Dating Disaster, or The Girlfriend's Lament


(An exercise in alliteration)

That barefaced bastard Bodie? Hah! He's had it. History.

Am I Angry? Absolutely.

Hurting? Heartsore? Hardly.

Watch me wave a fond farewell, and file him under fleeting fling.

He never looked like one to linger. Love 'em, leave 'em... Lousy -

How'd I meet him? Same old story: struck it lucky down the disco.

Saw him standing in the shadows--a blue-eyed beauty, butch and brooding--sipping something smooth... and smiling. He saw I'd seen him, sauntered over, pick-up patter primed and ready.

I looked him over, liked the landscape: prowling predator, louche Lothario; supremely self-satisfied--seriously sexy.

So, smoothly separated (celebrating) from starchy Simon (something stuffy in the City), I--shaky scruples soon subdued--swiftly succumbed.

And was it worth it? I should say so.

Quite a catch, my handsome, hardcase hero: competent, cool, a suave sophisticate dripping with delicious danger (says he's in the Civil Service, but subtly suggests a sinister secret). He poses as the perfect prince of passion; boasts he's unbelievable in bed--and proves his point with peerless prowess. Fields a fund of funny stories. Treats me like a proper princess.

Flattered, fascinated...and blissfully bedded. How could I fail to fall?

All's fine at first. Fantastic frankly. A fortnight full of fun and frolics, fine wines, fabulous food--and fairly frequent fornication.

Practically perfection.

Until his precious partner pops up. Ruddy Raymond--funny, fey- faced fella, been in Brum on business (won't say what, but hints it's hush-hush). And suddenly we're double dating. Dozens of dreary dinners with dear, dear Doyle and his homely harem.

Doyle detests me, it duly develops. I make it manifest it's more than mutual. But Bodie's blissfully oblivious. He dotes on Doyle; practically panting. Raymond reciprocates; pointedly possessive. They forget us females, flirt like fury and I'm subtly sidelined, a grinning gooseberry giggling girlishly (teeth grimly gritted) at the dynamic duo's dashing double act.

Pride piqued, I plot and plan, sift some sneaky schemes and settle on a simple supper. Cosy, candlelit, extremely exclusive and definitely Doyleless.

Lights low, supper simmering (and smelling simply sensational), I'm painted and perfumed, scented and seductive, all ready to rout my rival.

Then the fink phones. Bloody Bodie.

"Sorry sweetheart, dinner's off. The golly's had a spot of bother; gotta go and hold his hand."

Since six I've been slaving over a steaming stove, primping and preening, dressing to impress. I've had it up to here, lay it on the line: "Listen loverboy, last chance to choose: 'golly' or girlfriend, what'll it be?"

The prick.

Predictably he picked his poxy, pixie partner.

-- THE END --

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