All About That Zing

The machine spits out my money and I turn to see Flynn approaching.

“All right mate? Haven’t seen you for ages,” I say as we slap hands and chest bump.

“Yeah man. It’s been time.”

I laugh. I haven’t seen Flynn for about three days, but that is ages for us. We turn and start walking along the street, the two of us unconsciously falling into step.  We’re an odd pair.  My trousers, shoes and gelled hair contrasts with his cargo-pants, trainers and mohican.  Flynn wears a tee-shirt that reads “I’m hip-hop and you’re not” which describes us perfectly.  He’s hip-hop.  I’m not.

“What did you get up to last night?” I ask to break the silence.

“Watched porn.”

Okay. There are not very many conversational by-roads there, just a motorway directly to awkward.  I decide to make light of it, “That accounts for five minutes, what else did you do?”

“I didn’t do that!” he snaps, screwing his face up like I’m the one being disgusting, “I watched a few of them.”

Flynn describes the previous evening’s entertainment, at length and probably too graphically for someone of my capable imagination.  I pull a face, the sort of smiley grimace I’d pull if, for some reason, I had to shit into my own hand.  That’s a gross analogy, but a good one, because performing a hand-crap and listening to my friend talk about porn occupy the same position at the bottom of my  list of Things I Most Like To Do.

I move to shut him down, “I can’t stand porn.  Watching fake girls have fake sex with boobs that don’t move?”

“Nah mate – you got it all wrong.  Don’t watch the porn with porn stars in.”

He trails off and my mouth opens to respond, before hanging there useless, my entire head having gone numb from the utter bollocks I’ve just heard.  I’m more than a little riled.  We’re getting close to the pub now and I want this conversation dead and buried, “What?”

“Type ‘girlfriend’ into the search engine.  You get couples.  Amateur shit, yo.” 

I can see some old dudes smoking outside the pub and Flynn isn’t being quiet.  I don’t want enter the pub with him gobbing off about ass-cracks and fanny slaps.  The silence doesn’t last, however.

“Like this one girl the other night…”

“Flynn, mate.”

“Anyway, this guy is shagging her from behind-” he continues as he climbs the step, bringing him level with one of the smokers and practically shouting it down the dude’s lug hole.  The old man stares at me with a cigarette hovering in front of his mouth, his eyes wide and frightened – the poor bloke looks like someone has just slapped him across the brain.

 “What are you having to drink, Flynn?” I plead as we approach the bar.

 “Guinness….and, like, he’s holding the camera so it’s as if you’re the one doing her.  Like some Virtual Reality type of shit, yo.”

The short journey to the bar is spent trying to appear as if I’m not with him, made difficult by the fact we’re close enough to hold hands.

Flynn is oblivious, “And he’s asks her how it feels knowing thousands of blokes are looking at her and she just giggled.  She was loving it.  The dirty bitch.”

He says the last upon reaching the bar, causing the barmaid opposite to pause and regard Flynn with an expression that is shocked, but mostly amused.

“No, no, love, not you.” He stammers, “I was talking about someone else.”

She resumes pouring, “Who?”

I can see my mate floundering- mouth agape and eyes frantic – so I step in like a good wingman, “His mum.”  

The barmaid laughs, a sexy exhalation of air, before moving off to finish serving her customer.  I’m happy.  I managed to get Flynn out of the shit and as a bonus; I did it in a way that pissed him off.

“Thanks, mate.” He utters, before immediately becoming more cheerful, “Damn! She is hot.”

I turn a clandestine eye to the barmaid and conclude that he is not wrong.   Her shoulder-length hair is straightened and layered professionally, her perfectly understated make-up highlights her pretty features and she has an easiness of smile that makes her face an attractive occupation of the eyes.

What’s worrying, though, is she is only half-listening to her customer, nodding and smiling when appropriate, whilst the corner of her eye is solely for Flynn.  Something odd is happening to my friend too because he is staring at the floor, mouth working silently as he practices and discards lines, preparing his opening move for round two.

The barmaid returns, sidestepping into our field of view and rocking back on her heels.  She says nothing, but merely presents herself, declaring she is ready for the chase.  There is silence and I want to order our drinks, but with the amount of attention I’m getting from her, I could be naked and she wouldn’t be able to tell me the colour of my pubes. 

Flynn realises it’s on him, “Yeah, so, I definitely wasn’t talking about you, babe.  You are obviously very clean and wholesome…”

Her face screws with mock offence, “You were closer the first time.”

She walks off, but not before delivering a knockout wink.  To be fair, it was a killer line, with an equally murderous eye-flash, but now she is serving someone else and I still haven’t got my bastard drink.  Flynn has gone white and has a face like a cow suddenly commencing surprise sex with a particularly rampant bull.

I’ll be lucky if I drink one pint and say five words tonight.

Flynn is on the ropes and no use to anyone, so I let my gaze wander.  The girl who just floored him has realised she didn’t serve us and is trying to get my attention from the other end of the bar.  I point to the Guinness pump and she nods.  Sweet.  At least that’s sorted.

 

 

 

 

1 of 4