Fluffy-Bunny and the Clitoris

I’d been away from my home town for a while. There’s no need to say where, suffice to say while there I didn’t know for sure if I’d ever be seeing my hometown, or even homeland, again.

But I made it through. I’d seen some pretty awful things and now wanted nothing more than go hang out. Things had changed a little while I was away. One of my favourite bars was under new management and had been revamped. It was now more student-oriented, albeit empty. It was still early.

I was in fact the only customer, but I had all night and this was my first night out in a bar for more than a year, or at least a bar in which the word ‘incoming’ didn’t result in every beer getting tipped over. I had all night to relax.

As an aside I once met a Navy guy who was known as the Beer Balancer. He’d got the name after one time he fell down a flight of stairs while carrying three pints of beer and didn’t spill a drop. Despite going literally arse over tit he kept those glasses vertical all the way down. It was magnificent and the whole bar had given him a standing ovation.

But there was no such action in this bar tonight. Nor was there likely to be. It didn’t have a staircase. There was a rear-exit to the left, which was good to know as the view to the street outside was partially obscured and the main entrance was vulnerable. Then I remembered where I was and that the likelihood of an armed attack occuring here was minimal.

The lady behind the bar was new. She was from Africa, recently dispossessed and forced to rely on her family connections to flee to the UK. So she knew where I was coming from, and our discussion largely revolved around conflict.

The Feminazis Arrive

Two local girls then came in. After serving them the bar lady got on with her tasks of preparing the bar for the coming rush. The new arrivals relieving her from the duty of having to provide the bar’s sole customer with conversation.

These two new arrivals chose, in a totally empty bar, stools either side of mine, in a manner that any dude with a reasonably high notch-count would interpret as deliberate. Though they certainly weren’t hookers. I don’t like to be judgemental, but these were no eights or nines. Even if they were screwed together.

They were students. Threes. Maybe one might get bumped up to a four, if the lights were off. Therefore it would be a breach of pick-up protocol for me to even acknowledge their presence, or in any other way respond to their presumed approach. So I concentrated on my beer and left them to it. My eyes did occasionally stray to watch their hands, but that’s become something of a habit over the past year.

They weren’t interested in talking with me anyway. At, to, or through me, yes, but not with. They began with through, opening an overtly private conversation by talking to each other as if I wasn’t there. About how useless their boyfriends, and by extension all men, were. Espcially in bed. Clearly aiming their insults at myself.

Am I still in enemy territory? This is the kind of thing we men do to each other only when we’re spoiling for a fight. Besides, when men fight women the odds have to be evened by arming the combatants equally. Some tribes in Africa require that the man stand in a hole up to his waist, then both he and the free-ranging woman are armed with clubs and their dispute is settled accordingly.

But this wasn’t really that kind of bar. There is one like that in town, The Mighty Fine, rightly regarded as one of the world’s roughest rough-houses and once voted Britain’s Worst Pub, and that’s up against some stiff competition. A pub that ultimately had to leave the boards nailed permanently across gaps that used to be windows to prevent customers throwing each other through them.

That had also been one of my former regulars. I planned to go there later, after it has had time to warm up. I drank champagne there when I celebrated the launch of my first book, gave counsel to collegues and comrades there on 12th Sept 2001, and even went there for a quick one in the morning before getting the train up to Oxford on the day I was conferred my Master’s.

For now, I just wanted to relax. Sip my beer and contemplate how one doesn’t really know how valuable something is until it has been taken away.

The Fluffy-Bunny Man Arrives

So I largely ignored these two angst-ridden aggressive jerks either side of me and let them get on with it. By their own admission they don’t know dick, and I was raised in the company of agenda-of-rage feminism and developed a pretty thick skin towards it. I would only speak if spoken to, like the good little boy I am.

I can be like that little girl in the nursery rhyme. When I’m good, I’m very, very good. But these two were determined to find out horrid I can be when I’m bad.

“I hate having sex with men”
“Oh I know, they’re useless aren’t they”
“I’ve got a new boyfriend. He likes to go down on me but he can never find the clit”.
“All men are the same”

Being that the ‘men’ in their lives were most likely students, I considered suggesting what their mothers should have taught them. That it was their duty to guide him. On the grounds that a) he doesn’t have one of his own, b) he’s probably never seen one before if he’s desperate enough to go down on you, and c) he’s not a fucking clairvoyant and you have to tell him what you like.

But they opened the conversation first, in characteristically aggressive tones:

“What are you doing in here?”
“I used to come here all the time. It’s changed a bit though”
“Where have you been then?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know about that”
“I wouldn’t have fucking asked if I didn’t”
“I’ve been in the wars, young lady. I’ve seen things. Things that, given the way the war is going, you may be seeing for yourself soon enough, but I don’t think you’d like it”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Are you really interested in men tearing each other’s heads off with bits of metal? It ain’t pretty. It’s the noise that’s the worst. You get used to what you see after a while and it ceases to shock you, but you will never forget those screams.”
“Oh no, that’s too aggressive. We don’t want to talk about that”
“I told you you wouldn’t”
“Men are always aggressive, we don’t like that”
“So tell me what kind of men do you like?”
“We like men that are all fluffy-bunny”
“And then you wonder why he can’t find your clit”

They didn’t want to talk to me no more after that.

It wasn’t much of a “welcome home”, so I turned my attention to the bar-tender once more and asked her to put song on for us.

True story. Happened a couple of years ago, never been back to the place since.

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