I met a woman the other day who changed my perspective on
the entire world. My first female crush.
Let me tell you the story.
It was a dusky, smoky evening. The smell of
my pink Blossom Hill and
bloated, farty tradesmen floated about the Wetherspoons on Broad Lane.
I’d gone out
with four boys for a friend’s birthday, a
male:female ratio I was not
previously anticipating, and was failing under the pressure to join in on the “macho”
conversation.
After the fourth discussion about gym tactics and how to
retain perfectly soft hands irrespective of the weight you PUMP HARD, my eyes were beginning to droop. I pined to join in
with those people whom I usually silently mock: the three female, older than
necessary, 'dancers' who had found positive euphoria from flapping their bingo wings to 90's classics whilst everyone else sat the hell down in the pub.
A prime example of the saying: just because you can do
something, doesn’t mean you should.
Whilst watching the jirating hips of female #1, her muffin
top pulsating through the folds in her
Jane Norman sequined t-shirt, she suddenly stopped
dancing, panting with dog-like enthusiasm and looked somewhat...nervous. A quiver formed in her foot and ran up her leg to her left pitted buttock, visible to the world through her
see-thru leggings.
She had spotted something – something which scared and excited
her whilst simultaneously devouring her ability to dance. Something magical.
I peeled my eyes away from the shudder-inducing thong line under her leggings and looked around in anticipation. What could possibly remove the urge to bootyshake from these wrong-side-of-forty women?
And
then I knew.
I felt her before I heard her. Clicking shoes vibrated on the sticky wooden floor. The sound of someone who did not belong here. The sound of... one classy bird.
She tapped her way in unison to 'Don't Call Me Baby', her path progressing ruthlessly towards our table. She was too far away to see clearly so I slipped a look at the dancers. The buttock was still quivering, though the rest of the lady was pretending that all was back to full form and proceeded to waggle her index finger at her long suffering boyfriend whilst mouthing the words: 'y'know I don't belong to you.'
But she couldn't keep my attention for long.
A blue dress came into focus, followed by dark, chocolatey skin. The skin that she had on view was glossed, like someone had poured honey over her, lapping over her décolletage, streaming down her arms, forming thick sweet puddles on the tips of her elegant fingers.
She came close to our table. Even the genuine gym freaks had stopped talking protein at this point and a sensitive silence fell.
She swung streaks of dairy milk hair with a flick of her neck and smiled. We all gormily smiled back, buck-teethed and salavia-ery.
Then, after carefully judging the lack of females and silently noting her affect on the males, who had began tightening their grips on their beers in a hopeless attempt to flex, she stared directly at me with those
midnight grey, starry eyes and said:
'ALRIGHT bab, you lot getting f*cking trollied are ya?! We am getting some shots if ya wanna join like?'.
The Birmingham accent that came out of her mouth received the same jaw-slamming shock which would have come if she'd have opened her gob and a
big swinging ball sack had popped out.
But my god,
she was still magical.
And that is when I had a lesbiany lovely love.
The end.
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