Knowing Your Social Status Isn't Always a Good ThingSubmitted by w_t_a_y_s_t_r_m at 2009-01-27 08:46:07 EST
Rating: 1.73 on 72 ratings (72 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Fridays in London are typically drinking nights. Although that trend has begun to slow down a lot lately, due to various newspapers telling people that they’re going to lose their jobs soon, for some of us we’re too committed to the pattern, or decide to drink to forget that in a few months we’ll be having a reunion at the job centre.
I fall somewhere in the middle. My job hasn’t been really affected, but the industry has, and we’re looking at a further downturn of approximately “we don’t know” %, according to middle management. According to upper management things have never been better, we’re very optimistic and any future redundancies will be to protect the future of the company. If you enjoy mixed messages, bullshit and overcharging, then you would love a job where I work. Unfortunately you can’t. Not even sure if I still have a job where I work.
Back to the point, last Friday a larger than normal group of us were out a pub. Where I work is on the western edge of The City (which is pretty much the business area of London, where all the finance dicks work/use to work/killed themselves). Go ten minutes east and you’re in Hackney, which is kind of like Gaza, but with less English speakers and more exotic food.
Sandwiched between tossers and a warzone, it leaves very little choices for a night out, so we generally go to an okay pub just around the corner. It’s quite a small place and gets quite busy, so can be uncomfortable at first, but a few of us disappear downstairs to the hidden pool and darts room, and only resurface a few hours later when we’ve farted the place out of oxygen and upstairs is a bit emptier.
The great thing about this pub is the music. The landlord is quite a young guy, and instead of a jukebox or MTV or any of that shit playing, he just hooks his laptop up to the sound system and leaves his music library on shuffle behind the bar. Being regulars for about six months now, we can get away with going back there and switching the music to whatever we want. This tends to piss off other patrons, as we typically get halfway through a track and then change it, but never mind.
Last Friday was especially busy, but after the pool, darts and dropping nukes downstairs, everyone else upstairs had secured a large enough space for us all to fit in. As the night drew on, people began to filter out of the pub, meaning we had even more space and were able to actually start dancing around a little bit. Other people there seemed to interpret our drunken staggering and piss-taking as having fun, some started to join in.
Nothing better than random strangers joining in a night of pissed up moshing, pumping, popping and line dancing (he has a large variety on his laptop).
There was one girl in there, which I had never seen before, who was, in short, stunning. She was so beautiful, about 5ft 6, lovely figure which went in and out everywhere you want it to, toned, not skinny, long, black hair, perfect balance of make-up. And my God could this girl move. She knew exactly what she was doing and how she was affecting every guy in there, and I was no exception.
Although I am an incredibly arrogant individual, I also know my place in the real world. If you don’t know me, I’m about 6ft tall, but have a hunch. When stood up straight I’m about 6ft 4, so I have a four inch hunchback. I’m scruffy around my face because I’m too lazy to shave. My hair is shoulder length, and so awesome that I’ve been mistaken for a girl more than once from the back. I’ve overweight, but not so grossly that I can’t move very fast, instead I just give a weird wobbly effect when I move too much too quickly. I basically know my limits.
Some might wonder how I managed to get a girlfriend in the first place, but most of these faults are quite new developments. When I met Jo I was clean shaven, tidy haired and if anything slightly underweight. And even then I wasn’t exactly a prize catch.
So while some guys would approach this girl and try it on, I wouldn’t dare. Especially not when those who I would have bet stood much more of a chance with her than I did got rejected. After not very long I think I was one of the few in there who hadn’t hit on her. But I was comfortable with that. Until she kept making eye contact and smiling, that is.
I instantly decided there were a few possibilities (along with the chances of this being right):
- She either did like me and I was totally wrong (15%)
- She thought I was a girl with a beard (15%)
- She thought I was gay and jealous of her (50%)
That’s not me being modest or self-derogatory, just how I feel, so fuck off with any pity or insults, because I really don’t care.
This carried on for about forty-five minutes, with us making eye contact at least once every couple of minutes, when I went outside for some cooling air and a cigarette, which was just what I needed.
It wasn’t look before she and two of her friends were out there as well, but a little bit away from me. Every now and again I looked over and saw her and her friends looking back, clearly talking about me and not being too shy about it.
Halfway through their smokes, her friends dropped them to the floor and walked back inside, leaving this girl on her own. Quite confidently she walked over to me and stood next to me.
“You’ve been looking at me all night.” She said. Instantly I thought that she was arrogant and couldn’t understand why I hadn’t hit on her when everyone else had.
“Sorry about that.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s fine.” She remained silent for a little while. “Howcome you didn’t try and talk to me?” She gave me such a saucy sideways glance.
“I don’t know. I know my limits I guess.” I took a long drag on my cigarette, trying to finish it quicker for some reason.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t handle rejection very well.” I told her.
“Why do you think I would reject you?” Her voice was getting sweeter and more innocent with each sentence, destroying me inside.
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t in the mood for listing all my faults outside the pub and killing my high.
“Don’t you think it would be worth the risk?” The arrogant bitch asked. In retrospect that phrase just fucks me off now, but at the time all I could think of was her legs spinning and moving, flicking her short skirt up to almost reveal something it shouldn’t.
“Not really.” I said, just finally zoning out and going into autopilot.
“Huh?” Stumped, she couldn’t make ‘huh’ sound cute or alluring.
“Hard to masturbate over a rejection.” I said, regretting it before even opening my mouth to say the words. The next moment was quite possibly the most awkward of my life. She was just stood there, confusion, disgust, anger and pretty much every other negative emotion you can feel towards someone in a single moment clear on her face.
Slowly stepping past her, I went back towards the door to the pub, to find her two friends stood just on the inside, also in stunned silence, but with just disgust on their faces. Stepping past them, I went back inside the pub and stood next to my drink while all around my friends carried on dancing, none the wiser to how much I might have just fucked up.