The Fourth Date

He'd hoped things would go well this time, she was a nice looking woman, her low cut neckline revealed the plump pale beginnings of carefully cupped breasts. He imagined himself relaxing in her embrace, like that pop song; everyone needs a bosom for a pillow, superb lyrics, Shakespeare for the modern man.

He'd describe her as brazen, her skirt hitched up just at the wrong angle revealing glimpses of dappled cellulite thigh that put her right out of the category of 'fit bird'.

Not common exactly but definitely Impulse not Channel. The type of girl you'd expect to have grass cuttings woven into the back of her dress, a constant reminder that she was up for it anywhere anytime, there were some things very pleasing about her indeed.

"My problem is, I don't really know what I want, you know what I mean, like for instance, I can never decided what to order in a restaurant or what book to read when I'm going on holiday,"
She giggled loudly, "I've spent ages standing in WHSmiths at the airport then just bought a copy of Heat magazine."

She laughed her horsy laugh and he felt the need to dip his head away from her.

"I work shifts, which means I get to watch Trisha, sad I know but I love it, I really do, I'm trying to pluck up the courage to go on it, but so far they haven't been any topics that I'd be suitable for." she took a big gulp from her gin and tonic then snorted through the ice cubes.

"Perhaps I should suggest they do a show for people addicted to Trisha, what you think?"

But it was too late, he knew what he thought.
She looked like the sort of person who’d been walked on her whole life, a human doormat, complete with the dirty footprints of all her previous users still marking out her clothes.

She was fag ash and he wanted fairy dust.
No he thought, I won’t leave my footprints on her, it wouldn’t be right. He excused himself and made for the gents, turning sharply toward the exit before he got there.