend of mine behind my back for 6 months!

Bastard? I wish I had been now...

length? Hour and a half walk. Uphill.

*names changed to protect my embarrassment
(iamjthearmeroar, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 3:59, Reply)

Mono's bumhole

( mr horrible up yours, dickface, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 1:57, 1 reply)

after a night on the sauce...
in-between waking and your sight returning, a glimmer of an electrical impulse fires in your brain and you think, "Oh, why did I say THAT?"

But there are things you will NEVER say or do when imbibed, so utterly horrifying to your sense of self that your brain locks it down. I've narrowed it down to two - karaoke and flirting. I've tried both at least once, sometimes more, with butt-clenchingly embarrassing results.

1) Attempting to sing "Lady In Red" in a pub in Sunderland and getting told, two bars in, to shut the fuck up, you fucking queer. (Fair play.)
2) At a party telling a rather attractive lady she was a rather attractive lady. The response, "No, I'm not," took the mild breeze out of my sails. I mumbled my apologies and exited stage left as fast as my little legs would carry me.
3) Beer dulling my sense of impending failure, approaching a rather attractive lady sitting on the table opposite. I stumbled up to her and she, sensing what I was about to subject her to, stood up and let it be known to the bar that she was twice my height.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 1:15, 4 replies)