Floor Stalker

I am at a multi-day forum cum conference in London on Tuesday with an associate. I cannot stand these things and avoid them at all costs: the networking is amateur, the knowledge is poor, and the quality of the speakers is frankly rubbish.

In this era, who the fuck has days to swan around like this anyway?

The losers manning the booths avoid eye contact with me. They detect I am a predator and are confused as to why I am swimming in such shallow waters.

Wait. There is a very pretty petite blond in jeans and a white cashmere top with the most glorious breasts. Is she following me? I stop and turn. She looks away. I carry on. She carries on. I stop to speak to a booth loser. I make polite conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. She has stopped at the booth next to me and is perusing a brochure.

The hunter becomes the hunted. I am being stalked on the conference floor. My associate rocks up to my side.

“Check her out man,” whispers me, titling my head to the side.

“Good lord,” says he staring at her chest, “that’s got to be the 8th natural wonder of the world… and the 9th."

Slowly she looks up at us, smiles and approaches. We’re like stunned animals in the headlights. Dumb and dumber. I see a small bead of saliva drool out of the corner of my associate’s mouth.

“Hi guys,” she quips, “want to come to Afters with me?”

My associate is stammering a repetitive nonsense of monosyllabic gasps trying to extricate a response. I pick up the baton.

“Where are Afters,” I ask, my voice crackling like a pre-pubescent schoolboy whose balls haven’t dropped?

“Stringfellows,” she says smiling.

My associate and I look at each other and smile, chuckling.

Brilliant!. She is from the lap dancing bar and is doing a booming trade giving out passes to a free VIP Afters at the club. This is more like Vegas than London. She has the only proposition on the floor that most people understand relative to the collective heap of rabble.

We take our free VIP passes, thank her and leave. I am still hungover from a client dinner on Monday. Monday is a brutal night for a client dinner. I head to my hotel to bed. No Afters for this boy tonight.

Besides, it is Tuesday. Thursday is lap dancing night and not Stringfellows. I prefer the other place.

Beaverboosh