Trouble In A Bubble.

Iola – Let’s Just Be Friends

Her name was Iola. She’s about thirty. Dark skin. Curly hair. I met her at Bar Open.

The night I met her, she invited me to come to her place for a barbeque, but she never gave me the details, so I didn’t go. After that, I didn’t speak to her for a year. I texted a bunch of girls in my phone, telling them to come to a party at my place. She said she was busy, but we should catch up.

I went to meet her on Brunswick Street. She was there with her friend Sam, and when I sat down and introduced myself, Sam continued with what was obviously a long monologue about how her housemate wasn’t talking to her, was being a bitch, etc.

Iola went to go get some drinks.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not normally like this.”

“That’s okay – everyone has bad days.”

“Ha. More like a bad year.” She may as well have said: “Actually, come to think of it – I am normally like this.” I could see why she was having friendship troubles.

Sam took a taxi home and I went with Iola to the Night Cat. By that time I was fairly drunk. I ordered another beer. We sat down on a lounge.

“My dad was a geologist and my mum was an archeologist. I moved around a lot, and I never watched TV as a kid… People always make these pop culture references and I never have any idea what they’re talking about. It’s awkward.”

“Yeah,” I said, and leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait – what are you doing?”

“I was going to kiss you. C’mere.”

“Wait – no. I think you got the wrong idea. I only invited you out here as a friend. Can’t we just be friends?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’m going to get another drink.”

I went to the dancefloor and started scoping out some other girls, and I was about to grab one and twirl her, when Iola jumped in between me and my mark. I glared at her. I thought, not only do you want to be my friend, you want to be my cockblock as well.

Funnily enough, nothing panned out for me. The bar shut at 3 am. I went outside with Iola and said “Good night,” and opened the door of a cab.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

“Come talk to me a minute. I need to tell you something.”

I closed the cab door and walked over to her.

“What. What do you need to tell me?”

“Well… where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“No…” she said. I glared at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s so ridiculous… I just thought, if you’re going home… I could come with you.”

I could have slapped her. Instead, I pushed her into the cab and made out with her.

I hate having drunken sex. It’s my second-least-favourite form of sex. We woke up in the morning and had hungover sex, my least-favourite form of sex. She had fake breasts and her nipples seemed permanently erect.

Then she left.

I’ll tell you the rest another time.

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