Word up!
I had expected my first night hitting up Kings Cross to end a little differently than chasing a hot Asian chick down the golden mile at 2am with a half eaten souvlaki in my hand. Or is that just what happens in the cross? Some tasty stranger throws her tongue down your throat for most of the evening then vanishes into the neon haze.
The truth is I fucked up. She tasted so good. Have you ever kissed a girl who was like cotton candy on the tongue? There was a certain sweet taste on her that drove you crazy… Beyond the normal endorphin rush experienced when kissing a sexy chick. Damn! Well “tasty” had that.
The night was over in one blinding flash, a lightening strike of too much top shelf vodka at stels apartment, a few opening lines in an unknown bar, distorted memories and passionate French kissing on the balcony of a spot called Hugo’s in The Cross.
Somewhere between grinding together in the club and running her down on the strip I lost her. I’d say Tasty is on the more conservative side in terms of courting strange men in clubs and taking them home. Perhaps I pushed the “lets go back to your place” angle far too hard and far too late. I had mentioned it in the club, she seemed game, noting a bottle of chardonnay on ice in her fridge. Appropriately we were locked in a no holds barred make out session on the top balcony overlooking the street and her buying temperature was on fire.
She and her girlfriend left the club with me and my crew of course. But shortly after, the vibrations changed… My wing “Viagra” insulted the girlfriend with what I’m sure was only mild arrogance. Tasty’s girl got cut. Ha!
Tasty is a cross resident, in good judgment she put her wounded friend in a cab and decided to roll with me.
I see vaguely how it went down. Her buying temperature slowly dipped after we left the club, then Viagra popped her friend a cheap shot, now she was sitting in a greasy meat hut, me slinging her with drunken rants as I attacked a dead animal. Bad form now to suggest a bounce to the sex location, but that’s exactly what I did. Like some asshole high pressure salesman I recall. Whilst not totally offended she did offer her number…
When I told her I didn’t have a phone it set her off. She stormed out of the restaurant, decided that I was one of those rat bastards that her mother warned her of; that were only interested in spontaneous and electric sex with no intention of ever seeing her again…
I mean I called out down the street and had her stop. But again I came in with the pitch to crash and after getting knocked back I flat out rejected the offer of “her” number. What a douche! On some level my pride was hurt, it wasn’t how I wanted to write up this Kings Cross cherry popping expedition. I let her walk away and stubbornly never took the digits. Look if it were as easy as pulling out my iphone four and punching it in I would have. But those bitten apple bastards have me on a three week waiting list.
One moment please… We will answer your call as soon as possible…
Was it a half or eight hours… I’ll never know
I woke up drooling over my wing “stels” fold out couch in surry hills with sunlight slapping me in the face. Instant regret! I’ll never taste Miss tasty again…
