The Sex God

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Drooling as this bronzed Adonis walks through the bar – parting the hoards of women like Moses parting the seas – Oh My God this is my date and he is fitter than his pictures!

I can barely lift my jaw off the floor as he comes striding towards me with such perfectly chiselled features – he would be much more suited to a billboard (preferably one where he’s only wearing boxers!) than this bar.

Wow, this man is hot – so hot in fact that he has rendered me speechless as he sits down opposite me, flaunting his au naturale tanned skin. I suddenly become aware that my tan makes me look like an off-orange coloured extra from TOWIE (The Only Way Is Essex). I cannot believe I have been ‘up tanned’ by my own date!

Gulping down my cocktail, in the hope that it will re-ignite my ability to speak, I realise my error…nooo, I’ve just inflicted brain-freeze upon myself, followed by an extensive collection of unattractive faces to match!

I do not think I have ever been this nervous on a date before.

So much so that I realise that in my desperation to stop myself from nervously talking, I am now just nervously sweating!! Thankfully I am not wearing white, otherwise I would have orange-fake-tan-armpits by now!

Running to the ladies loo ‘to regroup’ I catch my refection in the mirror – f**k, have I over bronzed or what?! I literally look like I have just spent the past 4 months sunbathing in the Sahara! I now have a strange resemblance to Donatella Versace just minus the leather skin!

If it couldn’t get any worse I suddenly see my severely over bronzed upper lip, to the point that I have accidently given myself a moustache!

Frantically wiping my self-made ‘tash with toilet-paper like a woman possessed seems to just make it worse…as now I just have a red, raw, white patch across my face! F**k, f**k, f**k!

Nothing for it but a quick rebronzing over, praying that maybe, hopefully, he doesn’t notice?

Shoving the rest of the loo roll in my shoes as makeshift insoles I reflect that I probably should have worn better fitting shoes, but smile as these ones just match so perfectly with my outfit… Whilst attempting to impress and sophisticatingly waltz back to the table, I am suddenly aware of how unsteady my stilettos are – clenching my toes to keep them from flip flopping off my feet is not enough. It is too late, as I trip over my own shoes, loo roll falls everywhere as I fly head first into the table and my date looks on mortified.

With that, the bouncers come running over, shouting that I am clearly too drunk and must leave, luckily after listening to my pathetic pleas of ‘it was my shoes fault and I have only had 1 drink’ they took pity and got me some ice for the mountainous lump that was beginning to erupt on my forehead!

At least this distracted him from my upper lip, although I had to sit in complete humiliation as the whole bar sniggered at me and, with a slight concussion and my dignity in tatters, I called a cab and left – broken shoes in hand.

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