Brains, Balls and Neanderthals

When it comes to partying, my workplace doesn’t oooz staying power, or starting power for that matter. I arrived at my new job to discover people don’t usually socialise after work and there is no social committee despite having more than 100 people working in one building. So in the first two weeks in my role I instigated the Friday night drinks. So far we’ve received a good turnout. And for a moment I even thought maybe I had found someone special. With dark hair and blue eyes there was no lightning bolt but a few minutes into discussion and I was thinking “this could be nice”. He has climb Kilomanjaro (took the easy route) and several mountains in South America, is well travelled, intelligent and nice. But after enjoying a nice conversation he moved to the other end of the table. Clearly I didn’t quite impress with my conversation!
 

A quick change of outfit and I was dressed to kill in a low cut number. I joined my housemates and their newly acquired Aussie male network. We partied until the wee hours.  One of the guys, Sam, apparently tried to kiss me, missed and planted one on my breast. I planted an open palm on his face. Although very drunk myself, it was very clear my lips were never the aim of his,  not that I, in anyway, invited either. 


There was one rather nice conversation with Calum, a slightly pudgier South African with dark features and dark eyes. He seemed shy, unassuming and very friendly. He strikes up a conversation and clearly feeling very merry from several drinks, seems to have a bit more confidence. "You are looking very beautiful tonight," he says. "Why thank you", I respond, not taking too much notice. "When I get back from holiday I would really like catch up for a drink some time." I say, “that would be nice, we can get a group together to go out”. And hoped I had suitably deflected the conversation.



The following night we turned around and did it all again. The number of Aussie males grew, joined by English and South African counterparts. It started with a traditional game of backyard cricket in a local pub, followed by a very manly beer drinking competition, a bit of male love thrown in and finished with tops off and an arm wrestling competition (actually this bit I quite liked).  As I looked around the bar, thinking ‘have I stepped back in time 20,000 years?’ I noticed a doctor, physiotherapist, vet and accountant struggling to maintain their balance. Yes, even men with proven intelligence strive to regress to the testosterone filled Neanderthal state.


Clearly not turned on by pre-historic males, and quite stuffed from going to bed at 4.30am that day, I decided to retire to my bed. At 5.50am I receive a knock on the door. One of the cave men sticks his head in. “Do you mind if I sleep in your room?” already half way in carrying the mattress I had left out, I ask “Why can’t you sleep in the lounge room?”. Apparently my housemate is wooing some random guys (plural) that she met at the bar. Keen to get back to sleep and conscious the sun was already up, I let him in.

I was sleeping in my underwear so I grab my towel to go to the bathroom. Drunken exhibit A tries to pull me onto the bed. Fortunately the alcohol is lowering his strength factor. I manage to convince him to let go and head to the bathroom to cover up. On my return, wreaking of smoke my early morning visitor tries to get into bed with me. “What are you doing?" I ask in shock. He tries to tell me it is too uncomfortable on the spare mattress that he needs blankets. I tell him he stinks of cigarettes and is not getting near me and “anyway I plan to fart all morning”. That seemed to stop him. He retreats to the spare mattress. I lie there trying to work out if I am sending out “hi, I’m a slappa” signals to attract two poor attempts of seduction in two days, or whether the group motto is ‘try your luck’. I think it is the latter.