I like the West Village in New York; most people are either British or gay. The fiancé, who used to be my girlfriend but is now my fiancé, is looking at stuff in a West Village shop. I’m stood outside playing Football Manager on my phone, trying to take Reading FC to the Promised Land. That’s The Premiership, not Israel.
A family walks past. Mum and two kids. Boy and a girl. Both young, about 8 years old.
So I’m stood on the street and as the family near me, two women appear, walking from the opposite end of the pavement. Two middle-aged women, holding hands.
As the two groups of people get closer one of the hand holding women smiles at the little boy and says “Hello Nicholas.”
The boy perks up. Smiles and waves.
The mum turns to her son and says, “Who was that?”
“My teacher…Mom?” He says.
“Yes?” She asks. She knows what’s coming…
“Why are they holding hands?” He asks.
She’s panicked and goes for “They must be very good friends.”
The boy stops, and then turns his head, to watch his teacher and her partner walking away. Shakes his head and says, “I don’t think so mom, they look like more than friends.”
New York kids intimidate me. The ones that grow up in the city. There is something weird about them. They seem worldly wise and weary beyond their years, yet, sharp and aggressive. Mini adults. They scare me. I often worry about raising a child in America, let alone New York, for the main fear of having a child that is more confident than me.
These kids live in a bustling, stinking place experiencing a city life on their doorsteps, a complete world away from my countryside childhood fears of train tracks, swimming in rivers and stranger danger. If one of these street-smart youngsters turned up at my old secondary school in Tilehurst, Reading they would instantly be crowned king of the playground. Ousting some clown, whose only claim to bad boy fame was based on a shadowy rumour; that they allegedly stabbed someone with a compass at a previous, expelled from, school. These New York kids, though, are the real deal.
I notice a man sat in his van parked up right in front of me. He seems just a normal chap bar the fact he is an exceptional pervert. Really one of the best. Magnet eyes for women. This area is hotbed for hot women and this chap is having a field day.
Fashion Weak Moments
I'm stood in Soho and it is ‘Fashion Night Out’ so the area is populated with even more better looking people than me than normal.
Everyone has raised his or her game clothes wise. It is the last place on earth a man who used to wear second hand clothes from his Dad’s work colleague should be. This is not my natural habitat.
I’m stood waiting around for the wife to be. I notice a man sat in his van parked up right in front of me. He seems just a normal chap bar the fact he is an exceptional pervert. Really one of the best. Magnet eyes for women. This area is hotbed for hot women and this chap is having a field day.
Of course, as you recently learned, I'm a family man these days so to stay emotionally absent from the sexual carnage I’m transfixed on this driver. He really is in his element. He has it down to an art. He clocks girls that walk past him and stares at their behinds all the way until they are out of sight, like a dog/grandma at a window watching you drive away. For women that walk past the other way he eyeballs them until they walk past, only to casually rearrange his side mirror so he can do some more staring. He’s having a great time. Using his surroundings for 360 degree peeping. I’m actually quite impressed at how dedicated and brazen he is. How did he reach this level?
One of my many fears in life is to be a member of them old packs of tubby, bald men in Yates/Wetherspoons/Walkabout on a Saturday night that spend all evening gripping a bottle of wkd and staring at girls much younger and more attractive than themselves. You know, the men who growl “F*cking hell.” followed by an animal noise as the girl walks past and then continue to stare way beyond any global culture’s social norm. This guy is one of them. The king of them. Every time a woman walks past he shakes his head and sighs to himself. As if to say, “If only rape wasn’t illegal.”
Soon, a particularly stunning girl walks past. 10/10, about a hundred feet tall, designed in a laboratory in Scandinavia. But the guy in the van is too busy adjusting his rear view mirror on a girl crossing the road. He is missing a golden opportunity. This is it. I want to shout and tell him. I look back at the girl. She is walking fast. He won’t see her. He is still transfixed on his mirror. Come on mate. Don't miss out. She is waking away. This guy’s greatest moment.
“Tom, are you looking at that girl?” She’s turned up.
Rumbled, and I was just trying to help out a pervy stranger.
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