"Did he really just lick his lips at me?"
I am currently drinking my usual skinny latte with an extra shot chilling outside Balans in Soho until my jaw suddenly hits the floor. A guy, not old with a big Santa’s belly which normally would have been hanging over his brown dirty cord trousers, but a cute young boy is staring directly at me. I actually stop for a moment and think, should I go over, say hey. Until he does the unthinkable, he actually starts to lick his lips at me. I repeat lick his voluptuous pinkie-red lips at me. I know this is Old Compton street but this is Tuesday afternoon not Friday night G.A.Y on a bender with £1.65 drinks. No more hellos or facebook searching just full-blown sexual body language.
As my thoughts spin round and round in my head I begin too realize I am staring back. The guy actual thinks he has pulled. He is slowly walking towards me. I feel like running too the hills or at least too the opposite side of the street. What do I say? I can’t deal with any more weirdoes after Lazy eye guy.
My friend Maria sat across from me is kicking my legs so hard I feel slight lump coming up. Shouting, “go on, go on”. ‘Can’t be a virgin of 2011 forever”. True, but no, this is not how I plan too meet my number 6 Regent Park town house perfect husband, sitting on a plastic chair, drinking cheap wine, listen to Madonna for the 400th time. I realize this is not going to happen, I quickly stand, I feel my body shaking, a rush of blood goes straight to my head, I grab Maria’s body pulling her towards me, I kiss her on the lips, I go in for a proper tongue snog. However Maria quickly throws herself off and screams so loud even my 90-year-old Nana backs up in Manchester can hear her. I should feel insulted, but it did the trick, the guy walked off. Thinking I was a raving lunatic rather than I was straight. I quickly down my skinny latte and me and Maria head off up towards Oxford circus, secretly kicking myself for my lack of confidence.
