Pete would sit by himself at the bar, waiting for women, when he should have been summoning skank. His filtered rollies and thin-rimmed specs gave him the look over-associated with a man who felt morally and intellectually elite; when in fact he was, by self-confession, spiritually bankrupt. Vodka continued to appear at the toss of two coins and continued to disappear in a hard head-nod.
Rob’s night – arguably more successful – would culminate in a filthy ho sucking his cock in order to get free drinks at ‘Les Bar’ – the pub he worked at, though the lemon-twist on this bartender’s tale would be to tell that he owned the place. That vital lie of ownership would surely see whoever’s face sink from former eye-to-eye, to a place just south of the waist; where she’d set up camp in his already-pitched denim tent.
John’s ploy was to toy with a woman. Generally there was a direct co-relation between the swell of her breasts and the well in her head. He didn’t mind about the brain; what that left behind was made up in behind; blessed with a dress to confess that such a sweet and neat cushion was for his kind of pushing – John like big ol’ titties and a big ol’ ass. He’d engage in a conversation regarding his supposed forte, that of music. His musings were amusing, if nothing more. Steering the conversation ruggedly, as one would a diesel, column-change 4WD Hilux, he’d pause momentarily to flutter around pop, hip-hop over to rock, flunk into funk, cruise past jazz, tip-toe around classical, take the plunge into punk, surge full-beam on into Heavy Metal, always digress and that’d be enough to generally impress any Long Tall Sally with his immense knowledge of nothing. It was a sad song for Pete to listen to or see – but sure enough another of his mates had wooed a dumb bitch to her knees…
Brent spent next to no time working the singles. Born with silver tongue, rose-tinted glasses, golden ego – but most importantly, a bronze cock – he’d wangle his way into an already existing duo – any couple would do – then dangle his tackle and await with bait on the hook. A look was enough from this wannabe gangster – a chick would ditch whatever fella had just fell for her and hitch up with Brent. This sent fury – with overnight bags packed with rage – dancing down the spine of whatever swine had formerly thought to have caught onto the vine. The wine in Brent’s system made him happy to have a go at the irate primate.
And John and Rob were always happy to throw a punch any day. And why not – their bitches had had a salty crunch of liquid lunch – they’d already got their ends away.
Pete sat drinking lemon, lime and bitters – sobering up at an alarming rate. He hated nights out but was painted into the proverbial, so as to always be with the same three loud louts.
He felt more useless than tits on a bull. About as wanted as herpes in a whorehouse and a bigger scapegoat than the one-legged man that turned up – unknowingly – at a bum-kicking party.
22 – a bitter old man – by mates’ admission – and alone at the bar again. Pete sat wondering when his luck might change, might re-arrange itself into a taut, trim 36-24-36 kind of thing? He didn’t want to resort to flings but was sick of being The Bitter Old Man.
Three years down the track, it did change for Pete. The other three carried on along their carved marble glory path of boozing, cruising, and seldom loosing.
And still alive, at 25, the Bitter Old Man met an auburn-haired beauty – named Kate. She was great. She’d been around the block a bit; had a lovely smile, offset by a glorious pair of eyes. She, younger than he, had decided to calm her life down. And Pete, so it seemed, was the clown of her dreams. He made her laugh, he said clever things, like: “imagination is better than intelligence” and “fortune befriends the bold”. To her it mattered not that such sayings were old, re-cycled from the lid of a cigarette pouch. She liked him, then teased him; then loved him, then pleased him. Finally the bitter old man, at the ripe age of 25 found a peach that he could eat.
She became his first – but only – sexual conquest, because by fate’s request he later died of a big disease with a little name. The facts remain:
As soon as you can start you should begin – no matter how rude or crude, because nice guys – for Pete’s sake – never win.