Ask me if you can spend five minutes with my boyfriend alone, and be a good looking woman, to leave me at a party where I know not a single soul.
Because you are not in fact asking me. You’re telling me. And you’re actually just telling me to get lost.
This has happened to me twice. This year. Both times with Small Bum.
So women love him. No, women really love him. Small Bum has a large bunch of female friends. Which is ok, since I hang out with more guys than girls. He oozes charm, is sensitive, is an absolute riot, a-good-shoulder-to-cry-on-guy, has a lovely smile to complement the blue eyes, works with lots of women. So they are constantly around. I have got used to this. I deal.
What I will never get used to is royal fucking blatant rudeness.
Both cases were remarkably similar.
The first time was at a birthday party of one of his blonde, angular-jawed colleagues. I knew nobody there. It was at a trendy bar. She sidled up to me, put on a smile and said, “Can I have just five minutes with him? I need some exclusive [Small Bum] time. I am having withdrawels.”
I nearly ate my own foot. Who asks that? Just talk to him for God’s sake. Asking me just makes me feel uncomfortable. I went to the bar. To give them their alone fucking time.
Then, by jove, it bloody well happened again. Friday. House party. Another colleague of his. Sultry Portuguese siren who was so tactile, there was a brief time I thought she was hitting on me and Small Bum simultaneously. She squeezed my bum and told me I was gorgeous, then jumped on Small Bum, her boobs all but pressed into his chest.
Then she said those unbelievable words these colleagues of his seem to thrust from their masticating pie holes: Do you mind if I steal him away for five minutes to chat?
Now I was really stuck. We had arrived late, there were only a few smatterings of human race around this unfamiliar house of hers, and I had no one to talk to. I went and sat on the loo for ten minutes and read a three-year old Marie Claire. Can you fucking handle.
I came back. Oh but her time wasn’t over, see. I sat next to Small Bum, visibly seething because I felt like I was intruding. She then, holy crap, suggested I talk to her boyfriend to amuse myself. Her boyfriend was sitting in a coked out stupor on the floor, obviously his recreation time during movie sets in Hollywood, because he’s a stuntman wanting to make it big over there. I would rather have chatted to Paris Hilton right then. Both have euphemistically challenged intellectual capacity.
I made some excuse for feeling sick and went for a clonky, angry walk down this lonely and deserted street of suburban Melville, wondering whether any of my guy friends would even contemplate asking Small Bum to step aside so that they can chew the phat with me privately. Especially if he knew no one at the party.
Highly fucking doubtful. They don’t need to hit on me like that.
Women can be the pits.
I went home without saying goodbye to her. Small Bum ever apologetic for his friends’ lack of manners. Maybe it’s because of the stilettos I was wearing. Maybe my feet looked hot.
No, Small Bum tells me she has a crush on him. Oh bless. She smsed him yesterday to apologise for her behaviour. Bitch.
PS: I am sick. I have a cold sore the size of Mount Rushmore on my bottom lip - yikes - and the 'flu. Obviously our wild bra-related exploits at Lusitoland have caught up with me. Small Bum bought me some chicken soup, Vitamin C and ginger tea yesterday. And commented on the herpes blister that obscures my face. Because I didn't notice it there already.