It was almost 3 weeks since I landed on Iceland. I decided that I had to get my Icelandic flag no matter what. If I had to fuck a fatty, I’d put an honest effort into doing so and there would be no bitching or complaining until the deed was done. I had to release the unbearable pressure.
The only problem was that I couldn’t come up with the motivation to approach. I just didn’t want to do it. I sat at the bar for over an hour, talking on and off with the bar tender.
“You’re totally blind,” she said. “That girl with the curly hair was staring at you.”
“Oh, I saw that, but she’s way too short for me. I like my women around your height.”
“I am 5’6. But don’t worry I am not into you.”
“why? Do you fear to fall in love with me?” I said teasing her.
We laughed and she playfully hit my hand. She is into me. I would love to ravage you, but unfortunately I already had a Czech flag and my next target had to be Icelandic. I didn’t want to be in the dangerous position of running out of time before flag attainment.
I did a couple of warm-up approaches and they went how they normally went. The girls were polite until we got interrupted or they ditched. I had trouble sustaining things and couldn’t transition from superficial conversation to playful teasing and flirting. One of the girls, simply blew me off. That is harsh.
Later I saw a cute dark-haired girl with olive skin. I approached and she turned out to be Australian, on vacation with two girlfriends. I actually had more trouble understanding their accents.
I said, “Alright, I’m going to guess which city you guys are from just by hearing you talk.”
“Go ahead,” one said.
“Melbourne?”
There was a chorus of “Oh my god, how did you know? That’s so awesome!”
It was a lucky guess. I can see the micro “Melbourne’s Sexiest” tattoo, you idiots.
I was accepted into the group and the other girls allowed me to isolate the cute one. We talked for quite a while until they left. I need a miracle now.
Then I saw the girl I had gotten to within a few feet of my front door. I hadn’t contacted her and it had been a week, so I wasn’t surprised when she shot me a visible scowl and turned around. A player always keeps his options open, so what I had done a few days earlier to prepare for this very scenario was change one digit of her number on my phone. I knew there was a good chance I’d be desperate and horny if I ever saw her again.
I went up to her and said, “Hey, I think I know you.” She was visibly annoyed and didn’t even look me in the eyes.
“What happened? I texted you and you didn’t write back,” I said.
“You didn’t text me.”
“I definitely did.”
“Well, I didn’t get any text, so—” she said, looking away.
“Well, that’s weird. Let me see.” I pulled up her number on my phone and said, “This is your number, right?”
“Yeah that’s my num—wait! No, you got it wrong.”
“Oh, shit. I must’ve entered it incorrectly,” I said. This performance would have gotten me nominated for an Oscar. She told me the digit to change, but it didn’t register in my brain.
“Hey, I have to leave right now to go to another bar, but text me later,” she said, giving me a big smile that let me know I was back in it.
I watched her walk away and thought about my brilliant execution of the old “I put it in wrong” trick. Then I looked at my phone to correct the number, but I had forgotten which digit was wrong. Fuck, so much for brilliant execution.
I did more approaches, but it was the same shit—an okay start to a conversation that went nowhere. The girls gave me absolutely nothing to work with and it felt like I was having a monologue with myself.
During the walk home, I slowed my pace to relive the night’s approaches and to identify my weaknesses, stretching a ten-minute walk into more than twice that, but nothing was coming to me. I was tired and intoxicated and just wanted to go to bed.
I was almost within sight of my front door, walking slow with my head facing the ground. I heard a woman’s footsteps behind me, but I was so dejected that I didn’t bother to look back to see if she was attractive or not. The footsteps got louder, and then I heard a voice.
“Are you okay?”
“Who, me?” I said.
“Yeah, you. Are you sick?”
She was decent-looking, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a petite body. She wasn’t quite pretty enough to approach a few hours prior, but at six in the morning I couldn’t believe I was in the game with a bangable prospect so close to my house.
I livened up. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. I’m not used to staying out so late.”
Do I look fine?
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“I’m from the mysterious subcontinent of India.” Time to play the game.
“Ooo India….I love foreigners!” she said, taking out a cigarette as if to say she wanted to stick around for a while.
The hardest place to pick a girl up is on the street. It’s such a pain that I don’t bother unless the nightlife sucks, so for a girl to approach me so late at night on the street was something I’d never experienced in my life. If I had seen an approach go down like that in a movie, I would have been disgusted and turned it off, yet it was happening to me.
I said, “You spoke to me in English. How did you know?”
“Oh, just by the way you dress. It was easy.”
We talked about Icelandic culture, Indian culture, and what I was doing in Iceland. She was about to finish her cigarette when I asked if she was tired and wanted to come to my house.
I made her a scotch on the rocks. She took off her shoes and settled on my bed while I put on some music.
“Do you think I’m a slut?” she asked out of the blue.
“What do you mean?” I said. Is she a prostitute? No, I don’t think so.
“I mean, don’t you think it’s weird that a girl will come home with you after only a few minutes?”
“Not at all. We had a nice conversation and the natural thing to do is to share a drink and get to know each other better. You have to understand that, If you get along with someone, anything can happen.”
She smiled and took off her jacket. “That makes sense.”
I played it slow, and by slow, I mean I didn’t join her on the bed for about two minutes. I tinkered with the music queue on my laptop and changed into shorts and a t-shirt in front of her. Only then did I join her on the bed. We kissed.
She pulled away and said, “Icelanders don’t date. We’re not like those Americans. Only Americans date.”
Obviously she hasn’t been in other parts of the world. ”So, what do Icelanders do?” I asked, humoring her.
“We meet at night and have sex. Then we say goodbye the next morning and run into each other some other time.”
“But how about if you like the person?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
It seems to me that she is trying to prove that she don’t get attach to guys But who cares I am all boner now.
She calmed down on the tough-guy crap and her clothes started coming off. Then I heard the sweetest five words a girl could ever say: “Do you have a condom?”
There was maybe only two minutes of total kissing time before I violated her vagina. I felt so little investment in the bang that I didn’t even make the slightest effort to delay my orgasm by changing positions. I simply went directly for the nut then rolled over and fell asleep. It was the most impersonal sex I’d ever had. She might as well have been a prostitute. We wake up at 11 am. She got ready and called a taxi.
I gave myself a fist pump when the door closed, then went back to sleep.
Mission Accomplished.
--------------------------------------------------------
Rajdeep woke up from his revitalizing dream and took his laptop out to send an e-mail.
Bakshi,
I am not doing your travel magazine gig. I have a better idea. I am going to write a non fiction book
HOW TO BE A PLAYBOY? EUROPEAN SAFARI…..
Rajdeep
Thank the Gods for her…………
