Let’s Not Be Friends

Men really are pigs, aren’t they? I spent last evening in the company of the dear Mrs. O (aka “The Wife”) and the enchanting Mrs. M (aka “Not The Wife”), enjoying a pint of IPA, several pints of water and fascinating/painful/arousing/embarrassing conversation. Jennie, less reasonably, but still responsibly, enjoyed two pints of Jacob Marley, and Rachel had a few more than that of Chili Pepper Ale.

Because we had a concert (Boy-Child, bass clarinet, other side of town) to attend earlier, we were a few minutes late meeting Mrs. M, which was all the opportunity a frumpy 1970’s-pornstached lothario needed to make his moves on Mrs. M. Mrs. M is very outgoing, friendly, and not shy at all (pretty much covered that in the outgoing, didn’t I? Well, we need to make this point clear: Mrs. M is not shy).

When we arrived, Mrs. M was sitting at the bar, smiling slightly, being hovered over by said pornstache. He was trying, from what I could tell, to sit in her lap. He was NOT pleased when I found us a table in another room and dragged her off.

Half an hour into our beer and conversation, Mrs. M noticed him standing at the other end of the room, pressing at his phone and carefully not quite looking our way. Every few minutes, he edged closer. Somehow he managed to grab Mrs. M’s arse as she went to get another beer, and mistook Jennie’s smile as she passed him as a signal to move in even closer. By the time I got up to use the restroom, he was hiding behind a pillar next to us, staring more intently at his phone.

As we walked Mr. M out the door and to her car, he followed partway, hoping, I suppose, that we would leave her alone long enough so he could offer her his famed moustache ride. Really, could you have been any more creepy?

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