Morgan and coke

Continuing my theme of reiterating amusing conversations, I’d like to share with you one which highlights some obvious but surprisingly frequent boy-meets-girl-in-a-club faux-pas.

On a lively dance floor, 2am, New Year’s Day, a decent-looking but over-zealous bloke started dancing with me.

Bloke: Was that your boyfriend?
Me: Huh? No.
Bloke: Is your boyfriend here?
Me: [continuing to dance] No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
Bloke: What’s your name?
Me: Cherry.
Bloke: [feigning a swoon] Whoa, sexy. I also have a sexy name.
Me: [feigning belief] Really?
Bloke: Yes, it’s Morgan.
Me: Ohhh, nice, hello Morgan.
Morgan: So, how old are you?
Me: I’m sorry?
Morgan: How old are you? What, 19, 20..?
Me: Are you serious? Why are you asking me that?
Morgan: Beautiful: tick! Single: tick! Just wondering how old you are…
Me: How old are YOU?
Morgan: How old do you think I am?
Me: [peering through the disco lights] I don’t know… 26?
Morgan: So, how old are you?
Me: How old are YOU?
Morgan: Errr, yeah, 26.
Me: [narrowing eyes suspiciously] Riiiight… Where are your friends?
Morgan: [scanning the room] Errm… Where are yours?
Me: [shrugging] Scattered.
Morgan: Yeah, mine are scattered.

After less than another 10 seconds, and before I could calculate what was happening, Morgan’s arms were around my neck and his tongue was trying to get into my mouth. I struggled free whilst attempting to remain courteous.

Me: [re-organising my hair] Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.
Morgan: [nodding and looking disappointed like he knew he’d fucked up] OK.

Good grief, am I old fashioned? He didn’t even offer to buy me a drink! Obviously I didn’t return.