On our first night we try a little gutter game. The sun has set but the streets are still buzzing. We get refused entry to a teenybopper bar because a chode pub crawl company has commandeered the whole bar. A snotty tart organising it nearly gets punched off Tom but while it’s not the greatest emotional control I’ve ever seen at least the anger gets our state up. We head to the bridge and start pinging girls.
There’s a solo South Korean taking photos. Tom sidles over and opens. It’s a good hook. She’s on her last day, by herself touring Europe. We inquire whether she likes adventure, whether she likes the anonymity of travelling alone where “anything can happen.” Ten minutes later we are in a strip bar with her, escalating. Her verbals are all no-no-no but she’s taking the physical escalation like a trooper. She’s not so hot, a six. Young.
Tom and I just keep hammering it, looking at each other and chuckling as we bring out all our cheesy gambits. Yes, she’s a hamster. No, she’s not dated an English guy. Yes, she is a rebel. No, she’s a good girl. etc etc etc. It’s like watching an SDL on 4x fast forward. We’re amazed its getting as far as it does. After the beer we take her to look at the strippers. She likes the one on the right, she answers. Better legs, sexier dance. Fuck it, 45 minutes in we pull the trigger and walk her 50m to our apartment.
She won’t come in. So two steps back, walk her to the main square to take photos. Tom’s playing with her hands, I’m “driving” her using her shoulders. She’s still accepting all the physical escalation. We are starting to believe she might be corraled into a spit roast and then……. pop! Her brain fuzz clears and the shutters slam down. No, she won’t kiss me. No, she won’t put her hand on my dick. And no, she won’t come back to the apartment.