The British Dude

1 Jul

When I was twenty years old, I was attending a private women’s college in the middle of Missouri.  I was cute and optimistic, drove a Lexus, had a fake ID, and was basically the type of college kid I would want to smack today.  My friends and I went to bars all the time and boys from the university would clumsily attempt to pick us up.  I never reciprocated their advances because I had been in a series of serious relationships for the past four or five years of my life (most of high school and all of college up to that point).

However, the first semester of my senior year, I had just gotten out of a year-and-a-half -long turbulent and detrimental relationship with a former classmate.  All of a sudden, I was single and all too ready to take full advantage of my newfound freedom.  One night early in the school year, my friends and I went to this sports bar that we had been known to frequent.  Next to our table was a raucous group of British guys, who, at the insistence of one of my friends, joined our group.  I began chatting with a young chap from London named Jack, who was doing a semester abroad.  I’m not even going to change his name because that is one of the only things I remember about him- it was seven years ago and I had undoubtedly imbibed multiple gin and tonics at this point in the evening.  I also remember him being extremely attractive, in addition to having a charming accent.  My friend suggested I bring him back to my apartment to hang out with us further (we all lived in the same building).  I had never picked up a guy in a bar before.  I didn’t know the protocol for this procedure, but I had definitely taken a liking to this rugby-shirted individual.  He ended up walking back to my apartment with me, where we discovered our shared love of The Streets (I really liked them in college, it’s true).  My curious friend joined the party for a bit… and then you can probably assume what happened next.

The next morning, we got up and he offered to buy me some tacos from Taco Bell on the way back to his dorm.  Best morning-after modus operandi still to this day.  For whatever reason, months earlier, I had stuffed two Cadbury eggs in a balloon and tied it to my rearview mirror so it looked like a scrotal sack (which is a really good word to use when playing Hangman, by the way).  I didn’t even think twice about my “balls” because I was so used to them hanging there, but Jack cupped them in his hand and asked “What’s this, Love?”  I wanted to roll him up and eat him like a burrito, he was so cute.

We enjoyed a chalupa-fueled final moment together, I dropped him off at his dorm, and never saw him again.  He’s probably married somewhere in Europe with gorgeous, blonde, rugby-playing babies.  I guess I really missed the boat on that one!

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