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Evening

I hate to say it, I am a little disappointed in myself this week. After all the excitement a fantastic week of lash and shagging had brought to my last blog post, consider this it's evil twin. Terrible.

Tuesday started off for me poorly. I had to explain to my line manager why I was not physically capable of replying to any of her texts from the day before. I didn't particularly want to say that it was because I spent all day shagging the girl one promotion below her, so I told her that it was because I was too ill from a week of hard boozing. Partly true, I did feel rough. Rugby that evening was a laugh, the guys were getting ready for the national semis and finals the coming weekend, and we chatted about shagging co-workers. An issue I feel strongly about (you should do it).

Wednesday and Thursday were two of the worst days in my, admittedly short, working life. In at 7 on Wednesday, out at 9, in at 8 on Thursday, out at 10. Really shit all round. In better news, Jaron was planning on coming down from New York to get smashed the next day, which made Friday go a bit quicker. I told my boss I was taking the afternoon off, to make up for the extra hours I put in. She let me go at 4. She pays me no favours even though I'm fucking her. What a joke.

Go for a run, before meeting Jaron at the station. Bring him back here and we hit it hard. 2 hamburgers, 6 coronas and a quarter of a bottle of gin each, and we hit the town. The first Friday of every month in this town is meant to be a big night, bars stay open till 4, and people are out in force. Tanked up, we leave the flat at around 11. Some thing's wrong, did we miss the big party? It just looked like a regular Friday. This didn't hold us back however. Nailed some gins and a couple of pints in a couple bars. The cheeky Peter Hunter, I'm looking to growl smile, was on my face, and I wanted to make the most of it.

I have no issue with approaching girls. Seriously, I don't care, I can just go up to girls and start chatting, it bothers me very little. Normally what I say is utter shit and I get blown off (not in the good way Robin!) However, my issue is, if you are out drinking with one other guy, and he a) has a bird back in England b) doesn't understand consequence 5s/can't fathom why you'd play, I get put on a downward spiral, stuck in shit chat with a bloke. I like Robin, don't get me wrong, but when I drink one on one, I like to feel challenged. Take this exchange for example:

Peter: Mate, should I go chat to those birds?
Jaron: Why? They're rough
Peter: So? It will be funny. (I wink at one and beckon her over, with limited success)
Jaron: Nah, lets move on this place is shit
Peter: Say I'm a shit lad unless I do it. (It's starting to get awkward because I think they're expecting me to do more than just wink, but they are hideous)
Jaron: No, stop being a dick
Perter: Call me a fucking shit lad!
Jaron: No!
Peter: You are so disappointing.

The girls left. I'm left scratching my head as to why I have to be told I'm a shit lad before I'd do something I quite wanted to do anyway, and I feel like a dick for winking in a bar at two whales. We move on. Now we get to this place, 22-25 year olds outside smoking: check. Loud music coming from a dance floor: check A nice piece of growl walking out in a miniskirt: check. This is where we are heading, I'm excited. Start chatting to this bloke outside, who assures us we are going to get 'some serious ass with our accents'. We have lift off. I walk in, get IDed by the massive bouncer. That's OK, I had my passport. Jaron doesn't. I am fuming. There is excellent growl to be had on the other side of glass door, I'm allowed in, it's frustrating, but Jaron is pissed and doesn't know where he is.

After trying to sneak him in, unsuccessfully, we shamelessly walk back up the stairs, past all the people we were chatting to and move on. To the bar I always go to. One last gasp effort for some growl. I am fuming, not so much at Jaron, but because the bouncer didn't accept a British driving license off some one who's 28 as acceptable ID. (Robin, when you come, remember this, although you probably won't get IDed, you old noshface) Head into the bar. Sit at the bar, order a drink off the barman, Rich. Chat to him a bit. The other barman Dan, mixes us some shots and nails a couple with us. Vaguely good bit of growl next to me, so I give it a whirl. Turns out she's Rich's ex girlfriend. I'm not particularly bothered by this as I don't know rich, and she has particularly good tits. Actually going pretty well. In the land of the free, you know this when they say they like your accent. A great opportunity to play up on it and make a few gags. Jaron gives her some art chat (apparently she's an artist, this went over my head). The bar shuts, so we move on to the private members club, where everyone is a member, (it doesn't cost anything, you just write your name down as you go in). See a couple guys playing what looks like curling but in a bar, and the things you throw glide on sand on a bit of wood. Intriguing. Ask the guy if I can have a throw, he lets me. Just before I throw, I turn back to him and have another look at his T-shirt. Probably the best thing I've ever seen:

It's got the BP logo on it and underneath has the caption: BP, brining oil to American shores. Amazing. I look around the bar. There's the bird I was chatting up talking to Jaron. There's the blonde bird from last week. I head over. She's sober (again) and not offering too much. Still find a corner and pull her. But stop as I know she's sober and won't let me growl so I focus on the other one.

The bar shuts, we are kicked out. It's 4:30. Walk outside. Some American twat says to me: 'buddy stop putting on that fake British accent.' I reply: 'oh hello kind sir, I'm actually doing this as I am working on a new film project where I need to be British'. His reply: 'You're a dick. I don't talk to people over 25% body fat anyway". He high 5s his mate. My reply:"so why are you talking to her?" I then point at his bird. Looking back it was not so clever. Jaron and I grab the bird from the bar and run 1/4 of a mile, but he never chased us. On the way back, we stop off at hers, meet her housemate who has brought back a bloke. Her chat of I don't want to hear them fuck is obvious game. We go back to mine. On the way back she tells us how she is being pursued by 5 men. She shows us the messages. They are all along the lines of: You're really hot, why don't you like me ect.

To me it was obvious what needed to happen-be a twat. I basically just ignored her everytime she asked if I thought she had a nice arse (she did). Jaron got sucked into the trap. I had to hold him back and tell him to stop complimenting her as it will ruin it for both of us (he was convinced we'd have a threesome, I knew we weren't, as given the text messages, she struck me as a real game-player who is all chat). He continually reminded me this was not his style. I planned to have words the next day. Get back to mine, pour 3 gins. Sit in my living room drinking. Jaron goes to bed. She says: 'I'm tired too, where am I sleeping?' 'My room'. Drag her along, get into bed and start pulling. Get her tits out, they are amazing. perfect size and really pert (especially as she's 30) She rolls over and says: 'can we just cuddle?' 'No, I want to growl you out'. I chuck her thong off and growl her. She noshes me off. We eventually pass out about 6:30.

Wake up about 12 the next day, she's naked. I have rugby shorts on. She asks me why I'm not, and I swiftly apologise and take them off. She didn't like this. She liked it even less when I tell her I lied about my age, I'm not actually 26, I'm 24. I figure bring her down gradually, another 2 more steps of one year each should do the trick. She jumps out of bed, has an amazing body, face is about a 6. She gets dressed and heads to my dresser where my passport is and picks it up. I jump up and snatch it off her and tell her I'd drive her home. Get her home.

I feel it appropriate to tell you at this point I give this girl 1 on my new scale of rating birds- the binary scale. Birds can either be a 1 or a 0. 1=you would, 0=you wouldn't. Simple, effective, everyone is always on the same page.

Head into Philly for the first time. It's a bit ghetto. Cheesesteak, however is one of the best things I've ever eaten. I can still taste it now. 100% pure beef, melted cheese and fried onions on a footlong roll. I have 2. Our friend Nigel (who owns a sweet shop) would have been in heaven. Pure meat and grease. The record holder is 13 in an hour. Nige could beat this, I'd back him. See the liberty bell and independence hall, but didn't really care because of my hangover. Didn't even find the rocky steps. Grab a beer with Jaron and his mate who's showing us around, before getting the train back at 9.

Thinking we'd get on it back at home, Jaron decides he wants to watch a film and go to bed. A fucking poor choice, although I didn't complain too hard as I was in a world of pain.

Sunday comes, we get some brunch. Fairly good bit of growl serving us, so we give her some chat. Leave my number on the bill but yet no phone call.

Take Jaron back to the station. My rugby club has made the national finals, and it's showing in the bar where I met the girl on Friday night. I don't want to go back there as her ex is apparently still massively keen. I decide to watch it online at home, and leave it a week or so. My team are winning 17-10 with 4 minutes to play the other team score, convert. Extra time. End up losing by 2 tries, heartbreaking. I would have then been able to claim that I won national championships in Germany and the USA and as such my talents know no bounds- I would have won national champs in 2/6 continents (not counting antartica). I'll settle for second though.

Sunday evening get a phone call off a woman named stacy. I have put myself forward to do some coaching over the summer for some kids (genuine hero). Thinking I'd get the under 12/13s, Stacey informs me they are looking for a new coach for the under 19 girls. Thank you stacey. I know rugby girls (especially the forwards) may not sound the most appealing, but I'm banking on the back 3, scrum half, fly half and possibly the centres to be of decent ilk.

Monday was hell at work. Firstly, the E-mails were in full flow. Jack broke up with cuntface. (I feel a little harsh naming her this now, but that was the blog name I gave her, so I'm sticking to it) We obviously told him to man the fuck up and hit a strip club, talk to birds about it so we don't need to and to start shagging around (I swear!). I was, again, in work until 10pm.

This coming weekend I am heading up to NYC where my mate Chad 'big guy' Stephens will meet me at midday, before watching the first England world cup game vs. USA, which should be good fun. Big guy is a good lad to have as a one on one drinking buddy as he is up for consequence 5s, and gets pissed as fuck. We are yet to book anywhere to stay, but I am strongly considering not, and having a session from 1pm right into the next day if needs be. Again though, as it's one on one drinking, I can't go off for growl. Or could I? Find out next week.

Happy hunting

Peter
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