“Excuse me, can I ask you a few questions?”

“…Sure, I guess I have time.”

“Have you heard the word of Jesus lately?”

“Yes, I’ve heard it. I don’t think it’s changed since last time.”

“My name is Brad.”

“Jones.”

“Tell me, have you ever lied, Jones?”

“Well, yes.”

“What does that make you?”

“I suppose that makes me a liar.”

“Lying is a sin in the eyes of God. Sin takes us further from God.”

“I don’t believe that. How can anything take you further from God? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, the Bible says that sin takes us further from God.”

“The Bible says a lot of things… You know what, I don’t care what a book says. I bow to a higher order.”

“What? The Bible is the closest record we have of the word of our savior Jesus Christ!”

“I know what I know, in my heart. How about this though: ‘All things are lawful for me, but not all things are helpful. All things are lawful, but not all things edify.’ Do you know that one?”

“I don’t think I do…”

“Saint Paul. First Corinthians chapter ten verse twenty-three. What do you think it means? It means that God has given us a mind and a divine spark within each of us, that we can choose what is best. Life isn’t about following a bunch of rules. Rock n’ roll ain’t about being perfect.

“Let me tell you something. Sometimes, when I’m alone, and I need help, I cry out to God. I say ‘Show yourself.’ And He fires right back at me: ‘Show yourself’. I asked for Him, and He said that I should look no further than my own self, my own Spirit. If I know who I am, then surely I know Elohim.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go work on the Sabbath.”

“So, it started at Transport and it ends at Transport,” Aster said as he handed me a pot. He put down his pint and handed me some change. “I thought I’d get you a pot since you don’t like to drink so much.”

Eighteen months ago, I was in the middle of Transport bar, chatting up girls, and waiting to meet an English traveller I’d arranged to meet on the Internet. My phone rang.

26 years old, English, scrubby looking, a little nervous, and wearing a black padded jacket with German colours. I thought, who the fuck is this guy?

“We should reminisce about some classic times.”

“How about the time you picked up at Lord of the Fries?”

Aster met Danielle, got some fries, went back to Danielle’s place, had a few drinks, and had sex for about 18 hours straight. When he described the night to me, I think his exact words were “No holds barred debauchery. Anal sex, toys. Nothing’s sacred.” Aster saw a lot of Danielle after that. He started telling her about some fundamental concepts of game: The girl feels what you feel, being authentic.

“That sounds great,” she said. “Because I’m all about getting girls back here, fucking them, and kicking them out on the curb.”

“That was one of my favourites actually,” said Aster.

“What about that time… We were at Bar Open and I picked up a hippie.”

“Oh yeah. She really was a hippie, wasn’t she.”

“She sure was. She had a sign on her toilet saying ‘Don’t be plush, only flush if you must’.”

Aster and Monty had just arrived. Monty was saying “Man, it’s terrible. I’ve been sitting in that bar alone. You can’t pick up in a bar alone… Can’t be done.”

Monty nearly spat his beer.

“Yeah,” said Aster. “Monty has never picked up in a bar.”

“Never?” Yet, he sleeps with all of his female employees.

“You know, I think we’re more balanced now than we were then. We don’t need to go out every weekend. It was an obsession for a year there.”

“Yeah, that’s right… Hey, I got you something,” I said as I reached into my bag. “The colours didn’t come out exactly how I wanted, but here.” I handed him a T-shirt saying “Best. Wingman. Ever.”

“Oh…” He laughed. “Wow… Thanks man. I’ll rock this in Thailand. That’s awesome.”

Friendship between wingmen is a special thing. In a way, it’s like going to war together. When you take on a wingman, you’re going to go through a lot of shit together. You’re going to see some beautiful things, and very ugly things – and I’m not talking about girls here. There have been times when I’ve been close to crying, when I had to face some harsh truths, wondering what’s the point of it all. I’m glad you were there with me.

I thought back on all the good times. The times when I slept on the couch when I got rejected by his girl’s friend. All the trouble we we got in and out of. All the times we took the piss out of girls and they didn’t realise. All the times when I had to drag my girl away from him because his English accent was too “enchanting”.

They’re deporting him, and he’s barred from the country for three years. His flight leaves at 1 a.m. on Thursday. Time of writing is 12:06 a.m. on Thursday…

To my good friend, good bye and good luck. We’ve had many adventures, and I wish you many more.

“I’m so wrecked. What time does the tram come?”

“7:05.”

“What time is it now?”

“6:20.”

Age and I had just left Pony about twenty minutes ago, and been wandering around in the painful daylight. A tram passed by going the opposite direction.

“Did you see that?” I asked, inquisitively.

“Huh?” inquired Age, despondently.

“The ad on the tram. Sexpo November twentieth to twenty-third. That’s today. Maybe we should go.”

“… … … Yes, yes we should.”

“I really should get some sleep though.”

“Don’t worry, you can fall asleep after you fuck a pornstar.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s go.”

We bought the tickets and went to Subway, eating a fatful egg and bacon sandwich while we waited till it was nine o’clock. I went through and started making some notes in my phone on what had happened the night before.

“I think the highlight was probably when we were walking and that guy hollered saying ‘Hey you’re a really hot girl!’”

“Hahah oh yeah I forgot about that.”

“Man, remember at Transport I was talking to that 30 year old by the bar? SS was occupying her boyfriend – not deliberately, just accidently. I started talking to her and just looking into her eyes, and I started getting a boner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was intense. She wasn’t even physically attractive. When I first saw her, I didn’t think much of her… But then… yeah. I want a girl like that. A boner girl.

“I tried to get her number but she’s like ‘That’s my boyfriend.’ I said ‘He doesn’t have to know.’ She said ‘He’s standing a metre away…’”

“Haha. What about those girls coming out of such and such a club. Did you make out with her?”

“Oh yeah… haha.”

Walking to Pony, we saw two girls coming out of an alley. One was wearing a fluro and black hoodie. She was brunette, plain, but had incredible breasts. The other was blonde and thin. We talked to them for a few minutes, and I said something like “Hey you should come back to my place and we’ll make out.”

“I didn’t!” said Sandy.

“Yeah, I kissed her.”

“That’s awesome. Man look at those dykes over there.” There were about six middle-aged women with short haircuts. “I dare you to go over there and say (stalker voice) ‘HEY. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN… PENETRATED.’”

“Hahah. Fuck no, I’m not saying that. Let’s go to Sexpo.”

We got in there and we were greeted by a topless girl who wanted to give us free samples of pornography. Awesome. Unfortunately, that was the highlight of the whole thing.

Sexpo is basically like a market, like Queen Victoria Markets, except they charge you $40 apiece to get in. Three quarters of the stalls have nothing to do with sex. They’re mostly to do with massage or chakra healing. Though there are some cool things… like a seat you sit on, and it fucks you. And videos playing of girls wearing strap-ons with guys sucking on them. I’m not sure whether to be aroused… or very aroused.

There’s a stall with a sign, written in scrawl. It says “Disabled Sex Assocation of Victoria. Disabled, but still sexy!” And underneath it is a 140 kg man in a wheelchair, with no neck, and apparently no ability to move. He sat there blinking erratically. I know it might be really not PC to say so… but that was pretty fucked.

“Oh my Lord,” said Age. “Jesse Jane is here.”

“Who?”

“Jesse Jane. Haven’t you heard of her? She can fake an orgasm better than anyone.”

Sitting on stage was Jesse Jane’s co-star. It cost $15 to get a picture with her. There were about three people lining up. When Jesse Jane got up on stage, there were about 150 people lining up.

“You know… that other girl was actually a lot more attractive.” Jesse Jane’s face had an unnatural sheen, like every hair on her face had been lasered off.

“Yeah I know. Anyway I’m going to get a picture with her.”

Every girl that went up to get a picture grabbed Jesse’s boob. Age got up there and clawed her in. I watched from the floor as he asked if he could grab her boob, and got sternly rejected. Oh well, can’t blame a guy for trying.

After that, I went home and slept. My unofficial motto for Sexpo is now Sexpo: May as well stay home and jerk off!

There’s an old rule that says you shouldn’t discuss politics or religion unless you want to get into an argument. I had to put a new rule on myself that said I should never discuss Australian Idol. Everyone is a fucking expert.

At the time I thought I was really going to get on the show. I never sat down and watched a whole episode before and I didn’t know they didn’t accept beatboxers. I heard that they let Joel Whatshisface on so I figured I had a good chance.

I prepared a routine, starting with Carl Orff’s O Fortuna, reciting the lyrics in the original Latin and beatboxing at the same time, followed by Clint Eastwood, Sexy Back, then Billy Jean. I thought it was pretty sick, starting off with an operatic tune that everyone recognised, but no one would expect in a beatbox routine. Really it was probably dorky as hell, considering everyone but me knows it as “the song off that beer ad“. I really don’t watch much TV. If you read the original lyrics they’re actually very depressing – it goes something like (Latin accent) “Oh Lady Luck/Are you going to throw me into the clouds?/Or smash me into the ground?/I am at your mercy.”

They held the auditions in Redfern, which is basically the projects of Sydney. I woke up at 2 a.m., walked to Maitland Station, and arrived at Redfern Station at 7 a.m., with about four hours sleep the entire night. Perfect. I felt, more or less, like shit.

I should have slept in, at least till four. They said the doors would open at nine, but really they kept us outside till ten so they could film us all screaming how great Australian Idol is.

“Yay!” I screamed.

I love the atmosphere at the auditions. A bunch of young people, full of nerves and hope, full of potential and possibility, knowing that maybe this is the day that will decide their fate. There’s a lot of excitement there. It’s like a big party, and there’s a sense of camaraderie because everyone knows they’re in the same boat.

I could have slept in till nine… It wasn’t until 1 pm that they called my number out. Then the mindgames really begin. You go up the stairs and they get you to sit on a group of four chairs with three other people. You move along every time the next seat becomes available. You move to the next set of four chairs, and the tension builds. You think that just around the next corner is the audition room and you’re going to get it over and done with. Not really. Around the corner is another set of four chairs.

The girl behind me is a 16 year old punk rock hottie named Blair. She is packing shit. “I drank half a bottle of vodka before I got here to calm my nerves!” she says, nearly jumping out of her chair.

“Yeah… I don’t think it helped.”

We’re in the last set of chairs outside the audition room. There’s a staff member who looks like the Sherminator, and every time we start talking he tells us to “Shhh!” and “Be quiet! There’s an audition going on in there.” This is some psychological shit. They could have easily placed the last set of chairs around the corner. Instead, they employed this guy to tell us to shut up to make us submissive. That’s right – I see through your tricks Freemantle Media.

There’s a girl, an acquaintance of mine. She was promoting free light globes in Greenhills Shopping Centre when I was promoting Plan. She goes into the audition room. She comes out crying. Her friend Camille – there just for support – goes in, and comes out saying “Look out guys – they’re rough as hell in there.”

Sherminator says “No they’re not. Don’t worry guys, they’ll be really nice.”

It’s my turn and I bounce in. There’s two judges sitting behind a table.

“Hey, how’s it going,” I say.

“Stand on the X please.” I jump back a few steps.

“So what are you going to sing for us Jones?”

“I’m going to do some beatboxing.” Then, they just stare at me.

“Oh, so when I’m ready, right?”

“Yes, we’re waiting for you.”

I get about 15 seconds into the routine.

“Okay, stop. We get a lot of beatboxers in here as you can probably imagine. On a scale from 1 to 10 you’re probably a 3.”

I have no idea how to react. So I don’t react.

“…So basically you’re going to have to put in a bit more effort than that. But I guess maybe you’re a bit nervous. Are you nervous? Can you hear me?”

“Uhh… yes.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear me? Can you really hear me? Because we get a lot of people in here who can’t hear us.”

“Oh, you mean because of the bad acoustics in here?” It’s a square room, lots of echo.

“No, because they’re deaf. We get a lot of people auditioning who are deaf.” She’s confused because I’m not reacting to her breaking rapport tonality. So she’s reacting even more, and talking more shit, in order to get me to react.

“Okay…” I say.

“So are you nervous?”

“Yes, I am nervous. Yes, I can hear you,” I say, confidently.

“Okay. Well, look, you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get through… but I’ll let you in anyway because… you’re a beatboxer.”

“Okay…”

“Here,” and she handed me the blue card, my pass to the second audition with the executive producer.

I talked to a few people afterward about their experience in the first room. I heard this one guy sing, just amazing. They’d stopped him after 10 seconds and told him it was awful and to sing something else.

Another guy came in and said he was going to sing “Can’t Keep My Eyes Off Of You”.

“Oh really,” they said. “About one in three people sing that.” They stopped him 10 seconds in, and asked him to sing something that was written in the last 12 months. He stammered, and failed the shit test.

Yet another guy came in and started singing The Beatles and playing guitar. Ten seconds in, the lady started coughing VERY LOUDLY.

I got into the second audition room. I looked at the floor and said “Nice X.”

I did the whole routine, and at the end Greg said “Brilliant. I’ve heard beatboxing but I’ve never heard that.”

The woman said “Was that Beethoven?”

“Actually it’s Carl Orff. O Fortuna. I’m glad you said that. The other lady in there was saying I was awful, a three out of ten beatboxer!”

“Which lady?”

“The lady in the first audition room.”

“Ah. Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday.” And he gave me a pink card, an invitation to the next round, to see the real judges, and be on TV.

Last night I went out to Transport. I accosted some a girl as she walked past.

“Hi!” I said, as if I knew her, a habit from my days of promoting charities in shopping centres.

“Hey!” she responded, in a European accent.

“I’m Jones.”

“Anya. I can’t shake your hand because mine are wet.”

“Wow, you’re gross… You’re from Germany,” I said.

“Ja.”

“Guten Abend. Warum ist die Banane krumm?” which means “Good evening. Why is the banana crooked?” That’s about the extent of my German.

“Uh yeah… anyway I have to go find my friends now.”

“Nooo your friends can wait. How can you leave me now, when our loveship is merely blossoming? Can’t you see the potential in my eyes? Don’t you know what greatness awaits us?” I said to the space where she had been standing, as she was about twenty metres away by this stage. I chuckled to myself.

Then I went to talk to a couple of girls. I stayed and chatted to them for a while. One of them was studying to be a paramedic.

“So what would you do if a woman was about to have a baby?”

“Depends, has the water broken?”

“Let’s say, yes.”

“In that case, you have less than half an hour until the baby comes so it’s best not to try to take her to the hospital. You have to deliver the baby right there. It can be very messy towards the end of the labour. The woman has to push really hard and she will probably urinate, defecate…”

“Uh huh…”

They went home. Then some other stuff happened.

I met a girl, and it was going great. Then twenty minutes into the conversation, I realised she looked like my ex-girfriend. Bummer. Then I realised she had bigger boobs than my ex-girlfriend. Win!

aDDrian says:
its like telling feminists that women’s cerebral cortex has been scientifically proven to  be smaller than mens
shit’s hilarious
Kurt says:
well it’s true, women’s brains are smaller than men’s
aDDrian says:
yup
they’ll debate it, but it’s hilarious
Kurt says:
man
you know that story i wrote about going to the std clinic
and the chick squeezed my dick to see if she could get any fluid out
aDDrian says:
dont remember that part, but yeah i remember the gist of the story
Kurt says:
the more i think about it, the more i think she was a pervert
aDDrian says:
or should i say… jizz of the story?
Kurt says:
lololololol
aDDrian says:
lol sigh
Kurt says:
she was really squeezing it
over and over
i would have been aroused if i realised she was doing something dirty
i thought she was a lesbian
aDDrian says:
lol isnt the point to make you cum or precum or whatever?
Kurt says:
they don’t need cum to do an std test
aDDrian says:
in which case, u just got some handjob
be happy!
Kurt says:
haha
yeah
anyway she scheduled me to come back in the next week to check if it was fine
she wasn’t there
and i was expecting to take my pants off so the doctor that was there instead could have a look
but i just came in and sat down and she said “okay you’re clean” and that was it
aDDrian says:
what u just sat down and she said ur ok?
thats all that happened?
Kurt says:
pretty much
aDDrian says:
what is she psychic?
Kurt says:
haha no genius
she said the report came back fine
aDDrian says:
oh ok lol
Kurt says:
she asked if the sores had gotten better on my wang
and i said yes
and she said okay you can go
aDDrian says:
hey thats good
man it’d suck if u got a male doctor at the clinic
Kurt says:
and he had to give you a handjob
aDDrian says:
‘oh here, let me get some fluid’
*shudder*
Kurt says:
yeah i’m pretty sure she was a pervert
aDDrian says:
yeah man ew
Kurt says:
the second doctor was a little tense, as if she expected me to take my pants off and say have a look
aDDrian says:
you said the first one was a lesbian right?
Kurt says:
she looked like a lesbian
aDDrian says:
myabe she was just emplyed there to get all the dick she could before returning to her wife or something
Kurt says:
maybe so
but man
it sucks because i didn’t realise she was giving me a handjob
if i did, i would have been aroused
and it would have been like a porno
funky bass would have started playing
aDDrian says:
yeah nbow u gotta wait for the next opportunity
like when u order a pizza and its a chick, and she needs to get fluid from ur dick
for payment cos u ran out of money
or osmetihng
Kurt says:
haha
“there’s no sausage on this pizza”
“well i thought you might have enough sausage already… in your pants”
bow chika wah wah
aDDrian says:
you should just start ordering thousands of pizzas
law of probability says itll happen eventually
Kurt says:
every time i order a pizza it’s some little asian man that delivers it
aDDrian says:
well if he’s there, might as well get a handjob
Kurt says:
i guess

I had this dream last night where a male acquaintance of mine was taunting me in conversation. Then he went to grab my dick. I said “What the fuck man? Why would you do that? That’s messed up.” Then I thought, “What do you mean it’s messed up? It’s your dream, dumb-ass.”

Occasionally I have some really messed up dreams. When I was 19, there was a period when I hadn’t masturbated in three months, as an experiment. During that time I had a wet dream, almost. I had a wet dream about seeing a fat pregnant woman in a mall, going up to her, and rubbing my penis against her pregnant belly. I wish I was making this up – but who knows what weird shit goes on in the subconscious really. I woke up and I was orgasming. I clenched my buttcheeks really tight and held it in.

The week after that I restarted a regular schedule of the five knuckle shuffle. Probably a good thing, otherwise I might have become a belly-rubbing pervert for life.

Then there was this other dream I had, around the same time. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Hanging over the sink was a basket containing a bouquet of flowers. Except instead of flowers, there were penises, and all the foreskins were sewn shut. I told my friend Matt that one. He said I should probably see a shrink. I can’t imagine what a shrink would say, probably something like “Yeah, you’re right – that is pretty fucked up,” and charge me $200. Freud would have a field day and study me for years on end, telling me that the penises represented my repressed desire to smoke cigars, and eat bratwurst and frankfurters. I always thought Freud must have had a really hot mum and that’s how he came up with the idea of the Oedipus complex.

I don’t know if most people have messed up dreams like that, or I just have a twisted imagination. For all I know, half the world could have dreams about penises, Oedipus and Electra complexes, and vagina dentata phobias and/or fetishes. One thing is for sure, if they did have them, no one would talk about it. See, this is the good I do by being honest. I’m starting a world wide web conversation of hope, peace, family issue resolution, and toothed vaginas.

Anyway, speaking of fucked-up dreams, let me tell you about my ambition of becoming a professional poker player. I’m $500 up at the poker table in the last three weeks. I built up a decent bankroll from just two buy-ins of $20. (Excluding the hundreds of dollars that I’ve already lost at the poker table to get this good). I don’t spend any of my bankroll, but it’s funny how much richer I feel after blowing every spare cent on poker for the last few months.

I play on the electronic tables at Crown. They call them “PokerPro”. “More hands per hour, more action.” They should call it “PokerPro: more sick beats per hour,” considering the amount of crazy donkeys that want to have a gamble. “Where is the button for ‘all in’?” they say. Last night a couple of guys saw me sit down, holding a copy of Professional No-Limit Hold ‘Em and commented “Sorry buddy – didn’t you know? Poker is 90% luck.” I was kind of pissed off at how stupid they were, but at the same time, I started to hear a distinct ringing sound in my ears. “Ka-ching!” it went. “Ka-ching! Ka-ching!”. They obviously thought you have more or less the same odds whether you play Blackjack, Roulette, or Texas Hold ‘Em. They may as well have been wearing shirts that said “Please, Take My Money. I Am Too Stupid To Have Or Deserve It.”

Today, I came out $15 behind, which is a “bad” day for me. My friend Ilya always tells me how sick Internet poker is, and how he hardly ever plays on JokerStars anymore. He says they set up big hands against each other to make bigger pots, then collect the rake to make a cool million, or $0.50, depending on the table. Well, maybe. I find it hard to believe.

I remember the last hand I ever played at the Strat. I went all in pre-flop for $12. The dealer, Stephen, said “Any donations?” He hated me because I always forgot to tip him, and he liked to mock my accent “Thanks mate,” etc. I got a caller on the other side of the table, the half-Mexican guy who was always chewing on the stick of a lollipop. I had pocket aces. He had five deuce suited. He hit his straight on the river. After that it crossed my mind that Stephen and the cholo were in cahoots and manipulated the cards against me. Well, maybe. More likely he just got lucky, and he called because he thought if he won I would go on tilt and buy-in again. Or maybe he just did it for the lulz.

Losing money in a game of chance can make people come up with a multitude of silly theories about how they lost it. They get scared, or they go on tilt, become emotional. They revert to their emotional nature, cloud out their logic, and become superstitious. More and more it becomes obvious to me that the average person playing poker is like a man trying to find his way through a small booby-trapped labyrinth in a deep fog. There’s lots of pit-falls, but there’s also a good-enough chance that he’ll stumble his way to the gold at the centre. Maybe he’ll bring the gold out with him, maybe not. For me, poker is still like a booby-trapped labyrinth, but the fog is beginning to clear. I know a lot of the pitfalls to avoid, because I’ve either stepped in them before, or studied the map closely enough that I know where to tread carefully.

Further recommended reading: Theory of Poker by David Sklansky, No-Limit Hold ‘Em: Theory and Practice by Sklansky & Miller, Professional No-Limit Hold ‘Em Volume One by Flynn, Mehmet & Miller.

Kurt says:
oh shit i have to tell you what happen last night
peto says:
yes u have to!
Kurt says:
there’s this girl at work darla, she’s this short brunette english girl
i always joke around with her and flirt with her
i say we’re getting marreid and shit
but she has a boyfriend
or a sort of boyfriend
with cross eyes
last night i was out with the work guys and she was there with her boyfriend
early on in the night she’s sitting there with him and leans over and whispers to me “so kurt are we still getting married”
i’m like gee that’s a pretty deep question with your boyfriend sitting right next to you
then later she was sitting there with lawrence again
she’s a bit drunker by this stage i guess
she leans over to me and whispers “kurt… put your hand on lawrence’s inner thigh”
she’s trying to orchestrate a threesome with me and her boyfriend
peto says:
u should have said.. its already there
Kurt says:
haha
ii said i admire your moxie but it’s not going to happen
and laughed
a lot
peto says:
ha
u passed up wat could of possibly been a great story
Kurt says:
what, sucking a guy’s dick
is that really a great story?
peto says:
haha imagine, spitroasting this girl and looking right into the guys eyes
Kurt says:
i can’t look into his eyes
THE MOTHERFUCKER HAS CROSSEYS
peto says:
with intensity
haha
is he retarded
Kurt says:
i don’t think so
just crosseyes

Her name was Iola. She’s about thirty. Dark skin. Curly hair. I met her at Bar Open.

The night I met her, she invited me to come to her place for a barbeque, but she never gave me the details, so I didn’t go. After that, I didn’t speak to her for a year. I texted a bunch of girls in my phone, telling them to come to a party at my place. She said she was busy, but we should catch up.

I went to meet her on Brunswick Street. She was there with her friend Sam, and when I sat down and introduced myself, Sam continued with what was obviously a long monologue about how her housemate wasn’t talking to her, was being a bitch, etc.

Iola went to go get some drinks.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not normally like this.”

“That’s okay – everyone has bad days.”

“Ha. More like a bad year.” She may as well have said: “Actually, come to think of it – I am normally like this.” I could see why she was having friendship troubles.

Sam took a taxi home and I went with Iola to the Night Cat. By that time I was fairly drunk. I ordered another beer. We sat down on a lounge.

“My dad was a geologist and my mum was an archeologist. I moved around a lot, and I never watched TV as a kid… People always make these pop culture references and I never have any idea what they’re talking about. It’s awkward.”

“Yeah,” I said, and leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait – what are you doing?”

“I was going to kiss you. C’mere.”

“Wait – no. I think you got the wrong idea. I only invited you out here as a friend. Can’t we just be friends?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’m going to get another drink.”

I went to the dancefloor and started scoping out some other girls, and I was about to grab one and twirl her, when Iola jumped in between me and my mark. I glared at her. I thought, not only do you want to be my friend, you want to be my cockblock as well.

Funnily enough, nothing panned out for me. The bar shut at 3 am. I went outside with Iola and said “Good night,” and opened the door of a cab.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

“Come talk to me a minute. I need to tell you something.”

I closed the cab door and walked over to her.

“What. What do you need to tell me?”

“Well… where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“No…” she said. I glared at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s so ridiculous… I just thought, if you’re going home… I could come with you.”

I could have slapped her. Instead, I pushed her into the cab and made out with her.

I hate having drunken sex. It’s my second-least-favourite form of sex. We woke up in the morning and had hungover sex, my least-favourite form of sex. She had fake breasts and her nipples seemed permanently erect.

Then she left.

I’ll tell you the rest another time.

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]]> http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/iola-lets-just-be-friends/feed 11 http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/iola-lets-just-be-friends http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/TroubleInABubble/~3/7UScXUJhKtA/straightforward-girl-with-mysterious-breasts http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/straightforward-girl-with-mysterious-breasts#comments Sat, 26 Sep 2009 08:29:19 +0000 Kurt Robinson http://troubleinabubble.com/?p=851

I’d just gotten into Melbourne. I met this chubby eighteen year old girl with braces on Johnston St. Textbook as it comes. Said “hello” waiting for the little man to go green, got her number. I said “I’ll call you.” And she said “I look forward to it!”

I called her a couple of times – pumped my state beforehand by jumping around a bit, told her a few funny stories or whatever. Said we should meet up. When we did, I realised how little game was actually necessary. I had her from “hello”. Pretty fucking romantic really.

I met up with her near her work on Johnston.

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve just eaten.”

“Okay. I’m starving. I know this great place to get a falafel.” I bought a felafel for $5 from Lamb on Brunswick. At that time I was living off savings, so I knew all the cheapest places around Fitzroy to go for food. Go to Vegie Bar and order the nachos for $7.50, and they give you an enormous plate of nachos – they must use a whole bag of corn chips. (Not any more though – I guess they cottoned onto the fact that this “starter” was bigger than most of their main dishes). Go to Lentil As Anything at the Abbotsford Convent and pay by donation. Especially go before 11 for the breakfast menu.

I ordered a falafel and two pieces of bakalava. “Here you go.” I handed Vanessa a piece of baklava.

“What is it?”

“It’s baklava. A Greek pastry with nuts and honey. Delicious.”

She took one bite and handed it back to me. “Uh.. Thanks. Where are we going now?”

Then I said those two words that I would become very used to saying over the next few months: “My place.”

I took her back to my scummy studio apartment. Make out. Bedroom. Take off her jacket. Take off her shirt. Take off her bra… almost.

“Wait – don’t.”

“Okay.” Make out. Take off her skirt. Take off her panties. Take off her bra.

“Wait… I can’t take my bra off.”

“Why not?”

“That’s only for special people.”

We had sex, with her bra still on. I was scrambling with the strap, trying to take it off just at the right time so she might not notice, and get a glimpse of those bazoongas.

She stopped bouncing on top of me. “Don’t. Hey! When did you undo that?!”

I fingered her and tried to get her to come. I put my index and ring finger on her labia, and tried to put my middle finger on her clitoris. She was starfishing. She just lay there and didn’t make a sound.

“It’s done,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s okay. I’m done.” Worst fake orgasm ever. “Don’t worry,” she said “One day someone will teach you how to do it.” Most condescending sexual statement ever made by an eighteen year old girl in any bed I’ve slept in. I felt like telling her that I’ve had quite a few sexual partners that seemed to think I did know what I was doing. But then, what would I gain from telling her that.

She was the only girl in that period that I invited back for more sex. She came over about once a week for four weeks. I was really curious about her breasts. I don’t know if it was a brilliant ploy on her behalf to get a continuing sexual partner – but if it was, it worked wonderfully. They looked great in a bra. She said if she was drunk she would probably show them to me. So I bought a bottle of wine and invited her over. She took about two sips.

“Why do you want me to drink so bad?” she said.

As if I wasn’t being obvious enough. “No reason,” I said. I guess this was before I invented “Direct As Fuck Method“.

She didn’t finish her wine. I took her to bed. I have to wonder why she kept coming back, considering she seemed so dissatisfied with me every time I had sex with her. I never made her come, unless she is one of those girls that just looks like they’re daydreaming when they orgasm. Though, she never made me come either, except for the one time when we were watching lesbian porn beforehand. That time I came almost as soon as I entered. Oops.

After that, I stopped seeing her. I guess the possibility of seeing her breasts wasn’t enough to warrant keeping her around any longer.

I got a text from her a few months later. The worst booty call text ever. “hey is anyone bored this week?” Okay, you’re not really selling me here. You’re telling me that this is a mass text message to all of your fuckbuddies, and implying “hey, if you’ve got nothing better to do, you can stick your weiner in me.”

I wrote back “I would, but I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

About nine months after that, I texted her for some reason. I think it was to invite her to a party. Everyone knows you can’t have enough cute sluts at a party – they’re what make it worth turning up.

She wrote back something like “I’d love to but I have a boyfriend… What would we do at this party?”

I wrote back something charming like “I’d stick my dick in your butt.”

“Oooh, that’s my favourite!”

Following was about half an hour of sexting, with her telling me what a dirty slut she was, and how I should blow a hot load in her mouth – fun stuff like that. Her boyfriend had dungeoned her, refusing to let her out of the house to see her friends. I think there must be some kind of formula… I’m not sure of the exact science, but it would go something like:

SLUT + DUNGEON = TURBOSLUT

She told me to text her back in a few weeks when she could get rid of her boyfriend. I assumed she meant she was going to dump him, but who knows.  I haven’t spoken to her since.

Sweet girl. I wonder what her breasts actually did look like. I guess some things man was just not meant to know, or at least a man without strong liquor.

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