It often amuses me when I see lads around town, chasing women, desperate to get their end away. Even when I was 17/18 and there was a weekly group of 10 of us heading into the city centre there would be excited declarations of finding girls.
Maybe its to my detriment, but I’ve never been like that.
I’ve always been the quiet one at the back: who laughed at my mates bravado and wondered how (and where) they had the confidence from to approach women. As I look back now, maybe I should’ve been like that too because my confidence is shot when I try and chat up a female.
A few weeks ago: for the first time in forever, I approached a girl who was sat at a table with a group of friends. I spluttered something incoherent out and then realised what I was doing…had a mini panic attack moment and had to make my excuses…leaving with my tail between my legs (God loves a trier).
Even on occasions when girls beckon me over to them (it doesn’t happen often, I’m not exactly a bronzed Adonis) I struggle to find the words…
A. Real. Woman. Wants. Me. To. Talk. To. Her. Oh. My. God. What. Do. I. Say. Now.
Twice in the past two and a half years I’ve managed to get my end away (and I fluked one of them). That’s bloody shocking statistics (I can’t even use the quality not quantity argument). I think it may even be longer, but I’m refusing to go back any further!
I’m no oil painting myself, and I’m not blowing my own trumpet here (and neither is anyone else… boom tish!), but I’m not all that…twiceinnearlythreenyears…unforgiving on the eye either.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not moaning about it as such, I know if I made more of an effort half the time I’d do better than I do. I’m just getting it off my chest; my mates looked at me like I had two heads when I told them of my depravation.
Even at the weekend, when a (classy) girl showed me her lovely chesticles, I still came home empty handed.
One part of me actually isn’t that arsed about it: I couldn’t be more laid back if I was horizontal.
Another part of me is screaming: Man The Fuck Up!