Weekend whinge

OK. Let me tell you what happened. I went to a bbq down in Bronte and I met her there. I was still a bit smashed, courtesy of the previous night, but it didn't stop me from kissing each pussy I saw. Hey, she told me her name - Ai! I never had a girl with such name. And I was interested. Watched her from distance, she was sexy, funny, cool. And single.

I met her twice or thrice in parties later the following week and I knew what I was to do. Ask her out. It took me a week to get her to go for a dinner with me. Did I dream of getting her home and fucking her? Hardly. Still, she probably thought "what a weird idiot, I'll get a free dinner and I'll see how I go".

I saw how she went, too. I paid for the dinner, took her to world's second best beach (after Copacabana, my friends) and nothing happened. Obviously. I had that strange feeling since very beginning, yet I didn't want to spoil the night.

"We can catch up again, for a friendly chat", she messaged me the next day. Fuck me dead, bitch.

Next night, my pot pal, nicknamed Potboy, ain't behind the house at usual time. What the? Isn't it ironic that he went out with her a day after me - without telling me anything? Not that I'd have said anything to him, either.

Then she's messaging me at the middle of the night few days later. Friday night. I'm drinking with my managerial friends down in Cross, enjoying free Barramundi diner, courtesy of our wealthy customer, drinking seventh Corona, and then - "We're in O'Meally, come over". I'm not into crappy Irish pubs too much (I've only been to Tea once since Doctor left), but I'm there in fifteen minutes, with two mates by my side.

Potboy and two chicks are comfortably numb sitting in an Irish pub and slowly dying. They don't fit there, they're bored and totally out of place. Ai needs some company so she took her girlfriend with her. And Potboy is probably dry as an eighty year old cunt, so there's not much they can talk about. Plus, you can't hear anything in a pub packed with Irish backpackers anyway.

I'm having a quick beer with my mates, gently ignoring the rest of the company. Then a joint in a back lane (Potboy had one ready). Once we come back, chicks are to leave. After some twenty minutes! Does that make sense to anybody?

Potboy leaves soon after. We're having another beer, then changing pubs few more times until we drop dead.

Early in the morning... Barefoot, trying to find my way home around the bay. It's cul-de-sac everywhere and I'm trapped. Finally a cab.

Here I am. Smashed again, but a bit smarter. Don't fucking dare to buy her a dinner until she sleeps with you. I might have known better.

Yeah, and did I tell you about that blonde? Maybe next time.