No boys back
I said recently that we would discuss why he can’t come to yours/the benefits of only ever going to his, so let us do that…
This is a rule I only brought into play in the last few years, having worked out that most guys – once they peep your set up – will not really ever leave.
We call it: “getting their feet under the table…”
This phrase originated many years ago when myself and my brother were sharing a flat. I would go away a lot for a few days at a time and on one occasion when I returned there was a girl who, when I’d left it was clear was just another of my brother’s one-night stands.
So imagine my consternation and surprise when I returned to find her in our fckin kitchen whipping up a meal and whistling merrily away in a pinny as she did so. A look went between me and my brother as he sat playing FIFA or whatever those boy games are they play on the TV…
The look said: “I’m glad you’re back now, because I can finally get rid of her by pretending it’s because you hate her, therefore I don’t look like the bad guy.”
My acknowledging response look said: “Tell this bitch I hate her and get rid of her. I’ll be the bad guy, I don’t care.”
And so she was gone the next day never to be heard from again.
Later, when my friend came over to stay she asked after the latest girl who “seemed nice” (tbf she was nice when I’d left to go away but that’s because she was a one-night stand, they all seemed nice because they were never around long enough to be anything else).
My brother replied with this:
“She got her feet under the table real quick, and so she had to go…”
We found this so fckin hilarious and we haven’t forgotten it. To this day we still use this term to describe the over-keen boys we often meet!
“Oh he got his feet under the table, he had to go…” has been said many a time.
Once a guy helped himself to a glass of water at my house and it made me so livid he didn’t ask first he was swiftly removed under the “feet under the table… he’s got to go” act.
And this is the reason I don’t allow them back. Ever.
Also, it’s because going to his place and then being gone when the morning comes is a guaranteed way of fckin with a guy. They always think you’re going to be the one that won’t leave and will have to be disposed of come the morning time.
But not me. I’m out of there – no shower, no nothing. I just gather my shit (make sure you don’t leave a single thing behind as you don’t want them thinking you did it in order to see them again) and bust the fck outta there never to be heard of again. Unless they text me, then I reply and fall in love simultaneously.
Here are some other “feet under the table… he’s got to go…” moments I have witnessed in the past. They are fun.
He wanted a drawer to “keep some bits here”
“Well I always stay over, it’s just easier.”
I believe that was his line. No, you USED to always stay over, you’ll not be again.
This tight asshole entered my huge boudoir, eyed the place up and was like: “Imagine if we shared this!”
No, imagine me never calling you again (he didn’t have to imagine).
I know it’s a basic right for humans interested in cleanliness, but if you’ve taken them back drunk, you awake full of regret and they want to shower – it means they want to stick around. I use the old “hot water’s broken” line. That gets them gone.
My friend once took back an awful guy who later in the day started a text war with her because she didn’t make him breakfast. Wow. I mean who even has breakfast these days? And who gets up early after a one-night stand to start squeezing fckin orange juice? Should she have put his clothes from the night before on a quick 30 wash too? Douche.
The classic leaving something behind
Text in the afternoon: “Hey, did I leave my keys/wallet/coat/comb/whatever it may be at yours last night?”
Well, yep you did, but I’ve binned it. Sorry for that. I’ve disposed of countless things guys have purposefully left behind. I just reply with a “don’t think so see ya,” whilst I laugh away to myself and stare at the item sat in the bin. Someone left some gross pants once, like I literally vommed as I disposed of them. He was most upset because they were his “good pants”.
They were faded Calvin’s that had had one too many washes, and if those were his good pants, imagine his shit ones. He had to go. Gross.