She’s In Parties, I’m Not

The most recent of my woeful party adventures occurred about a year ago, at a house party organised by someone I hardly knew. He was a generous chap so unless you were a convicted serial killer, you got an invite.

My excitement at being invited to a party lead to my hasty – and in hindsight, rash – offer to wear a kilt.

Now, I love my kilts and I’ll wear them at the drop of a hat, everyone knows this. However women – for some crazy unknown reason – go a bit funny when they see a man in a kilt. I’ve experienced this before many, many times. I’ve gotten used to it.

You know the sort of thing, questions about what’s underneath it – which for the record is nothing – and such. Although I have often wondered what would happen to me if I approached a girl at a party, complimented her on her dress and then followed it up by asking if she was wearing any knickers.

I can’t imagine it would be a positive outcome.

My point is that I’ve heard every question that’s going and had much negative attention. Admittedly this is normally only limited to one rather obvious question and hey, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of negative attention. Attention’s attention right?

Given all of this though, all the years of constant sexual harassment and drunken gropes, none of it – not a bit – prepared me for the near raping that I got that night.

The young lady in question – the would be perpetrator of said sex crime – made herself known to me about a quarter of a second after I arrived. She greeted me at the door and no sooner had I plonked the booze down in the kitchen than she was offering me and the small band with me, a tour of the house.

Bear in mind this wasn’t her house, no, no, no. This didn’t stop her, she still showed us around. Bedrooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, the living room, the lounge, another bedroom, the list felt practically endless and not a little biased towards bedrooms.

Eventually we settled in what must have – at one point – been the attic. It was nice enough, a couple of sofas and soft lighting. I wasn’t alone with her. I felt safe.

It was pretty clear, pretty quickly, that she was bat shit crazy. So I hastily made my excuses and went back downstairs to socialise with the rest of the party goers.

All was, seemingly, well.

For the purposes of illustration of just how freaky the next bit is I’m going to have to call upon you to recall – if you can – the scene from Bram Stoker’s Dracula where Gary Oldman (Dracula) is chatting up Winona Ryder (Mina) on a Victorian street.

You know the bit, Dracula’s pulling all his best moves and Mina’s getting all flustered and flounces off down the street, turns the corner and bumps straight into Dracula again? Yeah? Remember that?

Well that’s what this was like. No sooner had I made it back downstairs to the kitchen and there she was, standing in front of me, ready to engage in some lightly sexualised conversation again.

Now my problem is that I’m too nice, or at least I was at this point.

I stood there pouring myself a nice big drink and chatting to her, trying to avoid the obvious innuendo that littered her dialogue. After a few minutes of this I excused myself and made a move towards the living room. I left her there chatting to some rugby playing boys.

At least I thought I had.

I don’t what had happened between my leaving the kitchen and getting to the living room but by the time I got there, she was there. Now I’m not sure whether she was teleporting or calling upon the dark arts or what but whatever it was she was doing it had gotten her drunk.

And when I say she was drunk, I mean she was battered. She was slurring and looking at me the way only horny, drunk women can. Scarily. Maybe that’s what dematerialisation/materialisation process does to you, who knows all I know is I wanted to get away.

No chance.

Out of nowhere she progressed onto, what must in retrospect I now assume to be, stage two and asked if I’d like to go somewhere more private for some fun. You could almost smell the quotation marks around fun.

Being the gentleman I am, I politely declined and tried to move the subject around to something a little less charged. Quiche for example. She wasn’t having it.

I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, telling her that I wasn’t interested but still she kept on trying. She cajoled, tried to kiss me and then resorted to – what can only be described as – begging.

It was shameful.

When I sat down on the sofa, she tried to sit on my knee. If I got up to peruse the buffet, she’d follow me and try and grope my arse. She just would not take the hint. Flattering as it was, it was also very, very creepy.

In the end she only left the room after demanding to sit next to me and plonking her entire body weight onto a foam foot stool that promptly collapsed, sending her flying into the speakers in the corner of the room.

Her cries of distress being easily heard, given the lack of music her tumble had brought about, she realised everyone was watching so at this point fled the scene.


She later reappeared at the door, or so I am told, and attempted to beckon the back of my head with a sexy come hither finger curl. Needless to say it fell on deaf, er, ears, or eyes or whatever.

Did I also mention she looked a bit like Dennis Waterman? Well she did.

I’m sure she’s a lovely girl really.


  1. Ah, I remember that party. The rest of us took a shameful joy in your discomfort as I recall. But she was indeed a touch intense. Shame you couldn’t make the host’s repeat party this year, as I’m pretty sure she wasn’t there. But the incident was mentioned.

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