Shy

Fuck fuck fucking fuck fuckity shit bollocks. I hate being so fucking shy sometimes, I really do.

There's this guy, right - isn't there always? And he's hot, not in a 'dude should be modelling underwear' pretty-hot way but in a suave 'just keep talking to me in that sexy as hell voice and I will literally do anything' sort of way. Charisma like whoa et cetera, the kind of thing that makes my hormones sit up and take notice.

And they especially noticed when he was hitting on me in the club last week. Back then I was down with being shy because I was scared of going too far. Tonight I was ready, I knew what I wanted, I was totally going to have him and I completely bottled it. I couldn't even keep eye contact without panicking and glancing away. So my dear and lovely and quite, quite drunk friend says she'll speak to him for me, having hatched a masterplan that would apparently make me irresistible.

And then he avoided me for the rest of the tortuously long evening.

I am pretty sure that if I'd just had a bit more to drink/grew a goddamn spine and actually approached him by myself it would either have ended much better or I'd at least have some inkling of why he'd be avoiding me. My friend was far too drunk to explain what she'd actually said to him and by tomorrow she's probably not going to remember.

Or I could just forget this raging lust-on for him, I mean it's not like he sits ten feet away from me at work. And he now knows for definite that I am pathetically interested. I. am. fucked. Not literally. Alas.