I spent most of today holding hands with a Japanese man. No, I haven’t suddenly become one of the gays, and even if I had I’d be more likely to go for someone like Stone Cold Steve Austin or a Charles Bronson impersonator. I spent the day scuba diving around a World War II wreck which was, not surprisingly, pretty fucking cool. Even if I had to hold hands with the instructor.
But I wasn’t the only person he was holding hands with, and as the day wore on I felt as if my tender embrace was ignored in favour of the German woman who was with us. Don’t get me wrong, the instructor was fantastic and really knew what we were doing, but his attention was somewhat diverted by this young lady. They traded secret glances over a baracuda, squeezed around a squid, and finally kissed over a jellyfish.
Alright, so I didn’t see them kiss, but they went for another dive after I ran out of air (from being so cool), and I assume they kissed then. Meanwhile, I was left floating there like a turd in a kiddy pool. And thinking of this hilarious joke:
Q: WHAT DID THE DIVING INSTRUCTOR GIVE TO HIS GIRLFRIEND?
A: A BLUE ENGAGEMENT RINGED OCTOPUS.
A similar thing happened the last time I went diving, in Samoa, only that time it was me who was trying to crack onto the instructor, who instead of being a middle-aged Japanese man, was an attractive 18-year-old Kiwi sheila. I thought we had a real connection as we swam around and played with turtles.
When we got back to the surface I asked her if she wanted to hang out, or something equally mature, at which point the other instructor turned to me and said, “Mate, she’s my girlfriend – fuck off!” And the best part is that the other instructor was a girl, too!
I actually did pick up a lesbian many years ago in Surfers Paradise. Good sort, blonde, probably had big tits, I can’t remember because it was dark and I’d had 10,000 beers. Anyway, I’m giving her a good tongue-lashing when this big fella who could’ve played front row in the NRL wandered over, put a hand on my shoulder and snarled, “Hey buddy, that’s my missus.”
“Sorry, dude,” I chirped.
“I’m not a dude,” the fella boomed, and that’s when I noticed that, below his wifebeater was the faintest hint of a set of titties. This gentleman wasn’t a dude, he was a dudette! The mammoth muff-eater took a swing at me, I ducked and let out a girlish squeal and raced for the door, with Willie Mason’s identical twin sister storming after me with steam pouring out of her ears.
I burst through the doors and into the early morning light, and sped down the steps to the street as if my life depended on it. I looked back and the monster was out of the doors, eyes red with rage, fat thighs rubbing against each other. But she didn’t see the steps, tripped and started rolling towards me like the boulder in that Indiana Jones movie.
I barely managed to get out of the way before two tonnes of human blubber could squash me, and the dyke crashed into a garbage bin while I ran away laughing.
The hot lesbo had given me her number on a slip of paper (these days the kids add each other on the Facebook, which doesn’t work well for me because that’s where I post pictures of myself in my undies and write status updates about no-one understanding me, which doesn’t mesh well with the lies I tell girls about how I drive racing cars and punch rocks for fun) and I called her up later that day, and we boned that night.
I think, after that, she was more certain of her homosexuality than ever before.