Declan Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You Yep I'm off women for life. I've had it with 'em. No more candle-lit discussions about psycho exes. No more feigned interest in another man's child. I'm finished with the second guessing; the forced compliments, and the "where are we going" conversations. I'm even through with passionless one night stands in provincial hotel rooms. From now on I'm a monkish celibate. Oh yes, it's the single life for me! This looks like a nice bar. Lively, not a distant drunken stumble from the hotel. I'll stop here for a scoop or two. It is crowded though, a long thin room, crammed with revelers. Hey I like the atmosphere. Juke box blaring out an old Faces tune, gang of likely lads strutting around the pool table - marking their territory with a scattering of blue chalk dust, a pound coin on the table and a smattering of WKD and spittle as they speak. A long mahogany bar down the righthand side of the room is heaving but there is a spare stool there. That'll be my home for the night. "I'll have a Guinness please, mate, and one for yourself," get the barman on-side now, and I've an ally for the night. Let's get me bearings. Quickly scan the room - get the lay of the land. "Oh! Hello", my inner Leslie Phillips asks, "Who are you, my dear?" And there you are - stood to my left, chatting and giggling incongruously amongst a group of gruff Neanderthals - work colleagues I guess. Tight, impudent, blonde curls bobble against your shoulder as you laugh. I like the way you're dressed, and my attention is helplessly drawn by the way the spray-on denim jeans accentuate your subtle curves. There is a deliberate casualness about your attire - as if you've taken great care to achieve the illusion that you are this beautiful all the time. And I get to imagining how you must look in the morning. Pretty hot I reckon - not like those pampered Barbies plucking and teasing away any inner beauty they possess and painting on fake faces before they can meet the day. Hey hang on! I must catch myself. I can't let this go on. I'm off woman remember. I turn away, catch the barman's eye and order another Guinness. I am not going to fall in love with you. When I next look in your direction your Cro-Magnon co-workers have departed and you sit, back to the bar with your elbows resting upon the brass bar rail, which is a little high for comfort - you are forced to arch your back so that your perfect breasts are impertantly cast to the fore. I follow your seaweed green eyes as they travel the bar, spending a moment sharing the pain of each lonely drinker or savouring the joy of every lively conversation. What's that? Do your eyes betray a momentary flicker of a smile as I take my turn in the emerald spotlight? I don't know. Embarrassed I have turned away. I feign an interest in the soundless situation comedy, that is playing out unnoticed on the television screen across the room; but all the time I am agonisingly aware of your movements -over the hubbub of the crowded bar I hear the rubbing of denim on denim as you cross and uncross your legs. Although we are separated by several feet, and other customers separate us; I exist in your personal space. I am caught in that place where lovers find themselves in the instant before their first embrace. I am enveloped in the warmth of the magnetic aura of your body and your feminine smell which, unencumbered by falseness of manufactured scents, evokes the freshness of a summer meadow. The salty tang of your sweat, I taste. Your sweet breath, I feel against my face and I hear the soft, insistent beat of your heart. Christ, I hope I don't fall in love with you. I give it time and when I judge that your attention must have been diverted elsewhere, I look towards you again. You appear oblivious to my existence, as you reach inside your jean pocket to retrieve a cigarette packet. So tight are your jeans that you need to arch your back further and rise slightly from your chair to take your fags out. A procedure that leaves me transfixed. I notice that the box has become tattered and worn by rubbing against your thigh, and I am irrationally envious of it. I should go over and bum a cigarette off you, maybe try to start a conversation, but I don't. I know I wouldn't be able to find the right words. What words could there be to express my thoughts right now. So I sit and I watch every movement as you place the cigarette between your delicate, welcoming lips, light it and then close your eyes as you take a long satisfying drag. As you exhale your lips appear to kiss an O of smoke into the bar, and you turn in my direction. A look of satisfied recognition crosses your face when you see that I am watching you and I know that this whole business with the cigarette, has been a performance for my benefit. For the next half hour, no words are exchanged but we are in each others company. Our eyes play a game of cat and mouse where one of us will watch the other for a few seconds and then dart away the gaze is returned. I attempt to rearrange my features to look sensitive and intelligent, yet passionate and masculine. And gradually the moments of eye-contact grow longer and longer, until whole minutes pass before one of us looks away. The barman calls last orders, and a mass of people rush to the bar. I lose sight of you, so I join the maddening press waiting to buy one last drink. For a time the barstaff are overwhelmed and it is ten minutes before I am served. I buy another pint for myself and a whiskey and coke for you. But when I look to where you were sat you are gone. Frantically, I search the room, you are nowhere to be seen and disconsolate I sink onto my seat with the terrible feeling that I think I just fell in love with you.
Barri Garru Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 Nice one Mr Declan. Been there. Sorry to attempt to burst your bubble here but, at the end of the day she's still Fag-ash Lil. I bet she got one of those tacky tattoos on her shoulder or down her back. Branded like.
zephyr Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 Depends what the tattoo is, some are tacky, others are just plain sexy The lighting of a cigarette is one of the most eroric things going, either that or drinking through a straw, it's to do with the pursing of the lips. The sexiest word ever uttered by a woman is Plinth, ask a female to say the word slowly, trust me it is (As nicked from Robert Rankin)
Declan Posted July 3, 2004 Author Posted July 3, 2004 Look! I made her up and she doesn't have a tattoo. OK.
Stavros Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 Look! I made her up and she doesn't have a tattoo. OK. Well you created a pretty good image! Stav.
Declan Posted July 3, 2004 Author Posted July 3, 2004 Cheers guys! When I posted this I was expecting only the ladies to like it and all the fellas to think it was soppy. But only men have replied!
Ripsaw Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 I've got to admit that I don't venture into the "clever" section very often, and heck know's why I did this time.... But I'm glad I did. A brilliant piece of writing there.
zephyr Posted July 3, 2004 Posted July 3, 2004 It's a well known fact that women aren't keen on going down and this section is below waist line
purrrrrrrrrrry Posted July 4, 2004 Posted July 4, 2004 Sorry to attempt to burst your bubble here but, at the end of the day she's still Fag-ash Lil. Got to agree with you there Barri Garru... And it was going so well up until then!
%age Posted November 13, 2008 Posted November 13, 2008 Looking on the bright side, you had an extra drink though.
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