Three Waves to Fall in Love With
I Am A Beachbreak, Let’s Play
She’s already dancing. Not with anyone in particular, just flirting, having a blast. She’s got her party dress on — sexy, nothing serious. She laughs out loud and tosses her hair around to the beat. She’s all over the bar, she can’t stand still. She’s no model, but there’s something about her. She’s cheeky. Magnetic. On the dance floor, she wants to be dipped. Dance to her, feed her shots. Of anything, just get those little glasses in her hands. And, yes, she’ll have a beer to chase it. You ask if she wants to get out of here and she says, Of course! But can my friend come, too?
I Am A PointBreak, Impress Me
She is icy, but immaculate. Mile-long legs, lips like two pillows. She’s in that skin-tight, red dress. The lines of her body — like curves on a coastline. Her blonde hair sparkles beneath the dim bar lights. Every man in the room watches her from afar, too good to be true, like some mirage in the desert. Buy her the drink first, in front of her. A Grey Goose Cosmopolitan. She won’t look at you. You barely touch her shoulder. You say you’ve seen her work (assuming she’s a model) and that you’re quite impressed. She blushes, takes a sip and smirks. She says, Oh really — where?
I Am A Slab, F–k Off
That one. Sitting alone on the dark side of the bar. She’s got that tight ponytail, those 6-inch hoop rings, those knee-high boots, that black denim jacket. She’s tough. And she’s waiting. So far, no takers. You approach her. She stares at you with smoky eyes, says nothing and doesn’t break her gaze. Tell her you’re buying her a drink. No, don’t ask, tell her. She tells you to f–k off. What she means is, try harder. You order two Jacks on the rocks. That’s exactly what she wants. She gives you a look — a lethal grin — sizing you up, like, I’m gonna eat you alive. —Beau Flemister