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| Dollface |
Ah, the city centre on a match night. How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways: the roided-up Valley boys with cropped t-shirts and arms like hams; the perma-tanned girls with ironed hair and shoes that need re-heeling; sexual aggressors who find it appropriate to grope and maul like they're about to purchase you; and pavements slick with trodden-in potato and curry sauce.
Nevertheless, a friend needed cheering up and had instructed me with the task of finding her a ripped Australian, and who am I to turn down a challenge that is paid for in wine?
So. Lipstick applied, perfume liberally squirted, hair teased and tousled to within an inch of its life. Operation Find A Friend A Fuck was in full swing.
Taxi called, arrived, and in I go. I always make an effort to be pleasant rather than silent, and try to avoid the Peter Kay sketch school of conversation (“so…been busy? What time are you on until?”). I begin to indulge in chit-chat with the driver, who I notice is far too big for the car. No matter, I just pityed his knees and kept on talking.
The conversation quickly moved onto drunken louts on a Saturday night, and how irritating and tiresome it must be as a driver to have to take said louts home when they don't know their left from their right and seem quite content to allow the contents of their stomach to soak into the seats.
His language started getting rather aggressive at this point – “those fucking idiots”, “fucking shit-faced twats” – and I found myself straightening up in my seat. Now, those who know me know I'm not easily scared. That's not a “I'm nails, me” statement, it's just the fact that I deal with angry, aggressive people on a near enough daily basis and cope just fine. I'm not confrontational, am generally very calm and will always find a good way out.
Still. Being in a confined space with a man who could easily overpower me should the need arise wasn't my idea of a good time. Well, wait…
Normally? The thought of being in a confined space with a man who generally has the kind of demeanour that suggests 'I could snap you like a fucking twig, you filthy whore!' is my idea of a good time. I actively seek these encounters, amazing times are had, I have wank material for weeks.
Still, no wanking to be had as the journey continued. I got the guy's life history, the deaths of people he knew, his flashbacks from his military background. How he picked up a particularly difficult fare from an affluent area of my hometown and threatened him until the man was near enough in tears, and said that the only thing stopping him from striking him was the fact that once he started, he wouldn't stop “until that fucker stopped breathing”.
Oh, and then I got the “your type” (i.e. females) going into town, getting blind drunk and ending up raped, which was partly their when they dress in such a way. It was barbed, and given that I was in a knee-length black dress, misguided at best.
At this point, we were about ten minutes from my destination and frankly I was seriously considering the stop, drop and roll approach. Ripped stockings be damned.
To cut a long story short, I thought it would be in my best interests to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible (likelihood of him murdering me? Slim, but I'm not going to stay in an uncomfortable situation any longer than what is strictly necessary), so a quick “actually, could you please drop me off here?”, swift mental note of his driver's number (reported) and keep-the-change moment later, I was freezing my extremities off outside an old man pub and calling my friend to scrap our original meeting place and could she please hurry the fuck up.
The experience, whilst unpleasant, made little impact on the rest of the night. I drank far too much wine (surprising, I know), danced until my feet hurt, and did actually find my friend a fuck (I'm just a natural pimp, or very persuasive).
What the experience did do, however, was make me consider the importance of context. As aforementioned, I'm rather fond of aggressive men. Military background? Even better; I'll wank about shotgun fellatio. But the wrong context will have me visibly bristling and looking for viable exit points.
I reported him to the company. I'm not particularly shaken by it – uncomfortable, yes, and I was left more angered by it than intimidated. But the thought of him picking up another lone female, one not so used to confrontation, and intimidating the shit out of her did not sit well with me.
Aaaanyway. I do hope that the next time I'm confronted with an aggressive man who's criticising the way I dress that I'll be rubbing one out for weeks later. Likelihood? High…
| 8 Nov 10, 5:46 PM Quiller UK, 20 mths |
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-VCqAjYO3NM | |
| 8 Nov 10, 8:34 PM little_imp UK(BN), 3 yrs  |
I've nothing much to add to the obvious 'that's a shit thing to happen', but - my sympathy, and yes, context really is everything - I feel your irony. "WHORE!!" | |
| 8 Nov 10, 9:24 PM Furry_Wolf UK(BN), 2 yrs  |
Well done you for dealing with it how you did. You are everything that is right about the best kind of the worst kind of girls (ask imp - that's meant as a compliment, I'm just shit at them). | |
| 11 Nov 10, 4:03 PM little_imp UK(BN), 3 yrs |
It's true, he is!
"WHORE!!" |
