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This is a question Flirting

Do you flirt with check-out girls just for the heck of it? Are you a check-out girl and flirt with sad-looking middle-aged men for fun? Are you Vernon Kay? Tell us about flirting triumphs and disasters

Thanks to Che Grimsdale for the suggestion

(, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 13:00)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Here comes the really good bit
I had gone out in a rush, and was not sure if it was obvious to everyone. There was a girl looking over at me a lot, and I was still in my work clothes.
I'm no good at talking to members of the opposite sex, I start to talk, they start to look perplexed.
So I kept my eyes on the prize, and stole a glance at her breasts, I walked over and with clumsy rhyming couplets, asked her a few questions and asked her to dance.
Then her friends decided she was leaving but she decided she was not going, she told me she had been looking over a lot, and hoped it was obvious. She also admitted that he was not much cop at talking to the opposite sex and followed pretty much the same ritual as I did before we spoke.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 21:21, 1 reply)
All social exchanges are transactional
Says rather cheap and tarty young thing "You should buy me a drink"
Says older cynical me " Why? Are you going to fuck me?"
Says she "You're disgusting!"
Says me " Yes, but at least I know it"

I learnt this from a mate who worked on the principle that if he wasn't going to have any joy with them, then don't waste any time
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 21:14, 2 replies)
Match making mistakes
I was on a night out in Sunderland with some friends when I spotted a rather attractive young lady on the dance floor. This isn't the type of thing you expect to see in Sunderland, as it's full of underage teens and over weight women who's age could only be guessed by cutting them open and counting the rings, but I digress.

Said lovely lady was looking at me, checking me out. I casualy edge closer to her on the dance floor, still sober enough to be actualy dancing, not just flailing to music. When I get a bit closer, she moves across and "accidently" stands on my foot.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she says. "No problem." I reply with an ever so slightly cocky smile. Smile is returned by the girl who then asks "Hey, are you single?" At this point, I'm pretty damn pleased with myself, finaly feeling confident and like things are going my way. "Yes acctualy, I am." comes my reply. I'm prepairing to buy her a drink, share a dance, steal a kiss and slip her my phone number. Clearly, fate had outher plans for me, as the little angel looks me in the eye and asks "Are you gay?" I was a bit shocked "What? No!" I reply with a slight laugh. She must be teasing me, thats it, shes just teasing me. She looks down slightly before meeting my eye and following up with this beauty. "Oh, well, are you sure? I'm looking for a boyfriend for my brother, you woulden't like to go out with him would you?" "No, I'm not gay." There was a long awkward slience. I left the dance floor.

I'd love to say this story had a happy ending but later that night a drunk girl fell over and elbowed me in my testicles, and in the take away anouther girl told me I was "clearly gay as fuck."
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 20:24, 4 replies)
i'm off out tomorrow night
to a friend's 50th birthday party. there will be men galore, but they are mostly VERY upper-class and quite genteel. any of you that have read my previous posts will know that this is going to be more than a little outside my comfort zone. i'm not exactly what i'd call scum, but i hardly fit into the higher echelons of society.
be that as it may, i'm getting to the age where the idea of settling down to a life of luxury with a rich and dependable man seems ever more enticing. so, the question is: any tips?
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 19:41, 6 replies)
miami vice
in october 2008 i went to miami with my friends evie and steph. we were told that the delano was the place to go on a tue night, so come the tuesday, we dressed ourselves up real nice and took ourselves off for some swanky drinks.

unbeknown to us, the delano was that night hosting a property conference. as anyone who works in property can attest, it is a very male dominated world. the result was a bar swarming with men in suits, ranging from the blisteringly hot to the downright dodgy and sleazy. between having (female) breasts and british accents, we were much in demand - frankly there was so much testosterone in there that maggie thatcher would have been in demand - and generally had a great time flirting and being bought drinks left, right and centre.

at least, steph and i did. evie, who had a boyfriend at the time, was being good. so good that she ignored the flirty overtures and come-hither eyes of a million estate agents, and instead was chatting to a nice old man at the bar. his name was richard, and he seemed like a very bright but terminally dull guy. he also looked about 70. now this was the week before the USA elections, and he was holding forth about politics. an hour or so later, richard and evie had made their way to our table, and richard was talking to steph about the british accent and the currency conversion. i know, fascinating chat, but he was very well travelled.

fast forward another couple of hours, and i find richard next to me. he is clearly very drunk by this point, and is swaying on his feet. i am annoyed at the interruption to my flirting with a surveyor, but my mother always taught me to be polite, so i smile at him. and he says the following legendary line...

SO DO YOU GUYS SHAVE YOUR PUSSIES, OR IS IT TRUE THAT ALL ENGLISH GIRLS HAVE SHERWOOD FOREST GOING ON DOWN THERE?

he then proceeded to tell me how he had been drugged by a hooker the night before and how she had stolen his watch, passport and wallet... but then offered me $1,000 for a foursome with evie and steph. clearly he learned his lesson then! as a flirting technique, going after three friends one after the other is never a good thing (it reeeeally fucks off the one in third place, even if you are 70 and minging). but chat about politics, currency and then offensive crudity?

epic epic fail!
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:47, 6 replies)
So many stories
So many b3tans that know my wife. Think I'll give this one a miss:)
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:35, 2 replies)
Please don't.
I end up sounding like Hugh Grant's vaguely retarded brother after too many Quaaludes.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:32, 1 reply)
i love flirting
but i'm more than a bit cheeky when i've had a drink. i've said to blokes "are you going to buy me a drink or what?" admittedly, they will sometimes tell me to piss off, but most of the time they'll get me a drink.
i've also used the Nanny Ogg approach, which is to say to someone "have you got a light?" then, when they pull out a lighter, say "good. now, have you got a smoke to go with it?"
i'm not so keen on blokes who come over to me on the dancefloor and say "you don't sweat much for a fat lass, do you?"
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:17, Reply)
Y'alreet
It's the northern version of "How YOU doin'." Doesn't work as well does it?
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:13, Reply)
I'm so bad at noticing when a woman is interested
that it got me fired.

In fact the boss told me I'd "never work in porn again."
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:55, Reply)
I potentially missed out on a foursome (!)
When i was hiking in the lakes with an Ex-Mrs Lizard we met up with three rather nice looking European ladies whilst waiting for the bus back to town.

My girlfriend later told me that they were all staring at me and would undoubtedly have ripped my clothes off had she not been there...

Fuck. Seriously fuck...... :(
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:36, Reply)
As an antidote to the previous woeful blurt
here is the tale of why a young Jenny decided to leave her hometown for good. Lamentably, this is 100% true.

Myself and my schooldays sidekick (confusingly also Jenny) went out one evening to our crappy hometown's closest approximation of an indie club. When I say 'indie', in this case, it means it had 20% or so fewer Chernobyl-orange overweight Wetherspoons harridans flashing their pink-nylon-clad gussets in the bouncer's face than the other clubs in town. It was still shit.

On this particular night, though, we had other things on our mind. Namely, an experiment. Earlier that evening, sitting over some lovely real ales in the Owd Black Horse at the corner of the market square, we'd decided that we were going to do something a bit different to spice up our evening. Namely, that we were going to Be Nice.

To clarify: my hometown's a bit rough. Not quite Irvine, but not that far off. Even the job centre was boarded up, and venturing out onto the high street on a Saturday evening involved circumnavigating vast pools of congealing vomit and shrieking gangs of obese tattooed women wearing PVC and punching the shit out of each other on the pavement from about 6pm onwards. As two avowedly pale and curly-haired females who more often than not wore jeans and COATS (gasp!) of an evening, we were somewhat conspicuous. The only way we had managed to survive years of drunken molestation (conversational or otherwise) by the gauntlet of shaven-headed WKD-swilling idiots that lined most of the pubs in town was by being rude to them straight off the bat. Or if not rude, at least pretty blunt. It's not like it came naturally, or that I liked doing it. And we were always friendly to girls or men who were friendly to us.

But really, the only thing to do with the lads that came balling up with some sleazy line or other was to move away or ignore them, because if you replied - or, Lord forbid - smiled - then you were pretty much asking for it. Saying politely that you weren't interested, that you were just out for a catch-up with your friend or that you had a boyfriend, generally met with the following responses - 'fuck you'/'so you're lesbians then/'well he's not here, is he?' So yeah. It was a survival strategy. And I'm not saying we were so cripplingly gorgeous that we were continuingly beating off smitten princes with a stick, but
the fact we'd made it past 16 without being knocked up meant we were considered 'quality' birds by Preston standards.

So anyway. On this particular night, having nothing better to do, we decided that instead of avoiding the overtures of said gentlemen, we would be gracious and engage them in conversation, at least until a spot at the pool table opened up. We got into the place, sat down, and true to form, about five minutes later a pair of chaps came over and plonked themselves in the chairs opposite with aplomb.

'Hiya, love,' was our Romeo's overture. 'What's your name?'

At this point, Jen, having already tired of the experiment, retreated to the bar to get a drink. The other one toddled off after her, leaving me alone with Chap No. 1. His name was Lee. He looked like he worked in a mobile phone shop. He immediately slung his arm around my shoulder. I told him my name.

'Jane, Jane' he yelled into my ear. 'Nice to meet you. And so what do you do, Jane?'

Before I could open my mouth to reply, he interrupted. 'I bet you're a student, aren't you. I fucking 'ate students, me. Fucking twats. It's all a load of bollocks, anyway, school and that. I tell you something, Jane. I tell you what. I didn't go to college and it never did me any harm.'

At this point, I was beginning to suspect he wasn't my future life partner. However, without pausing for breath, he continued.

'And I'll tell you something else, Jane. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!' - at this point he grabbed me by the shoulders and practically yanked me round to face him. The smell of his liberally-applied hair gel was overpowering. I looked.

'I tell you what,' he breathed. 'I didn't go to college, and now...I'm twenty-six years old, and...I've got my own van.'

I waited. The look on his face was one of over-weaning pride and happiness, as if he'd just told me that he was the discoverer of DNA. I realised that some response was expected. 'That's nice,' I said.

Lee then launched into a Clarksonesque orgy of detail about his van, detailing its precise dimensions, colour, age, technical specifications, where he'd got it, for how much, the resulting modifications he'd made to it and how jealous all his mates were. I sat there with gritted teeth, nodding like the Churchill dog and wondering just how much forced politeness I could take before my spleen burst.

Eventually, after what seemed like a decade, he concluded this tirade with what I'm sure he imagined to be the offer of a lifetime, the deal-sealing romantic gesture that had seen a thousand babes wilt at the knees. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to my flinching ear.

'It's out back if you want to have a go in it.'


I moved down south a few weeks later, and sadly, we never did consummate our love. But even now, travelling the highways and byways of Britain, I sometimes catch the glint of the setting sun catching on a windscreen wiper of a souped-up Daihatsu, and I think of Lee, and wonder what might have been...
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:33, 5 replies)
I'm an idiot
I fail to recognise the obvious signs of female flirtation and screw up all the potential encounters by being a shy mong.

But i try too hard with ladies who couldn't give a shiny shite if i was on fire or drowning.

Hmm..
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:33, 2 replies)
flirting
Fighting them off with a shitty stick me!!

the only ladies that flirt with me these days are lesbians.... Fact.. I grew a luxurious beard of ginger and blodne and most of the lezzers I know (more than 1 not less than 5) went mad for it..

I however will flirt with anything.. I would flirt with you if you put a frock on..
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 16:36, Reply)
'Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy bebe'
'...'

'...'

'Well, thank you for your time, you have been more than patient'
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 16:26, Reply)
A pertinent question
So, there's this chap.

He sometimes does the pub quiz that my friends and I go to every week. I'd say about one week in three, and every quiz night, as I totter down the street approaching the distinctly-unglamorous old-man's-pub that I am proud to call my local I cross every available appendage that he'll be there.

I first saw him about four months ago. It's a small pub with a distinct crowd of regulars, most of whom are on the far side of fifty. I remember the first time he walked in. Cliche-ridden and cringeworthy as it is, it was full-blown teenage crush at first sight. I don't find that many people attractive, but I looked at him and my heart kicked like a frog being squeezed in the palm of a fat kid. I don't know what it is.

I've never spoken to him. Never even come close. I think if this situation were to present itself I would dissolve into an incoherent mess and slither under the nearest available door, Alex Mack-style. What generally happens is that for the first hour or so I'll be too terrified and nervous to even look in his direction. After a couple of drinks, I might glance at him for a millisecond. Sometimes I see him looking at me and then I smile. Amount of smiling and sneaking glances increases exponentially as the night wears on, and yet the farthest we have ever gone is to smile at each other, and once, when I was feeling particularly drunk and reckless, to wave at him and mouth a silent 'bye', as he left.

My friends would scoff if I described myself as a shy and retiring character (I am not one of the world's quietest souls), but of course, it's all so much bombast and theatrical noise-making. When it comes to something that actually puts my neck on the line (for neck, read extremely fragile ego) I'm a complete coward. I can't do it. I can't speak to him if we're stood next to each other at the bar; I can barely steel myself to look him in the eye.

I wish this wasn't the case, and three years ago it wouldn't have been. However, then had an encounter with an unfortunate sort (see previous QOTW whingings) which it seems has lamentably left me romantically disasbled.

The worst thing about this is, I know that in ten, twenty, forty years' time, I'll look back on myself as I am now and absolutely kick myself for not getting it together, for not taking advantage of the many awesome possibilities that being 26 and free and as beautiful as I'll ever get affords. But does being acutely and painfully conscious of this help me to get out of my seat, walk over to this chap and say something, even just 'hello'?

No, it does not.

So, I'll just stay sitting where I am, and hopefully soon this will all blow over.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 16:10, 13 replies)
i like the direct approach
some of my most memorable encounters have started with me spotting a nice-looking man, pointing at his face and asking "is anyone sitting there?" the look of shocked disbelief always amuses me.
i once asked a bloke "what are you doing tonight, apart from taking me home?"
we were together for 3 months, before i got bored.
flirting is good, being an outright slut is waaay more fun!
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 15:25, 12 replies)
A further example of my youthful obliviousness to the female charm..
It seems that the 16 year old receptionist at the company who gave me my first proper job had been flirting her charms to me for a prolonged period without me getting the message.

It took her somewhat brazen offering of a small carefully wrapped gift to get the message across.

When I opened it, contained within was a single condom.

A few days later we both lost our cherries with the help of that condom... along with a few spares I'd procured from the local pub vending machine *ahem*

Length? She asked for another portion a few days later but I was too busy trying to get to - E L I T E - on my Atari ST or something.

Didn't see much action for another year but finally did get to - E L I T E -
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 15:16, Reply)
Probably harassment....
A friend of mine, commenting to the new girl in the office, actually said to her that she was fantastic and she'd be perfect if his bollocks were banging against her chin.

Scarily, that actually was his flirting.

Fortunately she laughed. And ran away.

He still works for our company and nowadays she's pretty much head of HR.... He's not progressed very far, funnily enough...
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 15:15, Reply)
Does this sound familiar to anybody?
I have absolutely no problem talking to women, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous, important, famous, whatever, if a reason for talking to them exists or can be naturally contrived. It's enjoyable and easy.

If, however I spotted a good-looking woman, and a friend (or that Aussie woman from Would Like To Meet) said "You like her? Go and talk to her!" I'd consider it the most scary, harrowing thing imaginable, and would run for the exits instead.

Anybody?
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 14:52, 6 replies)
I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock (repost)
He: 'So...are these the beds that aren't suitable for anyone over 6ft tall?'
She: 'Yeah.'
He: 'Well I'm about 6ft, let's try it.'

He lies down with his feet on the pillow.
She, trying not to push anything, lies down with her head on the pillow.
He turns round so they're facing the same way.

And they lie there until she falls asleep and he leaves.

She wakes up and kicks herself fucking stupid.

She's still kicking herself fucking stupid about it.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 14:40, 4 replies)
The Penny Drops
I remember once, having given up all hope of ever, EVER getting it on with the hot German girls on my degree course, I actually asked one if she'd like to go and see a band at 93 Feet East. I only asked her, because I thought she'd enjoy it, and I was going and I was just being friendly.

After the gig, we walked back to her flat. She invited me in. I went in. She offered me a drink. I accepted a drink. She said it was late, and I could stay the night if I wanted.

I said: "No, it's ok. The 35 nightbus is just around the corner and they're pretty reliable. See you tomorrow!" And I walked out the door.

...

About 18 months later, I was sitting in the departure lounge in Heathrow, waiting to board my flight to Australia to move in with my Aussie girlfriend of only six months. I thought about my life in London. I thought about all the friends and adventures I'd had. I thought about the German girl. I thought about that night.

Oh, cocksocks.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 14:36, Reply)
German Exchange (of saliva)
The year is 2003. I am fifteen and of course a raging bag of hormones.

I've been packed off to Cologne for a week of living on the lakeshore with a boy named Freddy, who is obsessed with Coke. He literally had a full size Coke fridge in his room, and thousands of pounds worth of antique Coke signs, model Coke trucks, the works. He was ace, as he looked like shaggy from Scooby Doo; but I didn't flirt with him.

A week of day trips ensues, the highlight being the Affenberg, or Monkey Mountain, full of angry little monkeys with a deep hatred of english people. I didn't flirt with them either.

The evenings are basically full of booze. German teenagers let off steam much the same as english ones do, albeit with less stabbing and more hanging around on picturesque lakeshores with campfires and weed. One night we have a full on beach party, big fire, logs to sit on, beer cooling in the lake. Our group of 20 English and 20 Germans is merrily getting tanked, and chatting bilingual shit. Somebody dares me to chat up a gorgeous yet slightly terrifying gothic German girl. she was tall, had cascades of jet black hair, massive eyes, and fuck-me lips. I remember the fuck-me lips especially. I flirted with her! (Sort of)

I merrily trundle over, trying not to trip over sand (drunk, remember?) and say loud enough for the whole group of eight Germans she's sitting with to hear: "Hi! Is it true that all goths are lesbians?".

Silence. She freezes the blood in my veins while simultaneously giving me a boner just by existing. And possibly staring at me in disgust. It dawns on me that she's not understood a word I've said, apart from "Hi!" I am very relieved, and am about to make my hasty retreat, shame mostly averted but dare successful.

One of her friends translates for me... and asks for exact clarification... my shame circuitry really kicks in and I start stammering out some terrible excuse like "I I I It's just m m m my friend s s s said that they a a are", fully expecting to be stabbed to death by a spiky metal bracelet/throttled by a studded belt.

Goth girl laughs, takes me by the hand, drags me into a bush and proves my hypothesis to be wrong. Very wrong. Freddy the Coke loving bastard interrupts us to say we had to go. I could have lost my virginity to a stunning yet utterly terrifying girl on a lake shore by firelight. Instead I lost it two years later in a bunk bed.

Fuck Coke and all collectors of it.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 13:45, Reply)
I flirt on the internet.
How YOU doin?
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 13:15, 40 replies)
My Uncomfortable view on flirting
Flirting repulses me. It always has and it always will. I canít flirt, I canít tell when someone is flirting with me and I certainly canít bear it when other people flirt in front of me, especially when they are good and equally smug about it. This abhorrence becomes greater as I get older, and itís more by luck than skill, charm and judgement that I now have a girlfriend and no longer need to take part in such awfulness. Itís ok in your youth, I mean, in your late teens everyone is too busy getting fucked, fingered and fondled to give a shit about flirting. Once you get out of †your teens and into your twenties the majority of girls grow out of being a slut. Yes guys, this is a bitter pill to swallow, but these things happen. Girls especially become Ďharder to getí and more sophisticated, which leaves us boys in a right pickle, as itís a well known fact that boys donít mature at the same rate as girls. Offering a girl a lift home from the pub on a Friday is no longer considered legal tender for a blow job in your twenties.

Instead you have to be a little more primitive in your ways and smarter with the flirting. You also need to know when the girl who was a slut last week and is now an executive recruitment consultant this week is flirting with you. She wonít use words. No, no, no, that would take her back to the teen days of being a cock hungry whore, instead, she will play with her hair, roll her tongue across her teeth, touch her ear or do something equally subtle, shit and incredibly difficult to understand. †Note to women at this point, WE DO NOT UNDERSTAND.

With regards to getting older and flirting I canít really speak above this age as Iím only 26. What I do know, is that people older than thirty five flirting is extremely embarrassing. Watching two middle age people flirt is as uncomfortable to watch as Ken Bigley having his head cut off by terrorists or Georgian men hurtling into the sides of buildings at 80MPH. Itís fucking horrible. I work in an open plan office predominantly occupied by middle age men. I hate to sound stereotypical, but the only woman on my quite sizeable floor is a receptionist. Listening to her play out endless sexual innuendos to an eager audience of men, who I may add are probably involved in a sexless marriage is quite disgusting. Itís so unprofessional even me as an extremely unprofessional person is appalled.

Pre-girlfriend dayís I was fucking terrible at it. Well, I thought I was, but thinking about it now, I was probably just bad at reading the signs, or not confident enough to do it, or just too drunk to actually give a fuck. I hate to say it but Iím one of these people who was unknowingly flirting. Iíd chat to someone in the street, or in a queue or in a bar. Walk away, only to realise that I should have probed the encounter further, and perhaps got a number, or even better a date. This went on for years as a single guy. It got out of hand at one point. Instead of concentrating on the conversation I was looking for name badges, or interrogating surnames, all the time plotting how I could get home and find them on Facebook, Myspace or some other social networking website. I donít know why Iíd do this, itís not like Iíd ever send a friend request to the woman who served me shit rolls and cigarettes in Tesco Express is it? Iím ashamed of this but itís true, and Iím sure Iím not the only person whoís done this before.

The one time I did recognise someone was flirting with me is a story on itís own. Two New Yearís eves ago, we were out getting pissed as pretty much everyone does. I had one of those realisation moments where I stopped and thought. Fuck. Iím the only single guy in here. All my mates are hooked up with girlfriends or fuck buddies and Iím talking to middle age men about the potential of spending the next day in the pub because I have no loved one or fuck buddy to spend the day doing something productive with. Anyway, when your uncomfortable in social situations, you retreat to the great outdoors and spend the majority of the evening chuffing on cigarettes and developing throat cancer. The evening in question, it would appear that I was being singled out by an extremely (bluntest terms possible) gay individual I know heís gay, itís well documented. He was flirting with me to the point where I was looking round thinking, ĎFuck, how the fuck do I get out of thisí I was fucking mortified. I was thinking about bumming him just to get myself out of this highly uncomfortable social situation. I didnít I might add, but I was drunk and may have considered it.

In summary, I think flirting is just one of those things thatís not going to go away, but hopefully itís something I will no longer have to do.

(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 13:15, Reply)
The young woman
on the fish counter in my local supermarket always flirts with me.

But as she's always on the fish counter she must be a lesbian?
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 12:58, 1 reply)
My housemate asked me to bring her to see the film 'Valentines Day' next week.
She said it would be a secret date and she wouldn't tell my girlfriend. I chuckled. She chuckled. I hope she was joking. Kinda.

rafter
baz
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 12:58, 5 replies)
Classic chat up line - it would work on me anyway....
Friend of mine was chatted up in a pub up in t'north.

Male approached and simply enquired - Do you fancy getting really drunk and going back to mine for shit sex?

Apparantly she did.
(, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 12:34, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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