Chilean models


We left it a bit late last night to hit the town, and found out to our dismay that the few bars available close at 1.30, allowing no punters access after that.  Following this, if you’re lucky enough to get invited, you take a cab out under the stars for numerous ‘desert parties’ that kick off after hours.  The problem is you’re never sure if it’s someone leading you out to jump you, or a dodgy local trying to get as many women back to his gaff as possible; and there are quite a few.  I’m seeing a good few girls moving position in an attempt to flee from their respective stalkers.  One such girl appears at my arm for solace.  Hahahahaha…little does she know.

She turned out to be a lovely English girl who comes back with a group of her friends to our hostel.  We spend much of the time all flirty, flirty, and out of the small amount of girls hanging around as the bars close their doors, the one I made a bee line for to bring back.  She was pretty much well out of my league, yet for some reason the chat is working and it appears I’m getting somewhere.  We arrange to meet up the following night for drinks, swap those ever important facebook details, and bid each other goodnight as the evening dwindles to a close.

I’m out of bed alarmingly early and checking the internet with a child like eagerness on a Christmas morning.  She has indeed added me, and I’ve not been dreaming it.  She hasn’t responded to my quirky message, but there is plenty of time.  I’m looking forward to playing the kilt trump card out in town tonight, and after a day of euro-football, continuing to unwind following the cramped, cold trek early in the week.  It was shaping up to be a good day.  Then nine Chilean models walk in.

I’m squeaking like a mouse in an Edam factory as they get ready for a photo shoot in the desert.  There is one in particular that steals my attention, totally stunning and for some reason flashing me a pretty smile with seductive brown eyes.  The peacock is a go, repeat, the peacock is a go.  We surely can’t fail tonight with the odds stacked in our favour?  Paddy and myself appear to be the only capable boys kicking around the hostel.  I use the word ‘capable’, because the two of us sat up late in our room last night howling with laughter at his woeful attempt to pick up a Chilean girl, talking his way out of any action at all.  Not that I’m fairing much better myself, something which would come to haunt me over the course of the evening.

I’ve not had a response from the lovely Sophie throughout the whole day, and indeed the whole night, and through to the twelfth of never.  What I don’t get is apart from hitting it off and appearing to get on well, not only does she not respond, she’s added me on the dreaded facebook in the first place.  Please explain girls, why, for the love of god, do you do this?  It’s not the first, and it certainly won’t be the last.  If you’re not going to talk, respond to a message or totally ignore the guy, please don’t bother your arse in accepting the friend request in the first place.  As much as it pains me, I shall have to use the ‘unfriend’ button.  Sigh.  Such a waste.

I’m cutting my losses with the beautiful Chilean I described earlier.  My luck is well and truly holding when I discover out of all the girls, she is the one to speak English.  We’re chatting away like we’ve been friends for years, while Paddy is attempting to engage a pretty Katy Perry type.  That is until he discovers she is 16.  In fact, they’re all 16.  Except, you’ve guessed it, the lovely lady talking to me, who is 22.  English Sophie from last night a distant memory, I’m firing in with guns blazing, and I ask if she would like to go for a drink in town:

“Can my friend come with us?” She inquires, indicating the photographer.

“Yes of course” I casually retort, then follow with the obvious water tester:  “is that your boyfriend?”

“No” smiles the reply (elation), “but I do have a boyfriend” (disappointment).  “Oh” with a raised eyebrow back, demonstrating years of professional skill in not betraying the attenuate soul break within.  My mind works fast, I race to possibilities of cracks in a fledgling relationship, perhaps an on-line romance fading from months of neglect, coupled with the fact that he isn’t here and I am.  “How long have you been together?”  comes my blase inquiry.  “Ten years”, fires the deadpan response.  Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting in a bar drinking a coca leaf Mojito and talking to a gay Colombian.

Undeterred, I return some time later several sheets to the wind and attempt the tried and tested scale of one to ten.  “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being yes, and one being no, what are my chances of kissing you?”  “None” she shrugs.  “And if you were single?” I pointlessly slur.  “8” she grins.  I retire to bed and cry myself to sleep at what might have been if I’d traveled to Chile ten years ago and not got arrested for soliciting a twelve year old future model.

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