It’s Business Time

This post is mainly from the viewpoint of a man, but I’m sure you wimmin readers can still appreciate the sentiment.

Friday night. Finally some respite from the office job. A hard week’s work has left some money in your pocket and you’ve no hesitation about spending it.

A new shirt first of all.

Looks good. Worth the hefty price tag.

A crate of beer next. Stack the fridge full, and ask the lads around for a few drinks before you head out to a club. One of them mentioned something about someone’s birthday, and everyone’s heading to a club in town. You don’t really care though. You just want to get fucking drunk and have a good time. More importantly, you’re going to pull.

It’s been a while.

The fruitless flirting over the desk in work is tiresome.

Unchased opportunities that you regret. The times you simply weren’t arsed. The times you were well on the way to success but drank too much and all you remember is that it didn’t happen in the end.

Not tonight though.

Yeah you’ll have a few drinks. But not too many.

You’re having one of those days when you just feel confident. You woke up with your charming hat on, and it’s not falling off any time soon.

Shit, shower and shave. New shirt on. Looking good.

The lads come around. All in good form. Grateful for the beers and hospitality. You’re especially witty tonight - no surprise there - cracking jokes left, right and centre.

The beers go down well along with a few slices of pizza. Stomach well lined, and mind gently merry - you hop in a taxi, but not before a splash of aftershave. Oh yes.

The taxi driver, who’s a cool guy you had a laugh with, gets you into town in good time. No hassle getting into the club. Didn’t even get asked for ID.

You get the lads a round of beers. Your wallet’s still thick with notes though, don’t worry.

Then one of them comes up to you with a girl, and introduces her. The birthday girl!

Decent looking girl. Not amazing - but decent.

You have a lot of friends in common as it turns out. You’re fairly certain you’ve seen her around before but don’t say that because you’re not sure. You ask her what she’s drinking. Vodka and coke? No bother. Let me buy you a birthday drink. She coyly accepts. You also get two shots of Sambuca. One each love, come on. She twists her face after downing the shot. You don’t. She’s impressed and grateful for the drinks.

You and her have a good laugh. You’ve continued with your witty form from earlier. It’s safe to say you’re doing some top notch wooing.

A song comes on that was being played in the taxi on the way in. You now realise it’s fucking class and you want to dance to it.

Birthday girl takes you by the hand to the dancefloor.

Christ she’s a good dancer. You’re not usually a dancer but with a few drinks inside you, an attractive women on you, and confidence oozing out of you - you’re Fred fucking Astaire.

Christ she’s gorgeous.

The hours in the club pass, one of your mates got way too drunk but one of the lads took one for the team and brought him home. While agreeing to do so he gave you a wink and said “You’re in there son” with a nod to the birthday girl. Great guy. You’d get him a pint if he wasn’t leaving with the drunkard.

You don’t remember how it first happened but you spent the guts of the last hour in the club lip-locked with the girl. You definitely made some cheesy joke about it being her birthday present, but fuck that. A mere bump in the road to orgasm.

On the way out of the place you see someone from school. Haven’t seen him in years! A lot of drunken hand-shaking ensues.

You get a taxi home with her.

Maybe have one of the beers leftover from earlier, then upstairs to do the deed.

Make the beast with two backs.

You wish you’d stopped in the chipper after the club though. You’re starving and would fucking murder some chips right now.

Then again, you don’t want to be bloated during the night’s, ahem, climax.

The taxi drive made you a little sick but your stomach soon settles. No way is it going to fuck you over. Today is just your lucky day.

Probably should have thrown a few quid on the horses and all.

You get up to your room. The day that’s in it, your room is fairly tidy. You also thank your lucky stars that you gave your pubes a quick trim recently.

As she sits sexily on your bed, she asks for some music to set the mood.

You head over to the stereo, stumbling a little. Did she notice? Did she fuck! She was busy getting her shoes off.

What music to put on?

You want something that somehow reflect the act that’ll soon follow. But what?

Fuck it. Lady luck’s been good to you all day, just take a chance. Just press play. Whatever CD’s in there already can’t be that bad. You’ve a great taste in music anyway. She’ll be well impressed if it’s something a little obscure.

You hit play and strut back over to her, waiting to see what music’s going to be drowning out the inevitable noise.

And BAM.

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