Jasmine
After a physical brawl for my phone, my slut face friend signed me up for what she promised would be a foolproof way to end my dry spell. After finding out that my man for the night was a Saudi male model, I figured in the worst case scenario I’d get a free dinner and to neck a bottle of wine on Critic, and in the best case scenario somewhere down the road I might end up a princess in a far-off land.
It was a pretty last-minute ordeal, so after getting work covered and my cat waxed in preparation, I was good to go. I threw back a couple of vodka lemonades and arrived shortly after seven to find an Aladdin lookalike patiently waiting to show me a whole new world. After a bit of awkward eye contact I joined him at the table and I went straight for the wine, feeling boozy already, drinking two to his one.
There was some good chat over the sweet sounds of Norah Jones, but the guy was not lighting my fire. It wasn’t until he revealed how much he loved washing dishes – so much so that he doesn’t let anyone help him – that I thought this guy could be for me.
As the SavB progressed to Chardonnay and Norah progressed to the Beegees, I knew it was heading downhill. However, the more we drank the more chatty he became and the less I had to work to keep the conversation boat afloat.
Like a true gentleman, he settled the bill and we were off into the night.
We reached a crossroad. A decision had to be made. I bitched out.
After quick goodbyes I ran off to join my friends for some rowdy fun. Tuesday night of O-Week is not a night to be wasted.
#YOLO and with that in mind, I knew I didn’t want to spend my “once” living with him.
Aladdin
Sometimes it’s hard being really really really ridiculously good-looking, and despite being a model I find it difficult to meet girls. Not only are they intimidated by my looks (ladies, it’s okay – Dunedin’s a small place, I can’t be too picky); but I also need to hide my carnal exploits from my parents back in Saudi, who routinely stone and/or behead adulterers.
But I’m a great guy, who understands the frustrations of the average Dunedinette. The pool of virile males in this village is laughably small, and it can take an age to scope a viable young buck from the pool of lolling Neanderthals. Since most adopt the plebeian mode of dress, one can never be too sure what lurks beneath the ubiquitous puffer jacket and jeans: perhaps a vigorous specimen of manhood, his hard, toned form eliciting trembles of hormonal desire; perhaps a pliable, fleshy bovine sprouting hair that prickles your naked body as he grasps your thighs with sleazy abandon.
Nonetheless, I volunteered for the blind date with some apprehension. There was a significant risk of my being set up with the scrapings from the bottom of Dunedin’s dating barrel, some fat mewling spawn ejected from the bowels of the decadent West.
The big night came. I smoked some hashish, uploaded a few more selfies to Facebook, pleasured myself, and caught a taxi to some horrible pleb restaurant to meet my companion. By the grace of Allah she was an exquisite princess, the kind of girl you would take back to your harem, impregnate with multiple offspring and confine to a life of menial household chores.
Due to my model’s diet I was unable to consume more than modest amounts of the restaurant’s offerings. I distracted my alluring date with intermittent cries of “look over there, a stray camel!” and so was able to stash surplus food inside my trousers. By the end of the date, however, this had generated a suspicious aroma and a spreading, greasy stain on my crotch. She stole a glance in the direction of my manhood, bid me adieu, and vanished into the night.