Its Thursday and the struggle begins, to identify the girl that’s down to fuck on the same night. Never my intention, I’m actually sitting at home waiting for my show on Comedy Central to start and my friend starts sending me whatsapp pics of doable girls. So I go over and join her. I don’t know how she does it but she has girls posing and pouting against the bar and she’s sending the pics through and asking me if I’d do them.
So uncouth of her.
Do all of them.
On condition, of course:
3 castles and two tequila shots later, I could do the one with the eye brows that look like she could accidentally wipe them off while taking off her sweater. I take her home, she pulls off her top, I’m expecting boobs, I get an alien with no facial hair. Not fair. My dick goes from hero to zero.
5 castles and three tequila shots later, the one with the hideous weave could get some. I don’t have a main chick at the moment, it’s all side chicks and jump offs in 2014 – meaning, nobody to ask why there are strands of unfamiliar fake hair all over the pillows, the bed, the couch, the carpets, the walls, the kitchen counter, the bathroom and the car bonnet. The single strand of hair is the nemesis of the single man.
8 castles and four tequila shots later, I’m gonna walk over to the bevy of man-less hussies pretending to have a “girls night out”. Huddled around a table, eyes dressing down every dick in the joint, trying too hard to enjoy themselves without “needing a man”. Against my wiser judgement, the alcohol will push me to take one home and then spend the next two weeks avoiding her, avoiding unknown caller-id’s, avoiding this joint, avoiding all public places and women in general.
10 castles and ten tequilas later, I’m whispering loudly at the waitress, “Saka sistaz wanga wati chii paya paya?”