I Like Girls Who Laugh At My Jokes

I Like Girls Who Laugh At My Jokes
By Patrick Keeper
Prologue

Why do we like who we like? Is it what they say or what they do? Or how they look? For me, it's whether they laugh at my jokes.

Having been brought up in a small town, surrounded by hostility, meant that the majority of my early socialising was at school or at family parties. As I started to grow up, I began to hate this and I developed a dream for the big city with the social life to partner it and to meet new people each night. Frustrated with townlife, the solitary pleasure I received from socialising, I got from school, was the warm feeling you get when a group of fellow school kids find what you say seemingly hysterical. This is where my girl criteria derived from. I never wanted the laughs or the attention but my determination for socialization and the big city left me with a dry sense of humour and ambition, spruced up with a generous serving of maturity and the ability to outwit people with a naïve outlook. I never struggled to make friends or to settle in but yet I never found myself attached to anyone in particular and I had always felt a sense of outcry and loneliness underneath the heaps of praise and admiration I may have gotten from peers. School life can be incredibly tough on teenagers, not because of the work (adults seem to think teenagers' main concern is their education but they couldn't be more wrong), but because of how you can't choose who goes to your school and it's just dumb luck as to whether you fit in. If you don't like someone, you have to spend eight hours a day, five days a week with them and the tension is awkward at best. The sensitive, expressional kids just ended up with a negative outlook on life and the “cool” kids with their slim, designer chinos, boat shoes and woolly hats with cows imprinted on them (douchebags) would go sailing through school without a care in the world and be all happy larry by the end of it all. I apologize about the rant, it just pisses me off. These; are the real dreams of a teenager (albeit an odd one).

Chapter 1- Give Me A Sec To Get Over That Prologue

Hey; did I mention my name? Well it's Patrick and, you may have noticed already, I'm definitely not normal. The idea of this novel is not for me to share you my story, in fact most of it isn't true, it isn't for me even to complain about society, (but I will do... a lot); it is so that I can tell you all how different teenagers' lives are to the stupid perception that adults have. Oh yeh, point number one- you adults aren't as clever as you like to think; let's see you do surds or trigonometry! Another thing- your memories obviously aren't as good as like to think because you don't have a bloody clue what it's like to be a teenager! I want people to understand that teenagers go through a lot of the same thoughts as adults, except we actually have dreams and we can add a touch of imagination to scenarios otherwise bland.

My life isn't as miserable as I made it sound earlier; just in certain parts. I'm quite a successful academic, sportsmen and occasional musician. But they're all irrelevant to the fact that I have a nagging feeling that, socially, they're is something missing. I feel mature enough to take on so much more. All adults say that childhood is the best time of your life, but why do I want a job and my own place, etc...? I can't wait to get all these responsibilities because I look at all the mistakes my parents make and how differently I would run my household, how different my priorities would be. I want to create my own schedule, spend time with those I actually like and not be known as the runt of family (youngest of five, sort of). I like to stare in a corner of a room and have deep thoughts about these things and events that have occurred, pondering over the intricacies of my, so far, short life.

My family always seems subdued. Other families have serious talks, my family have “banter”. Other families talk about how their day was and their feelings, my family talk about sport and point out each other's weaknesses. We Sullivans avoid all feelings and emotions, deciding to show our disgust with untimely farts and celebrate victory with a sly “I told you so”. Part of me enjoys this as I have developed a sense of independence which others my age have not discovered and they get hit hard once they leave home. But the other part is desperate to live in a community in which we can have these discussions and they are more similar to me. Seriously, sometimes I think I'm adopted! As the outcast of the family, I spend most of my time in my bedroom, door shut, music on full volume, headphones in. My computer is my release clause from all anxiety and tension, with the whole world a finger click away (see what I did there!). I spend my days online, searching New York, scooters, universities and evaluating my maticulously planned out future life. In fact, for my fourteenth birthday, I built my own computer with reasonable success. I know what I can achieve but years go by too slow for my liking. My relationships with other people almost always goes better in my head but apparently, according to others, they don't as badly as I make myself believe.

As I look around at my room now, I see trophies, tech and other materialistic objects, with the odd school photo dotted around but I really never have found my niche with anyone especially and something I wish for is for someone to pop up and grab my hand, taking me on a journey I'm not in the driving seat for, taking the controlling, over-thinking side with it and dispatch of it. Thinking about it, I'm just gonna stop waffling and get this story started.

Chapter 2- The Real Beginning of the Story

Typical early morning problems. Bags under the eyes, dreary zombie-esque shuffling, the occasional grunt; surprisingly a good time for deep thought. As I drift away from the seemingly distant conversation I usually participate in around the conventional, second class train table, I think about putting myself out there but always find a reason not to. You see, I always like a girl, or girls, in the plural tense, when I'm feeling extra perky, and I'll always consider asking them out but rarely ever do. For this, I blame my maticulous planning, thorough thought process and the obstacles I need to overcome due to my perfectionism.

This morning on the train was no different. Except the current girl in my mind was one which had been for a few months by now and I had endured many complications during those months. It all started as casual chit-chat on Facebook, turned into a little crush, then blossomed into mutual admiration. Simple, huh? How about fuck no as an answer for that question? While returning from London, at one in the morning, I confessed my true feelings, only for them to be dismissed only two days later when she went out with my best friend; yes, that was pretty shit. They were the cheesiest teenage couple I could imagine; her, the innocent, naïve girl who laughs at anything, smart but without any application, tall with beautifully long, fair, swayvey hair, and him, the cocky, immature jock with no sense of appreciation and no hope of a plan in life and of no intellectual value. This just rubbed it in. I had to spend all my time around them and watch him snog her face, hug her from behind and saying all the pick up lines from those teen flicks, whilst a memory remained of the conversation where me and the girl opened up and met in the middle. Torture.

She still looked for the same quirky conversations like before, and, what was worst, still turned to me for advice. And when the day came in which she was considering ending it, a meer three weeks long but three weeks that felt like three decades to myself, I had to play my cards right. Of course I wanted her for myself, but I had to be neutral because I was her friend first and I elementally wanted the best decision for her and I had to make sure I pointed out both sides to her. Using my psychological skills and twisting sides this way and that, I managed to convice her that she had convinced herself to break up with him ( if you understood that, congratulations). End of cheesy couple; time for Paddy to dive into the pool!

Wrong. Turns out her best friend still likes me. After two years. I'll call her Girl Number Two. Well Girl Number Two and me had a bit of history. And she generally had bad luck. She was nice. That's a awful adjective, nice. But she was this against the current, argumentative girls that was definitely one of my best friends, due to her constant pessimism and my optimism. It made us quite a pair. But one day, about a year back, she said I was beyond friendship, over Facebook. I panicked, but trying to do the right thing, said I felt the same. First mistake. It lasted a fortnight. Second mistake. She was heartbroken then but we managed to salvage our friendship and up until this point we were quite close and tended to share feedback on a lot of these things, in fact she was the first person I shared my feelings for Girl Number One to. This left me with a guilty feeling because it was only a week after I had been in a similar position, and I was left with decisions to make.

I just decided to wait. The situation was too awkward and I needed to be tentative around it. If everything went wrong, I could end up losing two friends. Girl Number Two liked to think she was invicible, she kept proclaiming, “I shouldn't be the reason stopping you two, stop giving a crap about me!”, but I still decided I should wait. I had opportunities and one especially springs to mind, with an electric buzz between me and Girl Number One, we sat, rather cliched, in a cinema watching a pansy rom-com. The film was ok but there was some brushing of hands, some passing glazes and I felt if it was going to happen it would have been then. But it didn't happen. And after displaying my flirting skills with other girls at a sensational New Year's Party, I drifted away from both Girl Number One and Girl Number Two and had returned to my post, as the king of the in-between. I had thought that night had signalled the end of this saga but then Girl Number Three entered the fray.

Chapter 3- Enter, Girl Number Three

Just to clarify, I had not intended the correlation of Chapter 3 being about Girl Number Three, but it seems a pleasant coincidence. Girl Number Three was sweet; glistening blue eyes, typical teen braces and mesmerizing long, dark, wavy hair. As I edged through a crowded corridor, sidestepping around several teenage girls on New Year's Eve, I gave an awkward first impression which must have been cringed upon by bywatchers. I was there with my mates so after that I decided to give up on the new girls and to enjoy the New Year with the lads. For the majority, I did. I gradually talked to the new girls more as the night went on, but they were pretending to be drunk at this point so it was only idol. I had obviously still got feelings for Girl Number One but this was a well needed distraction.

After midnight, the new girls all went back to the house next door and we all settled down to watch a relaxing film, The Human Centipede. I wouldn't recommend it to the faint-hearted, but, in the mood I was in, it was surprisingly gripping and my eyes were glued to the screen until four in the morning. At four, we were forced to pause the enchanting tale as we had visitors at the door, six visitors. These visitors were, in my opinion, the best six new girls from next door and were, surprise surprise, New Girl 1, New Girl 2, New Girl 3, New Girl 4, New Girl 5 and, finally, New Girl 6. Whether it was something about the time of night or second chance fever, this time I felt up to the challenge. It was when we decided to make some pizza when I hit full flow, leading the cooking session and I was getting some good conversation with the new girls, particularly with New Girl 1 and New Girl 4. As we returned to the living room, stomachs full, I found myself away from my mates this time and cramped in the middle of the room, next to the new girls. I was deep in conversation with New Girl 1 for the rest of the night and I realised these girls were pretty cool; they found me interesting and they laughed at my jokes. I also realised that things with Girl Number One had been stagnant for too long and this presented me an opportunity, with a new group of lovely girls, to start a fresh page. New Girl 1 was the most likely on the cards, we talked freely, she had this casual way of conversation and I found myself throroughly entertained throughout her snap jokes and her cute chuckles. But she had a problem, or to be more precise, a boyfriend. Oh no, not that problem again! Yet I found myself still attracted however I knew it was never going to happen. And it didn't. She was not Girl Number Three.

On the 3rd January, I had a couple of mates over and they encouraged me to text each of the six new girls. I was dubious, but was left incredibly encouraged when I had rather lengthy conversations with all of them. As expected, they peetered out after a couple of days with all but one of the new girls, New Girl 4. And she is also Girl Number Three. The texts were constant. We talked about all sorts, she had a lot of similar interests to me, I found her easy to compliment and she seemed to want to get to know me better. It generally seemed simple. I didn't have to try and impress her and, for once, I wasn't the only one flirting. Realistically, I knew there was a high probability that it would never go further, that I would never see her again. But I did when she invited herself and two of the other new girls, New Girl 5 and New Girl 3, to a rugby match I was playing in against a team including one of her best friends. Not bragging, but will won 22-0 and I scored a extravagant try and got Back of the Week; not bad going.

There were, however, some complications. Girl Number Two (remember her) was at the same New Year's party and reported my “performance” back to Girl Number One and this had reprocussions concerning my reputation at school. This had no effect on my happiness because of how Girl Number Three and me were getting along so well but it meant if I pushed forward with Girl Number Three, I would be left isolated at school, upsetting more people in the process. So again, faced with another important decision, I did nothing. Continually, things are chuddering along quite nicely; I'm friends with Girl Number Two again, Girl Number One and I still occasionally have moments like past and I am still constantly texting Girl Number Three.

Chapter 4- Into The Present

It's February and I feel rather optimistic. As I settle into bed, I know that there's still options and when considering them, I'm lucky. At least I don't have to buy a Valentine's gift! Seriously though, all the girls I'm currently involved with are all amazing, beautiful, talented girls and I'd be lucky to know even one of them! So I drift off with the chill on my toes, exposed due to my ten year old bed getting a bit short, and I know events are only starting to unfold.

Being the first to wake up in my household, I roll myself out of my bed at the unruly time of six thirty and stumble my way across the mazy landing and towards the shower. My eyes, feeling like heavy loading lorries, were very inactive, only concentrating on the floor on which I stepped on. I laboured myself past the expansive window to my left, entering the bathroom, banging the door with my knee a few times to find the knack of the lock. Once locked, I took off my dressing gown along with my baggy boxers and stepped precariously into the shower. The bathroom feels reasonably enclosed, especially with the blinds down and my showers always seem restricted. Despite this, my morning showers are refreshing and act similar to a wake-up slap and I am buoyant afterwards. Feeling upbeat, I stroll past the window again, this time glancing at the garden outside. It is only when I am beyond it when my mind recognizes what my eyes had seen. I spring back and peer more closely the second time to confirm, and, with the spirit of an infant on Christmas morning, I cry snow.

On the train, I ponder girls again, despite being in the middle of GCSE examinations. I always think that these life changing exams are at the wrong time, a time in which we prioritise other things and fail to notice the importance of getting good grades. I am an A grade student so I think I can spare a bit of thinking time to be occupied by the confusing species of female. As the train approaches Kettering station, my trail of thought is broken. I step down, across the gap, onto the slippy platform surface, the snow melted by the placement of salt. On the walk to school, most kids would be enjoying the snow by having snowball fights or even just kicking it as they walk. I am not most kids; I trundle, head down, through the layers of snow, feeling the moist seaping between the seams of my socks, as I contemplate various actions I could take. I seem to contemplate too much. Occasionally, a snowball will fly into my open face however I am absent to movements around me, focussed on the deep thoughts processing in my mind. As I enter school though, these thoughts seem to dissipate into the funny, immature personality I seem to emit when around my peers.

During registration I always find myself in unconventional conversations with the five members of my form I can actually tolerate, one of those being our form tutor. Today, the topic of conversation was historic vegetables with moustaches.
“How about a Hitler tomato?” I proclaim, with a comedian's tone and perfect timing to hit home the bundle of laughs I receive.
“Somtimes I worry about you guys!” our form tutor remarks, beneath his sniggers. These reactions are regular occurances in my life: a lot of people find me hilarious. I'd say one in five things I say receive the reaction of laughter, I'd probably prefer one in ten. I've always seen being funny as a bad characteristic. It tends to distract from what sort of person you truly are. People who are funny will use their comedy as a mask, maybe because they are worried of what people will think if they know who they really are. Or maybe because it's easier to be the funny guy because everybody will like you whereas if you're yourself then people will always find something wrong with you and it will hurt much more. Anyway, back to what matters.

So after I eased through my first lesson, History, morning break followed and even though there wasn't any direct conflict, I could tell that some people were opposing to my nonchalant demeanour towards the events surrounding Girl Number One. Obviously, the catalyst of the opposition was Girl Number Two, who preached badly about me and my New Years “performance. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to share my sob side of the story to the masses because I just don't care. If they decide not to like me because of what someone else has said, then they themselves aren't worth my time or my friendship. Therefore, I went about my business like usual, cracking one liners and overexuberantly debating sports and technology with the lads. Adults believe that break and lunch are just distractions from our lessons but in fact it is the other way round, if you asked me how my day was, I would go through my breaks before even mentioning lessons. The breaks in our social group had become manic of late, with an extortionate influx of other people entering, what was once, a reasonably small, but tight, group of friends. Now, however, our group core consists of almost twenty people whereas there is another twenty or so on the fringes. This makes breaktimes not about who you want to talk to but about who you end up talking to. Good when you want to avoid someone but not so much when you want to talk to someone in particular.

Break went quickly as per usual and afterwards I went through my next two lessons, both insignificant, with no problems whatsoever. As lunch grew nearer, my typical anxious hunger grew. I tend to sprint out on dismissal from third period at the eagerly awaited time of twelve fifteen, with the ferocious spirit of a wild tiger, the scent of a stray gazelle bristling my nose hairs in a tantalizing fashion. I regularly enjoy my time at the canteen, the crowd being much smaller and the conversation much more substantial despite some odd topics. When we're all crowded in our year's allocated form room, it is easy to feel excluded from some discussions; especially today after proceedings in the holidays. The girls frequently cut me off like I can't see them and like I don't have a clue. I know they're talking about me. I know it's no good. They disband and their gazes flicker in my direction, only for a short space of time and then they carry on normally. Their discontent is very apparent at this point.

Chapter 5- Appeasement

I return home and I do nothing, no change there then. So I have a little thought processing, which I do too much of, and I search for a solution. What can I do? What should I do? Can I recover from this? I come to the conclusion to do nothing, a similar position Neville Chamberlain took when threatened by the aggressive Hitler, that maybe all my problems would solve themselves as long as I didn't make them work. I realise that policy got Britain in to another World War but I hope it will bring better ramifications to my cause. I still like Girl Number One but I lost my patience, cut off the cords and ran. It could have been a mistake but I don't regret it. I still consider running back but I stick with my decision although I'll leave it and see how it plays out and wouldn't reject another chance, but that seems unlikely in the present predicament. Girl Number Two is definitely out of the equation but she could emerge to have an incredibly important role to play, she has a massive influence on Girl Number One's decisions, so I don't want to burn those bridges. Finally, Girl Number Three, an option I would want to explore more but a lack of movement and uncontrollable difficulties force me to leave it alone unless fate decides otherwise. These factors leave me limited to one option; appeasement.

I start to get ready for bed when I hear a faint vibration from my bag. It suddenly comes to me that I had forgotten to take my phone out of my bag from school! As I unlock it by swiping vigorously at the screen, I see the message stated:

**6:52 PM- GIRL NUMBER THREE**
Hey xxxx

I alarmingly turn my head to the clock to check the time, the same time that I already know. It reads 22:12. I sigh, disappointed, as my facial features all drop simultaneously. I leave it, I missed that window.

Only twenty minutes later, I receive another text. My phone occasionally does this, receives a message twice. So I continue rolling in my bed, contemplating alterior solutions until I decide to check my phone anyway, out of optimism. To my surprise, it wasn't the original text but even more surprising was who it was from...

**10:28 PM- GIRL NUMBER ONE**
Hey x

It was just a “Hey” with just one kiss at the end. But could it mean more? Could this be that other chance? Should I go for it again? My mind isn't clear enough to decide so I leave it for the preffered world of my distant and random dreams. In my dreams, I always feel more conscious than I think you're supposed to as it feels like I'm awake, playing out different scenarios in my head like I do while attempting to fall asleep. I usually dream about real life problems except the solutions I come up with are successful, unlike real life. So I usually drift off without even noticing...

Chapter 6- Waking Up, Feeling Different

I wake up, drowsy, and rub my nose with a tentative index finger before stretching out in anguish. I can't even remember what I dreamt about last night and stumble out of bed. Today, though, I don't feel bad, I feel reasonably good; I don't know why. I find myself unwittingly smiling during breakfast, which receives an edgy gaze from my brother, who overlooks my random good mood with discontent and bemusement: we are not so much brothers of love, more of irritance. The thoughts passing my mind this morning, are those of emptiness, no emotion and have only short term ramifications. I scan through the newspaper quickly before heading out to the train station.

Very much unlike yesterday, I vibrantly scoop up balls of settled snow, launching them in the direction of others with a beaming smile etched across my rosy face. Occasionally, a snowball comes back at me, but I am very much in control, dodging the oncoming white blurs with agile movements; Matrix style. I spot my mate across the street, unaware of my presence. I hang back for a second, rounding a compact ball of damp, chilling ammunition in my curved hands, layered with thermal sports gloves. I duck underneath the cover of a sizeable car, waiting my moment, until I see him walk beyond me and then I dart across the clear street, pelting the snowball at the back of his exposed head while in motion. On contact, he reacts as if hearing gunshot, bringing his arms to his head quickly before turning and acknowledging the identity of his assailant. He chuckles and approaches me, arms wide open now. We embrace in a manly hug but I feel a ditinstly cold chill down the back of my neck. I jump backwards out of the hug, cursing as he falls into a fit of laughter. I think he has got me back. This doesn't dampen my mood, however.

I approach break with the same buzz, I was in good comedic form, taking all opportunites of banter and witty lines while ignoring the obvious signals of vexation from the girls. They often disband tediously to have a little girl chat, or bitching session; depending on your gender. Their attitude disappoints me but it doesn't come as a surprise, I wish they would overlook such immaturites when they take issue with someone. My mood is not to be beaten out of me though, as I am buzzing with confidence, poise and pazazz. My specialities are my cool euphoria, which adds to my accessibility, that seems to lead people, who follow my actions and grab onto every word I utter from my mouth. They also scrutinize me as well and my faults, perhaps, are exaggerated to enormous extremes. I always look for the best in people, hoping for something in return, but I find myself doubting this outlook, for the criticism I receive can only force me to consider their faults and whether they are in a position to judge.

I feel distressed by the judgemental approach by the girls and could easily reflect their treatment and bring their popularity down, such is my influence, yet I refrain. Maybe I can still save this situation from plunging further deeper. Always, I seek out the superhero role when I really owe it to myself to stop caring, to stop looking for people to save and save myself. To save myself, I need to stop caring.

Throughout the day, this is exactly what I do, I say anything that springs to mind, without consideration of how others react. During lunch I drop a sarky comment immaturely in a dodgy accent, the origin of which I don't even know, and only one person laughs. It was only a little snigger, but it was noticable enough for me to look directly at them and, as I do so, I begin to reminisce. Because this girl has dragged my soul to heaven and recycled it to hell, she has made me obsessed, compulsive and all soppy and meaningful; she had taken up my entire backlog of thought for over two months and I never told her. For she is Girl Number One, and always have had a thing for girls who laugh at my jokes.

Chapter 7- Part Two and USA Beckons

I never got over Girl Number One, but I moved on regardless. I struggled socially throughout the remainder of my time at secondary school, head down, isolated and lonely but always with a smile on my face. Noone noticed any difference, this was who they thought I was and I learnt ways to cope, theories that eased my pain and fortunately my constant success in both school and sport kept me occupied plenty. Sixth form was a little better, as it came with a more relaxed atmosphere, everyone was more mature and there was less people along with a few newcomers helping my true character to eek out more. I was still very much the same character except a bit rougher through experience and having not had a girlfriend since you last heard, a lot less confident. Because of this, my acceptance into New York University had even more of an effect on my reunion with optimism and although it wasn't Columbia, my preferred choice, I couldn't help but be excited for the new people and the fresh start I would have in the city I have always dreamt of.

My farewell was nowhere near as heartfelt as it should have been. I didn't even feel it. All of the bunch from school was going different ways anyway so it was a huge event, taking the personal incentive out of of it whereas at the airport with my family it seemed too casual, they saw it as a three year experience, a holiday with a meaning, but this was it; I was never coming back. I knew that as soon as I was on the plane and, as a result, began to think about my life so far and how I was going to leave it all behind and finally kick off. For some reason, I remember the dilemna I was in three years ago and how it all came to nothing in the end and I vowed to never hold back again. I was now out of the cycle of restriction and peer pressure and I want to be myself, to hopefully get the best results. I look outside, as the plane flies off, and I feel sentimental leaving behind my disappointing youth. I don't know why.

As the journey nears its end, with the lines under my eyes prominent after several mugs of coffee, I see gems of light dazzle the dark night sky. The city of my dreams stands out from the black, empty background from the panaramic view from the aeroplane, I grow warm with a buzz of expectancy and everything feels in place for my life to take the leap to where I want to be. As we land in JFK airport, the guy next to me asks, “Have you ever been?”
“No,” I reply, dazed by the whole affair.
“You'll love it,” he says, calmly, with a hand on my shoulder. And I am certain that I will love it and that New York will be perfect for me.

I step off the plane, the first thing I notice is tourists. So many God dam tourists. Taking photos, pointing and gazing at the most random things, stopping at every bloody second! I briskly walk through the crowds to baggage claim, snatch my luggage and head out into the unknown. I have arranged a lift with my new housemate and eagerly search for him in the masses. For a long period, I have no success. So I wait outside, admiring the scenary, studying people's expressions and conversations. A little hobby of mine. Perching on the baggage track, a keen young businessman is on the phone, unaware that the belt is about to start. I watch him react with utter horror, jumping in shock and dropping his phone onto to the floor. He stresses out and I chuckle to myself quietly. A man interrupts the moment, stating, “ You won't get many moments like that here,”
I turn to see a young man, early twenties, with his hand outstreched, looking at me with his classy designer shades leaning towards the edge of his nose. “You must be Patrick,” he confidently announces.

Jonas is a third year university student at NYU and is from an incredibly wealthy background, not at all restraining from displaying this. He stands at average height, rather slim and dangly with balanced facial features and clear skin. His hair is top heavy, dropping slightly over his forehead but is prestinely trimmed. He has evident style and wore deck shoes of the highest standard matched with beige shorts, knee length, and low neck t-shirt, with Ralph Lauren etched across the front, in huge letters, completed with a white trilby hat, with a blue trim, poised on the back of his head. He presents himself with confidence, verging on cockiness, but seems a genuinely decent lad, if not a tad spoilt. I immediately feel comforted by his casual aura and find myself deep in conversation with him as we drive to our apartment, central to Manhattan.
“England, you must have had a pretty civilized upbringing over there?” Jonas said, enquiring into my childhood.
“Not really, bit boring nothing extraordinary,” I didn't delve into it, unsure how he would react, considering this was our first meeting. “I bet you did though, no university student can afford those clothes!” I joked, trying to lighten the conversation and get to know him.
“Well I'm lucky enough to come from a wealthy family but I'm trying to distance myself from them, become my own man.” I respect Jonas for trying to escape this spoilt image he portrays and work hard for his possessions and I realised then that he would be a good friend.

We turn swiftly off a main road to a small back avenue with a T junction at the end, on the left hand corner of which stood a bog-standard block of flats. This must be it. My home for the next three or four years. I study it with great detail and spot minute intricacies such as the occasional window holding a small collection of flowers, roughly five or six in each window. The plants seemed well kept and red roses especially suited the deep maroon brickwork. I avert Jonas' gaze towards the towering block and ask him, “Is that where we'll be livng?” with a tone of anticipation, only to be knocked back.
“ God no!” He slams on the brakes, sliding out of his door, escorting me in front of a modern bungalow; most noticeable for the oversized slate roof, acting as an umbrella over the petite house, slathered with solar panels, lacking in subtlety.
“Wait; we're not living here are we?!” I say, in utter shock, but this is a magnificent surprise.
Jonas laughs hysterically, “ I think we'll get used to it!” he mocks while a obvious beam shines from both of our faces. “Let me show you inside.”

As I stroll through the inside of the bungalow, the theme seems to be one of luxury; ranging from the marble bathroom, equipped with a spacious bronze bath and a rustic overhead shower, to the back lounge, gorged with leather furniture and completed with the sliding french windows leading to a luxurious jacuzzi, dimly lit, onlooking spectacular city views. I remain speechless throughout the tour and Jonas leaves me gazing, jaw resting on the Victorian tiled patio, at the outdoor area in our possession. He returns to my side, two glasses of champagne in his hands,
“Cheers.” he cooly says, with a slight hint of stinton in the air due to his remarkable cheese at such an occasion. I still grasp the glass, tinker the glass to his and begin to take in my new home, a home with outstanding measures.

Chapter 8- New Country, New House, New Lifestyle

My first day in New York and it's seven in the evening, a mellow atmosphere and I eagerly await the events of tonight, will they meet my glorious expectations? I sit ponderously out on the beautifully decked porch, overlooking the sparkling cityscape, sprinkled with glossy tinsel that lights up the dimming late summer sky. Taxis blur past, flashing across my occupied mind. Jonas struts out of the front door, smartly dressed, with his game face on.
“Come on, lets hit the clubs.” he orders. Like a puppy I latch onto his every word, with no clue where the clubs actually are, what they're called and what we'll even do. I am a deserted town boy in the big city and he's all I've got. We stand at the side of the road and stereotypically signal for a taxi. I hop into the back and, for the first time, I feel like a proper New Yorker. We stutter and stop our way through the streets, bumper to bumper, houses towering over the cars with authority until, eventually, we pull into a back alley, vast in comparison to the previous street. A narrow road meandering around corners, with only slender pavements either side. I look around, distressingly, for a sign of a club, or any building or another car because we are desolate in our surroundings.
“Don't worry it's down here somewhere!” I turn to find Jonas keenly watching my distress and finding it rather amusing.
“Oh, ok. It just doesn't look like there would be a club down here away from the main part.”
“You obviously don't know New York.” he smiles wryly, taking particular enjoyment in my anxious antics. I don't understand his remark but I choose to be patient and settle down into my seat.

And, as he said, only about a minute later, out of nowhere, a extravagant, neon glowing building appeared. People queued outside, all dressed for the occasion, all trying to hustle their way further forward in the queue. Honestly, I have never really been on the club scene therefore all of my knowledge of the experience comes strictly from TV, films and stories from friends. Yet here I am standing outside a popular club in New York, hearing the music, watching the building bouncing along illusively, feeling the vibe. I uncomfortably follow behind Jonas as he gets us in, feeling out of place. Then, I remember why I am here. Why I came to New York. To live like this. So I straighten up my suit, swish my ruffled blond hair and walk into a swagger. Times roll back to school where I was funny to fit in and how I thought all that masking and pretence would end when I left, only to realise now how that is what society is like, a mask on our true personalities.

Jonas and I got to skip the queue, he seems to be known universally, and we swayed our way through the red velvet curtains standing in our way. At this moment, Jonas immediately sees a woman, deep brown glossy hair, flamboyant eyelashes eating up her naturally glistening eyes and a slim body, with obvious curves in the right places, bare in revealing clothing, covering only the midriff and barely that. They enjoy a period of embrace, before breaking and having a quick conversation which I was obviously not welcome in.
“Oh my gosh!” she slurs unintelligently, “Well, fancy bumping into you! The last time I saw you was...”
“Valentine's Day,” Jonas interrupts her mid-thought, “I remember.” The blunt approach Jonas projects obviously has taken the girl back.
“Yeh, well,” she stutters, hesitantly, “ Give me a call if you need me.” she says, with spite, and waltzes past us, mastering her six inch heels, without failing to seductively caress my lips with her slender, soft fingers, pinned with a long, sparkly pink nail. Dazed, it takes me a few seconds to ask Jonas,
“Who was she!?”
“Oh, just a girl I was once intimate with. If you get me?” He raises his eyebrows with a grin.
“Yeh, I get you.” I say, rolling my eyes. I think this is a conversation for later.

We continue further into the club, brushing past people left, right and centre. The more central we venture, the less I can hear the reassuring voice of guidance from my native New Yorker friend. When we enter the main room, my ear drums pulse vigorously to the intense beat of the meaningless music. I can't say this is how I like to enjoy my Saturday nights, preferring to get to know girls while on a comfy leather sofa, sipping on glass of champagne, listening to soothing music (and yes, that could potentially be the premium, one-to-one suite in the back of a strip club), but now, as a university student in the heart of culture, I have to accept that I may spend the majority of them in a similar fashion as of tonight. The hordes of gorgeous girls rocking their curves provocatively gives me plenty of opportunity, however I find myself planted on a bar stool, following Jonas' every move as he dives into the seas of blonde bimbos. You see, the art of bimbo-banging is slightly more complicated than it may seem. Despite the senselessness potrayed by the average bimbo, they are perfectionists when it comes their own art: money-man-manipulation. Jonas fumbles around the dancefloor, groaning out ridiculous remarks to several women, slurred and then leaving a putrid stench of alcohol following the words. I remain on my bar stool, laughing until he joins me.
“I'm usually much more of a hit with the ladies,” he said, “Don't make an impression on just this...” He stops to burp vulgurously before continuing, “performance.”
I cringe in disgust at the smell before replying, “Mate, I think you should star in a comedy show.”
“Really?! Wow, I didn't think I was funny?” the confused look on his face allows me to finish the joke.
“Yeh, maybe we should call it “How Not To Please Women”!” He stares at me, lopsided.
“You're just jealous.” He claims before heading to the bathroom, to inevitably puke. I look up to where his head once was, I see a familiar looking set of hair; long, dark, wavy... and mesmerizing.

Chapter 9- Three Is The Magic Number

It's only the back. Lots of people look similar from the back. How do I approach this? Run straight up to her and show my excitement or play it cool? I finally settle for an improvisation strategy when I catch the glint in someone else's eye, whose in conversation with Girl Number Three, and she beams in my direction, with a questioning look. She looks vaguely familiar and before I remember, Girl Number Three turns and looks directly at me, her eyes flickering so it's hard to catch the sparkling blue inside, and after a second her jaw drops and eases to a surprised smile. I stand up, mouth gaped open, and, without speaking a single word, I embrace her and her friend, who I now recall to be New Girl Number Two. Despite only having met her twice, I feel a connection between us and I associate her with the optimism that came with the new year of two thousand and twelve.
“What brought you to New York?” I open up the conversation, having to shout to be heard over the music.
“Don't you remember?” Girl Number Three enquires.
“Remember what?” This time, New Girl Number Two answers.
“You know, that conversation we had on New Year's about our obssession with America?”
“Vaguely,”
“Where you said you didn't know what you wanted to do but as long as it was here you weren't bothered?”
“And you talked about dancing!”
“Umm... no; acting actually.”
“Oh yeh, sorry I can't believe I forgot that. It was just so long ago! I must have made a lasting impression on you then!” I meant it as a joke but judging by the awkward silence it was taken as a serious proposition.
“Well,” Jonas' face popped out in front of me, “Are you gonna introduce me to these lovely, b-e-a-utiful ladies?”
“Why don't we go somewhere we can actually hear each other?” The ladies nod their heads and enthusiasticly say,
“Yes!” in syncronization.

Back at the bungalow, Jonas seems to have made a quick recovery.
“I actually wasn't drunk,” he says while bringing in some drinks, “It's just a tactic; if I behave like them, I'm more accessible.”
“Well it obviously doesn't work!” says Girl Number Three, stating something I was about to pick up on.
“Hey, I'm here in my prestine bungalow, with two gorgeous girls and a potential gay!” he gives a suggestive wink, “All my options are open!”
“Oi! You'll find these are my girls actually! You don't deserve any of the credit!” I say jokingly, enjoying the fact that the girls are in hysterics. Jonas and I definitely know how to put on a performance. New Girl Number Two, actually lets call her Girl Number Four, peeks outside and squeals with excitement,
“You've got a jacuzzi!” Girl Number Three rushes to the wide french windows and presses her hands firmly on the glass.
“But we don't have our bikinis!?” She was always the voice of reason but I can tell what she's really implying here.
“You can borrow my spare ones if you want.” I said smoothly with a serious face, until she cocked her head in an cutely frustrated expression when we both broke into laughter. I feel a sharp draught breeze the back of my leg and I turn around to the open doors. Jonas and Girl Number Four are on the ledge of the jacuzzi, completely stripped, shouting and raving, beckoning us in. We turn to each other and share a shrug and start racing our clothes off, item by item. The more bare we get, the less hesitant she becomes and when her gold and silver laced bra drops to the floor while I stand there topless, belt catching on the buckle, I can't help but scan upwards and my heart jumps. I pause at a certain area obviously and continue up to her face, she's smiling, eyebrows raised and shares a deep look with me before quickly resuming. We are so far away from texting each other flirtatiously three years ago. I have to speed up, so I drop my trousers and underwear at the same time wondering whether to cover myself with my hand or something. I wait to see what she does and we end up just standing there appreciating each other for what seems like a endless period until Girl Number Four calls out from the jacuzzi,
“Come on, we need more meat!” Suddenly, she grabs my hand and leads the way, tiptoeing across the icy patio; butt naked.

We spend around half an hour in the jacuzzi, frollocking, splashing water at each other and occasionally actually talking. I am lost in the moment for the majority of it, acting on impulse and not thinking too much. So when it gets to that point when the water starts to chill the surface of our skin and Jonas and Girl Number Four launch themselves out, sprinting inside, Jonas whipping her, like a jockey to a horse, with his flip-flop as she half-squeaked, half-giggled in delight, I am pumped with adrenalin. Still in the jacuzzi, Girl Number Three and I spark up some conversation.
“Fancy bumping into you tonight; the boy who never had the chance to make a second impression.”
she leans across the jacuzzi, her head floating just above the water. “Was the first spectacular?” Her eyes flutter at me and she makes contact with me, adjusting her fine, delicate figure on my lap, poised carefully so that her beauty is obvious to me so close up; magnificent. She pauses once again to look deep into my eyes and as I look back into hers I feel at ease, not nervous like I usually am; at ease, like I've never been before. She presses her mouth against my ear, her lips warm, moist and arousing on touch, and she whispers, clearly by syllable,
“Spectacular,” and I turn my lips to hers and we embrace for he second time this evening; except now in a kiss.