By Anonymous
The Croft Magazine // A Brass Pig regular shares a story of collective sexual dissatisfaction.
It's a Monday night at The Brass Pig and four housemates stumble past the bouncers. Wading through a dance floor heaving with mounting sexual tension, impending flat-cest and unpursued Tinder matches, they head to the bar to survey the options.
L, having been on a singular Hinge date, is already in an exclusive relationship and just here for the ritualistic congregation of Stoke Bishop's finest mullets. Much like the shoes sticking to the Jäger-coated floor, L is reluctant to be without the comfort that comes with clinging to a partner – even if that means ignoring some serious red flags and questionable performance.
Striving to forget her previously discouraging sexual experiences, E dishes out looks to those that are drawn to her erotic aura. Alas, like every week before, nothing comes to fruition; inhibited by her not-so-underlying daddy-issues. Shame, as she is gagging for a shag.
Whilst L, E and H are reconvening in the smoking area, C is nowhere to be seen. Having dodged his initial advances in public, she is nonetheless heading back with a guy who has paid her no attention, bar a suggestive glance. And so, she can be found adding to the fast-growing list of meaningless men who have enjoyed her company, beating something other than an egg on the Hiatt Baker kitchen table.
The subject of H's fancy is painfully unaware of her unspoken admiration and further thrown off the scent by her insistence on setting him up with other options. Her insecurity-driven self-sabotage leaves her permanently celibate and with a reputation inconceivably innocent to those who knew her before. She psychs herself up, determined to make her intentions known. She turns with conviction, only to see him necking on with one of her suggestions, again.
L is in the mood to leave (in favour of food) as dregs of noughties music are fed to the last few sex-deprived hopefuls, and those gifted enough to dance to even the most tragic of choruses. Among them are H and E, whose abilities to cope with the deteriorating quality of songs drives potential suitors away, so they don’t have to.
And so, the sexual dissatisfaction of the four flatmates lives to see another Monday night. They (once again) unconvincingly swear to one another that there will be no more Brass Pig trips on the horizon.
Featured Image: Unsplash / Long Truong
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