When I was a teenager, my mother was always warning me about strangers. So I wonder, should I go out with men I happen to meet on the street? What if they are really axe murderers. Or, just turn out to have very small penises?
Dear Ms Paranoid,
Of course you should. They will probably turn out to be lonely millionaires who will want to marry you and take you on cruises to warm places. Next question!
No, really, Ms Paranoid, I see no reason why you should pick up strangers from the internet or from newspaper ads but NOT from outside the bottleshop. I myself was once on the way to a music venue to pick up (I mean to listen to a band) when a middle-aged, not unattractive man stopped me and asked ‘Do you know of any nice places to eat around here?”. I explained that my home town had been personally UN-recommended by Bill Bryson, the travel writer, who says there is NOWHERE nice to eat in it – and then HE says, well, I don’t like eating alone, would you care to join me?
So I say “Actually, my good man, I’m going to the pub to catch some music.” Ok, he says, can I come too? So we walk to the pub together while he tells me about, of all things, how you make paper. This is because he’s a PhD in applied mathematics and used to work in the paper industry. Is that right? I say, and ‘Fancy that!’ or words to that effect. Ms P, you need never be at a loss for words with a man as long as you have a selection of these short but subtly encouraging phrases. In any case, HE won’t be. AT a loss.
We sit down at a dark table and proceed to flirt. He asks me all about myself. I nearly swoon. Only 1 out of 99 men know how to do this – and I have hit on the one (I mean, he has hit on me).
He tells me how lovely I am and adds that I have a gorgeous body and a sexy walk. More, more! I gasp. He goes from touching the tips of my fingers to putting his hand on my arm to a tentative kiss and then to the full exploratory expedition to the lower larynx. Since I’m a talented kisser, this is just fine by me – but wait, you say. Wasn’t I ashamed to snog so unabashedly in a bar full of people, some of whom might have been my cousins’ best friends?
Well, yes, Ms Paranoid, at this point I did feel a bit downmarket – especially as Mr Pickup is now fondling my breasts, and we are both breathing heavily down each other’s necks. In case I should wrongly assume that he only wants one thing, he tells me, huskily, that he’d love to take me to dinner and the movies.
Well, I think, YOU might like that, but what I would like is, to get our gear off, NOW. I felt, how shall I put this, agitated. Never wear tight jeans in an erotic quandary, they squeeze you in just the right places.
“Let’s go to my place,” I suggest to the latent axe-murder cum plastics expert, but we’re barely halfway to the parking lot before Mr Pickup pins me against a convenient wall (David Jones, I think it was), sticks his tongue down my throat, his hand down my jeans, and his throbbing maleness up against the yielding core of my….
All the same, I think – suppose some colleague of mine from work just happens to be strolling by! This could be worse than that saucy picture on Facebook! So we hurry to his car – an arousingly large pickup truck – and somehow we make it back to my place, discarding buttons like autumn leaves along the way.
Is he an axe-murderer? Well, no. But he does have some unusual interests. He wants to know all about the other men I’ve invited home, and what they did, and what I did, in graphic detail. He wants me to touch myself. He wants to stare at my crotch and use indecent language. He wants – and this is the weirdest thing – to TALK after sex.
But what has this got to do with my original question, you ask? Well, you can learn a lot from these encounters. For instance, how to be an exhibitionist. How to ‘talk dirty’. How to make a middle-aged plastics engineer from Sydney go into transports of joy, with very minimal effort. All sorts of useful things.
So, just remember this. When it comes to picking up strangers, what doesn’t kill you makes you much better in bed.