No bars

Despite the quite dreadful men I keep in my rotation because of issues surrounding my father, I must stress that I don’t totally close my eyes to the plethora of other assholes out there. I am always open to the notion of a new prick to completely waste my time on.

I’m not really sure how you meet guys these days though… Yeah, I had a go at those apps but it’s just very uncouth to be on those, and I’ve got Instagram which is actually the biggest dating app going, so I really don’t need those other ones. Hinge? Apparently that’s the new one, for the unhinged. It wouldn’t be for me.

When I think about my current rotation, I met God in a club. I met Livid through Hatman, and Hatman through Instagram. So you see my point.

Once you’ve got a guy on Instagram or Snapchat you can just act like a slut on there and your work is done. This means you and I, we really don’t need to worry about having game, chat, conversational capabilities, or as I call it: bars.

Eminem has bars. But I’m not Eminem.

I can win a guy through Instagram by posting a video of me doing the splits, but I’ve never really practiced the delivery of bars.

Turns out I really should have.

The other evening I decided to chat up a barman. I honestly thought I was over my “fck the help” phase, but it turns out that’s not the case. 

He was very very good looking so I decided to make my move and I called him over. 

This was in Dubai. When we consider “the help” over here in England, we might think of good ol’ Jeeves, the super posh butler, who actually has a pretty great set up. He’s on good money, lives in a mansion, is allowed days off. Other examples of “the help” in England could include Mary Poppins – a narcissistic slut who just loves the sound of her own voice, but she’s a fckin good tidier upper.

For me though, it means a really sexy barman who probably plays in a band and has enough money to buy you a cheap bottle of wine from the corner shop before taking you home to fck you then wiping his dick on the curtain and leaving. That is what I call “the help” and they’re a lot of fun, if you don’t fall in love. Which I always do. 

Over in Dubai the help is neither Jeeves, Mary Poppins or dick wiper band man. The scenarios there are quite different.

My friend who resides in Dubai explained the situation regarding the barman as he was walking across to our table as I had requested. “He probably lives in a room of four in bunk beds. If you brought him back to ours to fck him we would all have to sit in the bedroom with you watching Netflix just to make him feel at home…” 

As he arrived at the table my head was full of all these questions and things.

The whole set up seemed quite cruel and my tiny brain became overcome. It doesn’t take much of course. And so this would be the moment I discovered for the first time in my life, I have no bars.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” came the response.

“Do you have friends?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like them?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a mobile phone?”

“Yes.” 

It went on in a similar vein for 10-15 minutes before someone had to break it up and communicate that he should just give his number to me and rescue what little dignity had been preserved. 

In my defence my bars were designed to find out if he lived in bunk beds.

And if his set up was as barbaric as I had imagined, I thought maybe he’s not allowed a phone.

I’m now going to learn some chat up lines and stuff for emergencies. Or maybe I’ll just stick to “hi” before doing the splits right there and then.

Or maybe I’m safer just continuing to send nudes on Instagram. 🤷‍♀️

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