Fairy tales have been a beloved part of every child’s upbringing since before Jesus was playing dodge ball with the dinosaurs (thus concluding my knowledge of The Bible). The Princess and the Pea, Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, Sleeping Beauty, Goldie Locks and the Three Bears and Jersey Shore to name a few. But there is one that has captured the hearts and minds of young girls everywhere more than any other. It’s got it all: the bitchy mother/sisters, the dashing prince, the fairy godmother, and the slutty outfits. I speak of course, of Cinderella. Now, boys and girls, trans-genders and furries, I have a modernised version for you. A delightful tale that will dazzle your senses, amuse the bouche and fondle the child inside you.
My dear friends, I present to you…
There is something to be said for people who go out to town in search of that special lad/lady. I mean… when I say special, I suppose what I’m actually saying is “The special lad/lady who happens to stand still long enough for you to do the casual “Woops, it’s really crowded in here” arse-grope or the “Oh, clumsy me” brushing up against some stranger’s breasts.” Or, failing those techniques the “Orright, love?” mating-ritual stare. (Staring into the recipient’s eyes is completely optional; penis and/or breasts are equally suitable staring points). I’ve never really understood, or been capable of pulling off these maneuvers, especially in a place as public as a club. Talking to me is incredibly hit or miss, sometimes words are formed, and pleasantries are exchanged. Other times whomever I’m talking to ends up staring awkwardly at their shoes or their drink, wondering just how many wrong turns they’ve taken in their life to wind up in this god-awful situation. It goes without saying that the club scene has never really been my style.
Around two years ago, some friends of mine were having what could be called a “guy’s night out + girls”. I say it like this because all of the girls that were out with us would only talk to one guy in our group. This particular friend of ours, who I’ve known since the start of high school has always had a certain way with women. They adore him. None of us could ever figure out how he does it. It’s just one of those natural talents; he’s a Girl Whisperer. So while the Girl Whisperer drank with literally around eight women surrounding him, my friends and I stood a few metres down the bar, looking on in amazement.
It was beginning to get late, the small hours had started to creep on and the drinks kept disappearing. Things were getting blurry, the music was loud and the floor was coated with a thick sugary film from all of the dropped drinks. My shoes made a disgusting squelch noise every time I lifted a foot. It’s hot, sweaty and salty in this place, hard to breathe.
Suddenly there’s a couple of taps on my shoulder. They’re soft and delicate. I think it’s one of my friends mucking around, so turning around I said something like “Oi, real funny dickhe-”
There stood a girl. She was a small, with long brown hair and dark brown eyes that she was looking at me with up through some seriously long eyelashes. She was cute, properly cute. My mates had all stopped talking and were now looking square at me and this girl. Excellent subtlety, fellows.
“Alright,” I thought to myself, “This night has been an enormous bore so far, perhaps this girl could actually make things more interesting!”
“Duh…” (is what I actually said)
“Hi!” she said in a bright voice, “Haaaave you seen…” (she stopped to do one of those “look me up and down” things) “…my…”
“…yes?” (At this point I’m convinced she’s flirting with me. She must be, my desperate brain tells me.)
“…my other shoe?” She lifts up her hand; in it is a black ballet flat.
So, as the guys roared with laughter after seeing my obvious desperation to please this cute brunette, I crawled around on the club floor looking for her other shoe.
Which I never found.
And that is my Cinderella, my princess story. My one and only interaction with a girl in town.