Lock Up Your Sons, Melbourne

Please allow me to introduce you to my friend, trouble.

Please allow me to introduce you to my friend, trouble.

So about 9 months back a mate of mine from Germany visited Melbourne (and Jess, this story is about to make your day). Near the end of her time we spent a day hanging out in Fitzroy – not my usual hood – and had one of those ‘ah, just one beer sure’ that turns into several pitchers kind of nights. It was one of those nights where the conversation comes easy, and one of the recurring topics was regarding a beautiful man that worked there, and the hilarious face Jess would pull whenever he walked by.

I can’t remember now whether we just left, and I later cursed not getting up the courage to go ‘aw, fuck it’ and ask if he was straight(ish)/single or if I WAS actually going to and then couldn’t find him. . .but the beautiful man with the eye-catching forearms went un-asked-out. And I promised Jess that, should I come back and see him again, I WOULD go through with it.

I didn’t even know the name of the bar we were drinking at.

Regardless, I DID find the place again. Next time I was meeting someone in Fitzroy we went on a hunt, found the place, and went in for a drink. But no forearms.

Months and months later, some time after I got back from Queensland, I tried again: once again, no go. Good bar, lovely atmosphere, but no beautiful man.

Last night I found myself sharing epic dumplings with Ross, another mate from traveling (Melbourne seems to be drawing them in) in Fitzroy. And I thought, ‘aw, fuck it, one more try.’ A theory needed to be tested: Jessi and I had been there on a weekday evening, whereas the other two times I’d ended up in Fitzroy were weekends. Maybe he only worked during the week? Possibly? If he still worked there at all – this IS over 9 goddamn months later after all. People make babies within that kind of timeline.

In any event, one more go: Check it out, then let it go. I did say I’d ‘ask him out IF I saw him again’. Not I’d ‘stalk him to the ends of the earth’.

So Ross and I find the place, pop in. . .and no go, still.

A coffee later, it’s time to head home. I’m coming down off double (well, triple, really) shifts the last several days and both Ross and I are doing the waking up at stupid o’clock thing. So time to go. But first. . .

I’d joked with Ross about asking whether the dude still works here or not just to quell my curiosity and aw, fuck it, why not. I’m stone cold sober but tired enough to feel that same sort of bravery one gets when drunk. . .when you just don’t have enough brain cells to stop yourself from doing something potentially embarrassing.

So I’m at the bar. Trying to phrase my question in a way that doesn’t make me seem like a stalker/crazy/dangerous/generally a threat/worry in any other way. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying to figure out where the guy’s gone or anything because that would be a little weird. I’m just looking to get rid of the brain itch – does he still work here?

And how else can I describe him besides ‘beautiful’? Because that’s just what he was above all else: Noticeably attractive.

So I’m halfway through the question, right? At the exact point of “-with my friend and there was this beautiful man. . .

And the chick working the bar’s eyes widen and she BUSTS out laughing. Why? Because the dude is RIGHT behind me, coming in for, I presume, the start of his shift. Weekdays, after all.


So I do the fumbling thing you do when you’re trying to be charming and KNOW you’re failing miserably because you’ve just been caught somewhat off guard, dammit. But it’s done, Jess: Dude has my number. I have done all I (legally) can. He can call the crazy lady if he wants to. I think. I may have nervously written down the wrong number. Or possibly my number from another country. I’m not sure. I’ll use that as my excuse when he doesn’t call.

Because, damn, when I got home and finally saw myself in mirror? Looks like I haven’t slept in 3 days? Check. Hair like I haven’t showered in same amount of time? Check. Epic smeared eyeliner racoon eyes like I’ve been sucking trucker dick for meth in the back room? Check aaaaaaaand check.


Oh yeah. I am a SEXY bitch, Melbourne. Lock up your sons (and, while you’re at it, your daughters).

He’s DEFinitely going to call. I mean. . .why wouldn’t he?


Dec 01 update: He didn’t call.

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