Adventures in Evasion

This having been the day when Cupid pulls back and unleashes his volley of arrows upon the unarmed masses, I'm choosing to delve into my own personal treasure trove of romantic folly, for your amusement. Fret not, for there shall be no mention of the more notorious instances.

This full frontal assault on innocent civilians shall wreak a horribly beautiful kind of havoc. Some folk will have been struck cleanly, a piercing blow leading to a lifelong romantic entanglement. Others may not have been so lucky. There will have been mortal wounds. An arrow splintering on entry, devastating the recipient of its pointed glory (OK, so I'm aware that's treading down a very fine line of accidental pornographic intent so I'll pull out now....er....that too could have been worded better) resulting in a decisive tear to the heart. Others, perhaps the lucky ones in the short term, will have been dealt merely a glancing blow. Perhaps they should get a room, and they probably shall, for their fleeting fun shall entertain in its brevity. The lucky scamps! What follows, however, shall be the tales of a man struck moronic by his overriding stupidity in the face of such wars of the heart.

Of course, you already knew that. I am after all, a renowned imbecile. Some instances already live in infamy. These trials being lesser known, yet possessing no shallower indictment of my foolishness. Let's crack on shall we, kids?

It began, as so often such social car crashes do, with alcohol. Alcohol and music. And sweat. There was a distinct smell of sweat. Man, I could almost taste it. And as you're about to read, I very nearly ended up doing just that. At a "rock bar" with relatively trusted amigos (I say "relatively", as the majority of this trust sees me accept that they shall be my downfall), I soaked up the atmosphere (and the stench of perspiration. Did I mention that?). To the jukebox they went, with my trust to select some decent notes, leaving me to romance my beer. Adoring words were lavished, while it remained steadfast in its silence to me. Then arrived my new friend, a Frenchman. His name I cannot recall, so I shall dub him Jacques. He looked like a Jacques.

Jacques: "Uh....excuse me? Can I....sit here?"

Drunk In Training: "Yeah, work away man"

Jacques and his compadres took residence at our large table. Ample space. Pleasantries were exchanged in the broken English of men who could just as well have been raised in Broken England (stolen joke, yup). Eventually, with the return of my pair of jokers, we had ourselves a dual nationality posse of sorts. In time, I and Jacques were lost in conversation, when things took an unexpected turn. The overly tactile nature of his companionship had raised my eyebrows. It was growing clear to me that the legs he wished to nibble upon were not those of a frog. Finally, he made certain his intent:

Jacques: "Uh....would it be OK, if I were to....uh....have your number?"

D.I.T.: -with panic scarcely disguised by over exuberant tones- "Yeah, sure man!"

Ah, maybe he's just being really friendly. No harm. I'm imagining the romantic sub-plot.

Jacques: "You know, we could....uh....hang out, when friends are not with us.....uh....get coffee? Is this OK?"

Fuck. Let him down gently.

D.I.T.: "Yeah, of course. Sounds cool with me, man!"

What did I just say!? Why would I not just listen to myself!? Oh right, the idiocy. Anyway, eyes widened with barely contained fear in the face of awkwardness, I took possession of his phone, and entered my name and digits as appropriate. I gave him a false number. It was the best escape route available in light of my earlier choices in conversation. Sadly, I had not done so deliberately. I requested his phone once more, and inputted the number correctly. Wow. Smooth.

Jacques: "Um....we go outside now?"

Fuckity fuck. Alright, he wants to be alone with you outside, so as he may make his move. Be firm, yet polite ("Firm", not the wisest word selection once more) and let him know you are attracted to those of a more breastly nature.

D.I.T.: "Me and you? Sure, yeah."

At this point, my mind killed itself.

Jacques: "No, me and my friends. We go."

Thank fuck for that. I'm a polite man. Bizarrely accommodating. Really, you do not want to know just how far I would go to make sure I do not disappoint. I am loathed to let people down. I will, evidently, go to great lengths to placate out of some misguided notion of social niceties. One day this could land me in great despair. Kissing out of politeness? Apparently always on the cards with me. I fear I shall eventually meet a mostly loathsome woman, yet kindly consent to a polite kiss. A polite date shall follow. Sex will be remarkably polite. The marriage likewise. And we shall raise children in a house of thinly concealed resentment, barely hidden beneath a veneer of yet more politeness. And then I shall kill myself. The suicide note will be remarkably apologetic for any inconvenience I have caused. The epitaph shall read "killed by kindness".

As you'd imagine, the next while was fraught with fear and apprehension every time my phone rang. Then, one week on to the day, an unknown caller gave rise to mild panic. What ruse can clear me from this terror? An accent! Sorted. Just so long as I don't try to use an atrocious approximation of a French accent, a false pattern of speech is the way to go to throw Jacques off my trail.

Sober Idiot In Training: "'allo? Can I 'elp you?"

Really? A French accent? Seriously? I was dumb as a post. Not that I've improved of course. Luckily, it was not him. To this day, he has not called. It's been the bones of a year. Sometimes, I weep for him. What a tease!

Of course, there was another instance of overwhelming disgrace. This being more recent, and concerning a person of gender more agreeable to my predilections. I'll skip the foreplay of the story, and skip right to the spine of things. Amazonian she were, in my eyes. Tall, with physical strength I suspected could snap me in half, and a ravenous glint in her eyes that could stop a gazelle at a hundred paces. She had taken a liking to me it would seem. Kindly, I had, being at the bar ahead of her, offered to purchase a drink on her behalf. Her eyes widened with desire, while her mouth hung loose with surprise at such a small gesture.

The hunt was on.

I did as one would reasonably expect of me, and ran. There was also hiding. Behind furniture, people and in the shadows of darkness. Three times she caught me. The first such occasion brought a warning shot. A warning grind, rather. On the edge of the dance-floor, frozen in fear, I was pinned against a wall as she did her thing. My pelvis was in danger of being ground to dust. All I could hear was white noise. All save for the cheers of a friend who was well positioned to witness my plight. I shot a despairing glance in his direction. His eyes met mine and seemed to wordlessly echo his earlier advice to me-

"Go for it. She looks like she'd kill you during sex, but you'd probably die happy."

I resumed hiding once free from her assault. When next she divined my location, she continued her attempts by once more "flirtatiously" knocking her bottle down on top of mine. She had misjudged her own strength. My drink's vessel shattering in my hand. I stared at it in shocked wonder. My lady slinked away. She did not approach me anew til night's end.

Cornered. Only a giggling fellow who had passively watched the unfolding scenes for nearby company. Third time's the charm.

Lady: "Do you think I could have your number? We can meet up and hang out. Go to the cinema or something? See how it goes?"

Things followed more or less the same path as with Jacques beforehand. Number yielded, I realised just how shit a spy I would make. She began to interrogate me as to its veracity. The following minute lasted for hours. Nothing could assure her as to its reality. No coverage meant that calling my phone was bringing no proof. Drunk me made an impulsive decision as to how best to quieten my would-be paramore.

When I withdrew my face from hers, after what could only have been fleeting seconds, I was coated in saliva. She had even licked my chin. My facial hair dripped. Perhaps a result of my quick backing away when her tongue tasted my stomach acids.

Supposed Man: "That might be my real number."

I winked and strutted away.

Supposed Man: -to bemused cohort- "I did two stupid things. I think I just turned down sex. Worse, I gave her my real number."

Her eyes met mine across the emptying pub floor. I ran. Literally. It was another low point.

Now, I have since been informed that she remembers things a little differently. In her version, I being the aggressor come out far more masculine in my actions. I pursued her relentlessly. She asked to be my friend. At this point I cocked an eyebrow and with authority and heavy bass in my voice acted as follows:

Man As Alleged By Lady: "Friends!? I'll show you friends!"

As I took her in my arms, biceps glistening in the moonlight, the suddenly present wind machine blew my shirt open. My long, flowing locks tossed by the breeze. I dipped her extravagantly as I passionately ravished her lips with mine. A cad strikes once more.

Following on from this night I undertook a new strategy of blatant cowardice. I ignored her texts in the middle of a few nights over the next seven days. So long gentlemanly flourishes. Welcome to the new Deebs as he is now viewed. A man scared of women. Yet, I disagree. I do not fear women, nor female contact in any form. I've just allowed my distaste for letting people down to mutate to the point whereby I back away from confrontation until wholly necessary. It's not a viable option. Nor is it who I used to be. I never broached such lows as this conduct, yet scarcely was my behaviour better. I shant allow such veering from my usual instincts again though.

Form a queue ladies, he's single.

Ladies?

Anyone?

Jacques?