Early this morning I found myself dancing with a vampiric looking woman at 2.30am in a seedy late night bar.
Something tells me my life hasn’t quite worked out the way I expected it to.
Still, keen to make the most of an unusual situation, I busted some moves in an attempt to impress only for her to look appalled, take my hand, and lead me into the pokie room.
“I’m really trying to make this work with you, but you have to realise the way you dance reflects whether you’re good in bed,” she told me. “I need to see that you have some sense of rhythm.”
She then tried to teach me some moves, but as I attempted to mirror her movements on the vomit-soaked carpet she only became annoyed rather than aroused as I fumbled them.
I informed her that it’s my complete lack of coordination and rhythm that makes me such a beast in the bedroom, but she shook her head in disappointment and sashayed away.
Behind me a pokie machine whooped as someone won a couple of dollars in loose change.