Fork In The Road

For many people the day they meet their future spouse is forever framed in soft-focus, with imaginary music playing and flowers scattered along the path of their life. In my case there was none of this, but I do clearly remember exposing my knob as I stuck my arse out of a car window.
Now that's the way to a real woman's heart...

I'd left a job and returned to my parents' house in possibly the most boring seaside town in the world (average age 68; principle import - coffins; most popular activity - waiting to die) prior to starting a new job. When I arrived home in my fabulous car (orange with black vinyl roof, added rust and held together with packing tape) I found an invite to a party that very night from my old school friend, Fergie. He it was who used to cycle to video stores and rent low-grade porn on his dad's video card so we could watch it at lunch time on school days. In other words, a real mate. Fergie worked in a hospital so I made the mental connection "hospital = nurses = fun party" and decided to get there early to stake my claim.

Well, there were few people there when I arrived but there were a couple of girls (not nurses, but at least somewhat medical) who looked bored. I wandered over with my coca-cola in hand (not my fault - I had sworn off drink for a few weeks having just endured what at the time was the worst hangover/terminal vomiting experience of my life, not to be bettered until I discovered Slivovitz, but that's another story). As is traditional in these circumstances there was one pretty one and one "not-so-pretty" and, as is also traditional, the less pretty one made it abundantly clear early on that she was up for it, practically "frothing at the gash", as they say, while the other was much cooler, not taking the bait.

Herein lay the dilemma and decision that shaped my subsequent life: should I take the soft option or play the longer odds in the hope of a more attractive payout? Better men than me have decided to settle at basecamp rather than risking everything in the hard climb for the summit, but I was young(er) and stupid(er) so I grabbed my ice-axe and made my assault on the frost maiden. At about this point the girls decided to move on to another party, about thirty miles away; they invited us all along. Did that mean "Come with us - there's a chance we'd like to shag one/all of you" or did it mean "We're just being polite you sad fucks - please don't follow us"?

It was a dull town, as I said, so we all abandoned Fergie's party (including Fergie, by the way), and set off. It was on this journey that for some reason which later escaped me it seemed important that I present my buttocks to Fergie out of the window of our car (with target girl inside) as we passed him at about 100mph. Clearly this was the killer move; what girl could resist such devil-may-care charm? Well, this one apparently because as soon as we arrived she went off with some other bloke. I ran into her later on the dance floor as she drank spirits from a bottle, thereby confirming my initial hypothesis that here was a girl who might appreciate high-speed buttock exposure. Turns out the other bloke was not really much competition, being gay, so at that point I mustered all the sophistication that a man drinking coke can hope to summon, and dug in for the climb.

The rest, as they say, is history (eventually, after much living in sin). It hardly counts as an exciting or romantic "how I met your mother" story. Fuck-dull, in fact. But at least I can say I got my wife the old-fashioned way: free range. In these days of internet relationships, match-making and speed-dating the traditional approach has a lot to recommend it. Plus it's best you find out early - if she's offended by your arse sticking out of the car window there's no future for you. And if you can't handle her hard drinking and partying, best stay at basecamp, OK? It's warm and dry, and I can send Fergie round with some porn if that'll help...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison