Pretty Woman

I had already, unsuccessfully, asked a girl out earlier in the evening. The toilet queue in a cramped kebab shop come club isn't really conducive to date instigation so I wasn't beating myself up too much about it. Upon leaving the kebab shop/club I couldn't believe my luck when I looked up and over heard a girl tell her friend, whilst pointing very deliberately at me; "That's him, he's my guy..."

This, unsurprisingly, hasn't ever happened to me, so I wasn't really sure how to handle it. Taking my cues from Seth Rogen in 40 Year Old Virgin, i decided just to ask questions and let her do all the talking and see where it went...

"Hey, what's you're name?"

"My name's xxxx" (I've forgotten her name...)

"Oh, where have you been tonight?"

"I've been in the mix"

"Oh, where's that?"

"You know, just in the mix"

"Yes, you did mention"

"So, anyway, where d'you live?"

"Just over there" - pointing in the direction of Holloway "How about you?"

"Blackheath, but that's miles away, what are you up to tonight?" - at which point she walked off

I think she was a prostitute, my friends don't...

Hey, Bo, Let's Go

Thinking I was dressed particularly dapperly, I decided to ask out the bar lady at the free booze situation I found myself in. Working in a diner draped in post war Americana and wearing a platinum shoreditch beehive, I assumed that a) she liked mid 50s Chess Records Rock & Roll and b) she'd find my candour so refreshing she'd have to say yes.

"Would you like to come and listen to Bo Diddley in the park with me?"

"No. Thank you."

I had assumed half right, she did like Bo Diddley.

Sexual Outercourse

Having managed to turn a lunchtime coffee with my cousin's hot American friend in to a day long, full blown dinner and drinks extravaganza, I found myself in the same inept position as usual. Sat on a huge old Chesterfield sofa in a favourite Islington haunt, it was impossible for me to summon either the courage or gymnastic dexterity to position myself for a kiss.

So far on the date I'd got us lost in the Barbican and accidentally tipped the waiter £40, so she already must have thought me pretty smooth.

Fifteen minutes of my bumbling later; think Hugh Grant in Notting Hill but with a tenth of the charm, she asked me if I was putting it on. Asking, very politely, for a kiss seemed preferable to explaining my debilitating date-night character flaw.

Back home on my sofa she had made her intention not to have sex made abundently clear, I of course assured her I understood and agreed. I was just happy to be having my face kissed off and being able to her boobies in both sides of my peripheral vision. Please don't think of my use of the word 'boobies' as doing her, or my 27 years, a disservice, I just love that word right now. Whilst I'm at it, I should probably admit that I had 'Love Gun' playing on loop in my head throughout...

Having to fake the unfakeable wasn't one of my finest moments, but her handy work wasn't just really going anywhere. Fun as it is, there's a limit to much boxers-on fumbling a man can stand. I think I got away with it though... I even changed my boxers to complete the charade.

Anway, I was banned from seeing her again - by her... Maybe I didn't get away with it...

Grope etiquette

I was sitting in a bar with Nick, the concerned friend responsible for this site, when I felt a hand in my crotch. "Urm, Nick, there's a hand on my cock - What do I do?" I looked and was very happy to see it appeared to be a ladies hand, looking further up the arm and to the shoulder and neck I could see that, yes, it definitely belonged to a woman.

Not being much of a groper myself, I'm new to it's etiquette. I think it a pretty fair assumption though, that the polite thing to do would be to actually turn and face your gropee. I tapped her on your shoulder "Urm, excuse me, your urrr, your hand seems to be on my cock".

"Oh, yeah, it is" only moving her hand to try and steal the beer out of my hand, which she did repeatedly. She was South African and it seemed she was doing her best to ruin her friend's birthday, her speech was so slurred I couldn't tell if she was speaking Afrikaans or English.

Being that drunk, I thought it best, for the sake of my morals, not to try anything. That and the fact I didn't fancy having to clean chunks off my bed sheet - her lips looked like they were fixing to hold some sick back.

I wasn't overly keen to wear vomit for the rest of the night and moved to another table, the bouncers, it appeared, shared my aversion to regurgitated margaritas and frogmarched her out a minute later.

Depressingly, this is probably the best chance I've had.

Ex marks the spot

As is my standard procedure on hearing that my ex is to visit me, I adopted my high pitched lovesick whine and began gazing dreamily in to nothingness. I even tidied my room, two weeks too early, but I tidied it again on the eve of her visit.

I was confident this would be another standard issue sEX visit; to scratch our mutual itch, only to end up lying in bed, not talking and waking up with heart re-broken.

Half an hour before I was due to meet her, I answered her call with the energy and reckless enthusiasm of a litter of labradors, yet somehow trying to sound cool and aloof:

"Hi, it's Me, I'm really sorry, I don't know how to say this, but it's my time of the month... So we can't... urm.. I hope it's ok, can I still come round?"

"...Oh god, yeah of course... Sex? Last thing on my mind - I'm just happy to be seeing you"

I was certain she'd heard the sonic boom of my face's smile/frown transition. I was gutted, I even shaved my beard/stubble off - I'm still not entirely sure why.

So, we did end up laying in bed not talking, as predicted, only this time having not had sex. I didn't feel so heart broken in the morning, though... Which, I suppose, is some kind of silver cloud...

'Twas Christmas Eve...

It was Christmas time in Norfolk and I'd resigned myself to the fact whilst back in Norwich, staying at my parents house would reek havoc with my ability to host any form of festive sex. Being led to Eve's house five minutes after meeting her under the pretense of 'seeing her room' I could barely believe my luck. My night, thus far had all the hallmarks of a "Reader's letter" straight from the pages of Men Only, undoubtably including the phrase 'pulling a Christmas Cracker', well, that or "her Jingling my Bell" - you get the point. Anyway, so buoyed was I, by the prospect of Christmastime Sextime that I barely remember the walk. I imagined, though, getting high fives and 'Wheeeey's by every guy in the lad parade I imagined was lining the streets to herald my return to the land of sex.

Upstairs, the charade of having a look around her room had well and truly been dropped as we sideways stepped our way through her door - drunkenly kissing on the way to her bed. Had I known this was going to be on the cards, I may have put more thought in to my choice of underwear. There's no grace involved when you're trying to disguise a boner in loose boxers. Through some creative trouser folding I managed what would pass for crude erection camouflage as I lay on the bed waiting for her to come back from the bathroom.

I don't quite know how to adequately describe what happened next, I don't remember it happening, but we'd obviously stumbled on to the set of a mid nineties American Teen comedy. As she walked back through the door (with a hugely encouraging giddy look on her face) darted across the room and leapt onto the bed, I was ecstatic that my two and half month drought was to finally come to an end. That was, until her enthusiastic leap was following immediately by an awkward bounce and slow motion sideways somersault over me and in to the wall, eventually landing on the floor - joining my chances for any sort of shenanigans.

Being asked to leave, I felt hard done by and was at a loss as to why, my uncontrollable laughter at Eve's attempt to get in to her own bed had only lasted 10 minutes and was wholly justified. However, my ability to unseal an otherwise sealed deal was probably for the best as my boxers would have betrayed the little bit of wee that had come out...