Fellas, it's not like we can help it. It's like we're wired to focus on the physical stuff, whether it's getting into a scrap or getting into bed, especially if there's a cracking girl in the mix. Our minds just start wandering, we'll follow a nice pair of legs off a cliff. But don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean we're stupid, it's just that we don't always think two steps ahead.
It's like it's in our DNA, innit? Doesn't matter if you're some high-flying politician, a holy padre, or just a regular bloke like me -- the moment you spot a short skirt, your mind starts sprinting off to places it shouldn't. It crosses all sorts of boundaries, from social status to race to your job. We're all in the same boat, really. Strange comfort in that, don't you think?
A quick glance around the room shows the usual setup, my mates' laughter echoing faintly as the Sunday night blues settle in like a heavy fog. Three days off work gone in a flash, and tomorrow it's back to the grind. The party's in full swing, bodies swaying to some indie track that probably peaked last week. Should be having a blast, but for some reason, it's just not hitting the mark.
It's not a total drag, but honestly, I reckon I'd have been better off just chilling back home.
I'm only here 'cause Jeff, my mate, wouldn't stop pestering me until I agreed to come along. 'Anything can happen,' he says. Yeah, right. Except now, I'm bored out of my skull. As the music fades and the chance of any excitement dwindles, I'm almost ready to call it a night.
But then, I spot her.
It's the way the light glints and glitters off the rings on her fingers, that caught me eye. She looks a bit of a girly girl with black painted nails, her hands weaving stories of their own as she talks. Long, black, and glossy hair, that's bouncing with every laugh and toss of her head, a perfect frame for her face and a great smile
A long-sleeve black and red plaid slipping off her shoulder catches my eye, it 'fits' sure, but you can't tell me it's not a bit snug on her, though I'm not complaining one bit. She either didn't notice or she knows exactly what she's doing. Either way, it's not leaving much to the imagination, it's alright, I'm sure my imagination can fill in the blanks.
And it's not fully buttoned up either, teasing the whole room with a peak of her belly button and suddenly I'm thirsty as anything.
But what really gets me are those legs -- seeming to stretch on for miles all wrapped up in a tiny black skirt. Soft and curvy hips, the kind you just want to grab hold of, you know? And I'll be the first to say it -- she's got a great ass. Forgive me for being a guy, but it's impossible not to notice. Goddamn, I'd be hard-pressed to keep my hands off it, if I had her alone.
She looks a bit shorter than me, but then again, who isn't? Didn't get much from my old man; I take after my mum, except for the height--that's all him, towering over everyone like a human lamppost. Her grin? Infectious, mate, lights up her whole face like she's about to spill some scandalous gossip. And those eyes? Well, I'd love to tell you the color, but she's just far enough away to keep me guessing. But let me tell you about her makeup game--it's on point. Dark eyeliner, not too much, just enough to add a touch of mystery without screaming '80s glam rock.' And those lips? Dangerously tempting, like they're daring you to take a bite. And there she is, looking right at me, grinning like she's got a secret. Straight at me. Giving me a wink--or at least I hope it's for me.
Lucky me, there's not a cliff in sight.
I've been around the block, and hit up more parties than I care to count. When music's coursing through your veins like it does for me, you do two things: crash as many parties as humanly possible, and belt out your tunes for anyone who'll listen. But in all those ragers, I never came across someone like her.
Now, my mates? They're wasting no time taking the mickey out of me, ribbing me for going all wide-eyed over this stunner. But you know what? I couldn't care less, hell, I don't even hear them.
I'm looking for something different, someone I don't mind losing a bit of sleep with or shooting the breeze about my music. The sort of girl where every word I say means something to her, 'cause it means something to me, know what I mean? And those are a rare find.
It takes a bit of legwork, mate, 'cause they don't just fall into your lap. You gotta set your sights on the ones who are in it for the sheer thrill of the party, not just to bag a member of the band. The ones with genuine smiles, living for the music like we do, laughing like they couldn't give a toss who's watching--they're the ones who'll stick in your daydreams.
A girl who's all smiles, laughs, and just embraces herself--now that's attractive, ain't it? One thing's for sure: I gotta figure out her name, and I gotta do it quick before some other bloke swoops in, 'cause I ain't the only one eyeing her up.
I'm not sure how I ended up on the other side of the flat, but here I am, closing in on her. The music's pulsing through me like it's trying to kickstart a heart that's been asleep for too long. I can start to pick out the sound of her voice from the crowd she's with now. And it's not like most girls, all sugary and high-pitched. Nah, it's got this sultry, smoky quality to it. It's like a cat's purr, the hum of an engine, the deep rumble of a bass guitar--all wrapped up in one. It's the kind of voice that could lead a bloke down some dodgy paths with just the right words.
Haven't got a clue what to say to her, but I'm praying I'll come off smoother than I feel, you know? Like Danny Dyer, Richard Ashcroft, or Alex Turner vibes or something. My mind's racing like a runaway train with no brakes, hurtling toward the great unknown. But just when I'm about to make my grand entrance, some git decides to slam the brakes on my progress with a well-timed hand on my shoulder. And who is it? You guessed it -- Jeff. Now, don't get me wrong, he's a decent lad, but he's got a knack for rotten timing, don't he?
"Oi, Ben, what's caught your eye? You seen a ghost or something?"
Suddenly, his arm barrels around me with the force of a sledgehammer, sending me teetering like a drunk on a tightrope. I stumble, trying to regain my footing as Jeff pivots me away, and it takes me a sec to set us right before we go tumbling to the floor in a heap.
Jeff's definitely had a few, lumbering about with all the grace of a drunken stag in a pub garden. He takes a swig of his brew, his eyes darting around the room like he's trying to see through walls. Not keen on being the spectacle of the night, I shoot a nod back to where we came from.
Then, he spots her. Jeff's gaze locks onto her like he's trying to crack a code. With a nonchalant shrug, he gives his two cents:
"Yeah, she's kinda cute."
I do a double-take. Jeff's comment throws me off more than a step--'cute'? Are we even looking at the same girl?
She's gorgeous.
Sure, she might be cute when all snuggled up in blankets in a cozy bed, but that's not exactly what I have in mind.
"You got a chat-up line?"
I ain't got an opening line, and Jeff knows it. He shrugs and smirks, gesturing to our gear in the corner.
"Come on, mate, let's give it a whirl."
I don't get it. 'Give it a whirl?'
What's he on about?
Right here, right now? Just grab my sticks and start banging out a wicked beat like it's all part of the plan? I wasn't planning on performing, but the spark in Jeff's eyes tells me he knows something I don't. It could go two ways: he's either setting me up for a cringe-worthy crash and burn to have a laugh at my expense, or he's lining me up to be the main attraction. With Jeff, you never know for sure.
I've got no clue where this is heading, but I think, 'Sod it,' and just go with the flow. Jeff's got a knack for taking the mickey out of folks, but it's all in good fun. He's never let me down when I needed him to back me up on the dating front. If he chucks me to the wolves, I'll give him a right bollocking he'll remember for ages.
I settle in behind my drum kit, sticks in my hands calming those fluttering butterflies in my stomach. Maybe it's for the best, 'cause I haven't drummed up a decent chat-up line. Jeff throws me a nod as he grabs his bass and starts plucking out a classic Clash tune, the rhythm flowing effortlessly from his fingertips as if he's been playing it since birth. 'Cause, well, he probably has.
My drums kick in, setting the rhythm for the song, letting it chase away my doubts, and soon enough, Pete joins the party with his guitar slung over his shoulder like it was his plan all along. As our music fills the room, drowning out any background noise, all eyes are locked on us -- including a set I still can't quite make out the color of. But they're proper cracking, and I can feel them on me.
She's giving me the once-over, and then some.
Turns out, Jeff's a damn good friend after all.
It's a small gathering, just a bash for no reason at someone's place, and there's no one here who's gonna give us a record deal. But her watching makes it feel like I'm headlining Glastonbury. I notice her foot tapping to my rhythm, hips in sync with my bass drum -- so I decide to throw a bit of swagger her way. I shoot her a cheeky grin, give a nod, you know, do what I can in the moment. She fires back with this minxy smile and a nod. Like I said, she's here for fun, and she's smashing it.
Pete, as usual, dominates the scene with killer guitar riffs and vocals that transform our dinky living room into a jam-packed show. I love Pete, mate. He's a top-notch bloke who's had my back more times than I can count. But as I watch him lead the charge, I can't help feeling a twinge of envy. The guy can belt it out, shred those strings, and the crowd eats it up. Most girls naturally swoon over the frontman -- it's only right. He's front and center, hogging the spotlight for the world to see, they're singing along with him. If he says jump, they jump; if he says scream, they scream. Leaves the rest of us feeling a bit sidelined, and by 'the rest of us,' I mean, well, yours truly.
