This follows on from last week’s entry where I told the sad story of my first adult crush. This story picks up from about 2 months before my first long-term girlfriend, and is a lot more fun than the story of my crush. You probably don’t know what I looked like back then, so I’ll start with a photo taken in the summer of 2004, a couple of months after this particular story. Don’t be hating the sunglasses; they weren’t mine. Other people’s sunglasses tend to gravitate towards me because I look quite cool — I don’t own a single pair!

BBQ Stud.jpg

It was February. It was cold and rainy. But this was university! And we were young! Weather is so unimportant when you’re young, dumb and full of cu– Anyway, I digress. The point is, at university, no matter the time of year, girls wear almost nothing. As one of the biggest fans of girly-girls — I love dresses, skirts, frills and strappy tops and PINK — university became 3 years of pleasure. 3 years of sitting in one of the main squares and skirt-watching. My best friend and I actually used to go and park up outside a local sixth-form college (16-18 year olds, for the non-Brits) and girl watch.

(Is that lecherous or fairly healthy behaviour for men? Don’t answer that one, I’d rather not know.)

I love skirts. They don’t even have to be short, though it obviously helps my crippled male imagination if they are. For me, it’s all about the flowery flowy flounciness that comes with cute and light clothing. A long, prettily-patterned summer dress can be as attractive as a mini-skirt. If you boil it right down, men love skirts because of the ease of access. I’ve actually lifted the skirts of a girlfriend’s dress over her head so that she couldn’t see and then… done things to her that I shan’t repeat here. That was hot.

So, that’s lesson number one: if you want to get into my pants, try wearing a skirt. Those militant jeans-wearers aren’t completely out of the running, they just better be damn awesome jeans — or a mighty fine figure better be eye-poppingly obvious through examination of your denim exoskeleton.

Lesson number two is: if a drunk girl in a short skirt asks you to carry her home, unequivocally and without allowing your brain a moment’s thought, say yes.  Read my journal entry from 2004, and I’ll carry on where it left off.

Chivalry, huh, my arse… — February 2004

Well, that’s the last time I carry a girl from the Underground [the university's main night club] to her house… about 500 meters.

All because she was hideously drunk, all over me, offering sexual favours of all sorts and wearing a rather pretty, short, hot-pink skirt.

Ho hum.

Thank God for honour and chivalry, eh?

And to top it all off, she had 4 friends staying over for the weekend. 4 very drunk friends…

Anyway, starting from the beginning… Marc and I decided to go out and have fun. We’re fast becoming going-out buddies. We thought we’d just go out, look cool… see what happens, that kind of thing. We get to the bar. Order our drinks. Strike a pose. Watch the women go by… Becki, Marc’s crush from last week is there… She doesn’t even make eye-contact with him. She’s obviously playing hard to get…

So, insert a brief foray into Mondo [a smaller nightclub], and then an extended stay in the Underground and you pretty much have my night, wrapped up in a nutshell.

But you’d have to gloss over the stagger back to the South Courts [her house], and the party that ensued, with Marc, the five girls (Becki and her friends) and I. Mad, I tell you.

Luckily they were drunk, really. Otherwise I might have done something I’d regret.

I mean, they all changed into their pajamas. At the same time.

First, I should explain the difficulties of carrying a girl in a short skirt. There’s simply no where to put your second hand. So, on her pert ass it goes. Hell, she didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I. I dragged out those 500 meters to her house by walking very, very slowly. For the record, that’s as close as I’ve ever come to abusing a drunken girl. I hope she wasn’t that drunk actually, as we did have a bit of a ‘moment’, with her there in my arms, blearily looking up into my eyes, my nervous, sweaty hand on her buttock. Anyway…

Secondly, and this is where it gets a bit messy (try to keep track!): Becki was the best friend of the girl that would soon become my first long-term girlfriend. I actually got close to Becki before I later got close to my soon-to-be girlfriend. In fact, I might have ended up with Becki, if she hadn’t crushed so hard on Marc, my housemate, and a slew of other beach bums! It was a very complicated 2 months which I don’t remember all the details of (so I shan’t repeat them here, in case I get things wrong), but let’s just say ‘Love Triangle’ doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on. I think, individually, I slept with Becki, my girlfriend-to-be and Marc and there was even some three-way action at one point. It was all a very confusing period, and I’m very happy with how it ended — and how my first proper relationship begun!

That whole mess somehow ended up with me in a happy, healthy relationship that would turn out to last for the rest of my days at university. She wasn’t a geek, but that didn’t stop me from turning her into one. I didn’t want to completely geekify her — I wanted her to continue wearing those tiny skirts and strapless tops. I did manage to get her to dress up, but not as a character from her favourite anime or sci-fi film. Actually, she didn’t like anime at all (phew!) She had a rather awful (you can imagine the grimace on my face…) habit of turning up at my house in just a long coat and lingerie. Damn her.

The rest of that story’s for another day though, next Thursday perhaps!

Please note how I refrained from taking advantage of five (5) girls in the smallest almost-there pyjamas that I’ve ever been fortunate enough to witness. The whole drunken-girls-trying-to-woo-me would be a recurring theme throughout university. If only the sober ones had tried…

Eric's warmed up and rearing to go. He's going to pick a winner!
If looks could kill. Or induce tears, in Eric's case.

Sebastian

I am a tall, hairy, British writer who blogs about technology, photography, travel, and whatever else catches my eye.

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