I’m stealing a story. Yes. Stealing. Most of my friends do realise that their stories are fair game for my blog. What? Is it my fault that I said it once, years ago, and they’ve forgotten? Pfft. Get over it people.
So. The story.
I had lunch with two girlfriends yesterday and one of them – we shall call her Bridget – told us a tale that I’m sure all women everywhere would nod their heads sagely to in a solemn indication of their own experience. Bridget had been introduced to a worldly and handsome man. No, this isn’t a Jane Austin novel. We shall call him Blockhead. See?
So, Bridget and Blockhead are introduced and they have a nice chat for about ten minutes. In this time Bridget has ascertained that Blockhead is gregarious, rich and handsome, not as smart as she is, but generally a fairly good guy. Blockhead has worked out that Bridget has nice boobies and he would like to squeeze them.
Bridget, feeling amorous after several glasses of champagne, decides to go back to Blockhead’s place. Blockhead is ecstatic that he’s about to squeeze her boobies. Bridget and Blockhead get it on. Bridget isn’t horrified, which, as we know girls, is a wonderful first step. Blockhead actually knew what he was doing. Bridget, being a woman of the world, in charge of her own company, her own children already making their way in the world, doesn’t stay the night.
Bridget and Blockhead meet a few times out socially. Bridget and Blockhead also bone each other a few more times. It’s all good. Bridget has no need nor desire for a relationship and is happy with her booty calls. Blockhead tells her he doesn’t want a relationship and seems unbalanced by her pleasure about this. He needs to sit down.
Blockhead sends Bridget a text in the middle of a meeting. He must see her. Bridget, who is simultaneously dealing with millions of dollars, saving the world, organising her next pilates class, finalising a dinner party for the Governor General and reading bedtime stories to orphans, is annoyed.
Bridget meets up with Blockhead in a fine dining restaurant. She cradles his hand, concerned, ready to tell him that cancer isn’t a death sentence, that his mother will be fine, that brankruptcy is temporary, when Blockhead stares into her eyes (after a quick glance down at her boobies) and says, “Bridget, I’ve met someone, I’m falling in love, I’m so sorry, I hope you’ll be okay.”
Bridget tries her upmost not to guffaw uncontrollably in Blockhead’s earnest face. The urge to explain the definition of booty call to him is high. He’s waiting. Earnestly. For her reply. All Bridget can think about it how badly his nose-hairs need trimming. But she looks forgivingly into Blockhead’s tortured face and assures him she’ll be fine.
“Oh, that’s a relief,” sighs Blockhead. “Of course, you know Bridge, she’s not as good in bed as you are…”