“What’s the story with your man Gary?”
Saturday night in Dublin city and all the ladies are out to celebrate my birthday. We’re dressed to the nines, we’re giddy and there’s a smell of mischief in the air so strong you could almost touch it. I’ve been batting my eyelashes at a man across the room when one of the girls – who’s just arrived – clocks my flirting before she’s taken off her coat. I roll my eyes. “His name wasn’t Gary.” Everyone laughs at this. My innocently optimistic and eternal search for a ‘good’ man is well documented. The list is long and distinguished.
The girls are eager to hear what was ‘wrong’ with the last one, but we get sidetracked on Gary. “Which one was Gary again?” I sigh. “The one who couldn’t get it up…” More laughter while I remind them about poor Gary who tried so hard but never really got the wind in his sails. Or whatever.
We get progressively giddy as bottles of pop are bought and just as quickly emptied. The conversation never really moves from my love life: after Gary we take a trip down memory lane and discuss the Stage 5 Clinger (gorgeous maniac) the Fumbler (self explanatory) the Younger Man (yummy…) and the Playboy (the great-in-bed benchmark). We even wind back the years to my ‘significant ex’ who has been reduced in our collective memories to the “miserable midget with the bald patch.”
We bump into an ex of mine who decides to stay with us, so we go dancing and move onto a lethal mix of shots and dodgy dance floor moves. The ex is dancing in front of us and we’re all momentarily quietened by his god-awful dancing. He’s switches from John Travolta hip shaking to slapping his own backside…“What was wrong with him then?”
“He couldn’t dance for shit….”
I remind them of my theory that bad dancers make for bad lovers. We crack up laughing when my sister screams that I’m a bad dancer. “I might be a bad dancer but I’m sexy at it!” “You’re not…you’re just sticking your bum out.” I’m still sticking with my theory.
By 2am, we’ve covered sex from every angle, good lovers, bad kissers and obsessive hand washing. And our Mother’s Day plans. A typical girls night out!