hilariously mismatched pairs, and the occasional hookup. Each week, we lure two singletons to a bar and ply them with alcohol and food (in that order), then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this sounds like you, email news@critic.co.nz or FB message us. This week, Angus Restaurant/Moon Bar played host to two lovebirds.
Gus Gawn's Friend
My flatmate roped me in to going on a blind date. He told me there was supposed to be a group of us – instead, it was just the “date” and me. Thanks Gus.
I arrived early; the only one in the restaurant, hoping my date wasn’t going to stand me up. She arrived, escorted to the table by Hayley, my new favourite waitress at Angus Restaurant. A couple of bottles of Merlot down and the banter was flowing – golf, tennis, travelling – we covered it all while I downed a steak, brownie and my date’s cheesecake. I got a bit suspicious when I heard an acoustic song about “pop that pussy” playing in the restaurant and we took that as our cue to get more drinks.
We headed through to Moon Bar where my date gave me a “money shot” and the bartender gave us a free jagerbomb. Then we headed to the Terraces where her flatmates met us, and I found out they had actually been watching the date the whole time – subtle. They let us be, after questioning me avidly, and we headed back to hers.
What happened next is a bit of a blur. Until the morning, when she was giving me a morning glory gobby, and my cock started spurring blood. Nice torn banjo string. She was stressing and checked out if there was anything we could do, apparently no sex or masturbation for a week – hello blue balls. We fell asleep again as my hangover sunk in, and woke up feeling slightly better, and risky. By risky, I mean, I let her give me a handy – why not! We chatted for a bit and then I headed home, not before leaving her my number though.
Gus Gawn's Friend's Date
If I had been told my “date” was a friend of Gus Gawn’s, I wouldn’t have bothered going. Alas, it is 2013, “The Year of the Slut” as my flatmates and I have so coherently put it, the year to say “yes” to as many ridiculous opportunities we are presented with. So when Callum approached me about two hours before I was required to be date-ready, I obviously was required to say “yes” … and then freaked the fuck out about who it could be, what to wear and the state my “fairy” was in, downed some wine and made my merry way to Moon Bar.
On arrival, I couldn’t help but stare only at my date – probably because we were the only ones in the restaurant. Naturally, I followed flat rule number 1 – “quiz before the jizz.” I think he was quite old, as he mentioned things I didn’t know about – like what the fuck is Gardies? We got to know one another pretty well, indulged in some fine cuisine, a few cheeky bottles of Merlot and capped our stint off at Moon Bar with a money shot from the blonde at the bar. At this stage, my flatmates were inconspicuously behind the bar DJ-ing with hits such as “Sexual Healing,” “Let’s Get It On” and “Truly Madly Deeply” whilst also dimming the lights – unbeknownst to my date who was marvelling over the Savage Garden choice.
We then headed into the Octagon and found a bit of a golden oldie post-cricket party at the Terraces – my date fitted in with his Jeremy Clarkson jeans and cunt hunter shoes. We necked back some Coronas before heading back to mine. And this is where it gets juicy (and bloody) … We had a drunken fumble, waking up to condom wrappers lying beside me when I woke up, when round two occurred and injury one was had – torn banjo string – oops! Blood on the sheets showing it was the Bloody Mary watching over us instead of the Virgin Mary last night. In a stressed haste we Googled for solutions which said “no sex for a week,” we had a sleep, woke up again and he was keen for a cheeky handy – which we risked #yolo. It was midday before he left, after leaving me his number.