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It all began at a flat party where I met a man who looked like he’d been frozen in time since 2005. Spikey blue hair, skinny jeans hanging on for dear life, and that permanently glazed look of someone who spends more time staring at their Vans than the people around them. Naturally, I was intrigued.
After discovering I studied zoology, he launched into a completely unsolicited—but surprisingly well-delivered—lecture about spiders. We’re talking genus, web-building, even fun facts about their mating rituals. It was honestly alarmingly coherent for someone who was clearly high af. A circle of half-drunk strangers even gathered to watch. Imagine a TED Talk, but if the speaker had eyeliner smudged halfway down his cheek.
One thing led to another, and somehow I ended up at his flat. We started making out against a poster-covered wall (Fall Out Boy staring down at me in judgment), when things… escalated. Out of nowhere, he began to rub my vagina over my jeans with the enthusiasm of a DJ trying to win an international scratch battle. No rhythm, no finesse, just pure violence. If anything, I was more worried about denim burn than achieving any sort of climax.
Realising my jeans were having a better time than I was, I pulled the emergency exit line: “I actually have work early tomorrow.” He wasn’t thrilled, tried to talk me into staying, but I was committed to escaping.
Instead of simply walking me home like a normal person, he decided to skate me home. Yes—you read that right. I was made to stand on his skateboard while he pulled me through the streets like some kind of human rickshaw. Honestly, I didn’t hate it. Zero effort from me, and it was probably the smoothest part of the entire evening. That said, I couldn’t shake the feeling I looked like a very confused pack mule being led back to the stables.
When we finally reached my driveway, he asked for my number. And then, in the most dramatic twist of all, he whipped out… a flip phone. An honest-to-God relic. I gave him my number purely because I wanted to hold the artifact—it felt like touching history. Needless to say, I never texted back.
Transportation: 10/10
Pleasure: 2/10
Lesson of the Week: Don’t confuse effort with chemistry. Sometimes a man will skateboard you home like a knight in grungy armor, but if his foreplay feels like sandpapering your crotch, it’s okay to take the free ride, appreciate the story, and proceed to ghost guilt-free.