I once dated a girl who would put make-up ON ME before we went out. Thinking back I probably should’ve taken that as a sign that she was a lesbian and not waited until I was forced to……. watch Bjork concert dvds, wear only pyjamas around her house (which led to futile arguments with the parents – who accused me of being a cocaine addict at one point – that the bulge peeking out was me in my non-aroused state) and eventually even draw her sleeping with assorted female celebrities.

Of course things have never really been “normal” according to my ghost of relationships past. The first creature that could have the misfortune of being called my girlfriend would disappear for 6 month periods at a time and then accuse me of being a figment of her imagination. The second only went out with me because she was desperately trying to convince herself I was Kurt Kobain reborn and not the guy who storms out furiously when the bartender refuses his order of a strawberry milkshake.

Revelations (aka “oh so subtle bitching”) about my past aside, I recently had an encounter that couldn’t be considered more off topic if I’d left it out of the fridge for several months (yes yes that joke was horrendous but I’d only be truly concerned if anyone actually caught it).

Sir Penistuck, warrior of waste-line wax, recently found his way down from his aquatic lair to pay me yet another visit….which is particularly troubling when your mother asks which friend is over and you tell her “It’s that one who hides his willy like a girl all the time” and she says “Oh Penistuck! I’ll make sure to knock before coming in then” while giving a very VERY haunting wink.

After a brief stint around the house of him trying to seduce my grandmother I did make the poor decision to actually travel outside of my incontinence-cave (which is the new word hardcore kids are using for bedroom) and visit a “pub” with him, his sister and her best friend.

What might appear obvious to any seasoned readers is that obstacles found it delightful to present themselves as the evening ran its merry little course…….though quite honestly the most traumatic of the lot was probably when the waiter began claiming they only served milkshakes to “kiddies”…..following with me assuring him that if he looked inside my pants he wouldn’t argue my youth (at which point I died a little inside) and might even consider giving me a pity discount.

Needless to say as shocking as that was it only narrowly beat out the period in which PT began rubbing his nipples and licking the air in my direction. My response was a very polite bout of sobbing while deciding to sit backwards for the next hour or so.

Finally as if to serve somewhat like arsenic icing on my carcinogen cake, his sister initiated some sort of modern neighbourhood-wide mating call by means of rapping along with the radio the entire journey back.

P.S.

On a positive note it appears my actual personage is in mildly higher desire in the lands PT and Mobp hail from…..on the not quite so positive side though……that desire seems to take THIS rather alarming shape.