Thursday, 8 September 2011

VILF

Struggling to think of anything sexy to write about, I was just about to make some tea to activate my brain, when three sharp knocks on the front door piqued my curiosity. I hurried to open it, to see framed in the door four people I'd forgotten about temporarily: Robinson, Mane, his gay sailor brother, and looking casual and hanging back a bit, the young raver. They practically dragged me out of the door.

"Give me something sexy to write about," I commanded Mane as we entered the pub. "And don't say sex. Just think of something sexy."
"How about a Japanese girl drummer who looks down?" proffered Mane, leaving me to marvel at how he had recalled a list of things I found sexy from about five years ago. He didn't give me any other ideas, but he did question me about a picture of a towel which appeared to be covered in a red liquid, which I had, of course, casually deposited on Facebook. They all seemed to think it was virgin blood, but I reassured them that I wasn't taking part in any Satanic ritual. And despite having been bitten on the neck, I'm still not a vampire. I did, of course, spin a story involving washing strawberries, but they didn't buy that one. I don't blame them. We all know deep down that it's the blood of my mortal enemy, who I have, eventually, defeated.

"So are you now no longer a MILF virgin?" Robinson asked casually over a pint. I barely had time to ready an answer before I realised he wasn't actually talking to me. I am neither a MILF nor a virgin, so I shouldn't have been so on edge. Maybe it was all this talk of strawberry juice on towels.

"I wasn't one anyway," said the young raver, "but if I was, I would be now."

I, of course, hadn't heard about this. But it didn't take me long to find out that our young raver had been sleeping with a girl of 21, who has a daughter of five years. Were it anyone but him, I'd be slightly worried.

"Besides," said Robinson, "you were only half a MILF virgin beforehand anyway."
"I wasn't in any way a MILF virgin!" protested the young raver.
"It doesn't count if it's your own child," interjected Mane.
"Yes yes, very funny," said the young raver.
"It doesn't count if you pay for it either!"

There was a very pregnant pause.

"€30 for 45 minutes," said the young raver, finally. "That's not such a bad deal, when you think about it."

Everyone went a bit silent.

"It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience," he pressed on earnestly.
"Not for her, it isn't!" burst out Mane, at which everyone dissolved into welcome laughter, any tension having dissipated.

And it got the conversation away from whatever may have been on the towel, at least.

2 comments:

Catharine said...

Your friends are worse than rugby players...

Innocent Loverboy said...

Of course they are. YR is a social worker, for Glod's sake!