He Does Not Look Good

There’s a certain electricity in the air when you know you look hot. Not cute. Not “nice outfit.” I mean hot—that once-in-a-blue-moon, swish-through-the-room, every-hair-falling-in-place kind of hot. And that was me, stepping into my mate’s birthday party like it was the Met Gala and I was the only one who got the memo.

I'd picked the outfit. That outfit. The one that hugs you in all the right places and makes you walk like you’re three glasses of Prosecco deep even when you’re stone cold sober. I felt invincible. Ready to sip cocktails, dance until my knees gave way, and bat away flirtations like a seasoned Love Island reject. What I wasn't ready for was the plot twist. Isn’t there always one?

Enter: the Awkward Elephant in the Room—my ex-friend. Yes, that ex-friend. You know the one. You fall out, there’s drama, maybe a flurry of passive-aggressive Insta stories, and then it’s just... silence. Ghost-town friendship. But of course, she’s at the party, and so is her Adonis of a brother. And her boyfriend. And me, ducking behind other people's hairstyles like I’m on a stealth mission in heels.

I was playing dodge-the-drama like a pro until I spotted him: Cute Guy Across the Room. He looked... fresh. You know what I mean—baby-faced, slightly soft around the edges, a bit like a young Colin Farrell if he’d traded Hollywood for hash browns. Definitely too young. Thirteen years too young, to be precise. But did that stop me? Of course it didn’t.

He sauntered over with the confidence of a man who thinks his Spotify playlist could win a Grammy. We got chatting. Harmless banter. A compliment here, a cheeky grin there. Next thing, he’s placing a hand on my lower back like he’s in charge of the moment—and somehow, I'm letting him be. Sparks? Maybe. Chemistry? Possibly. Regret pending? Likely.

Before I could say “Are you even old enough to remember dial-up internet?” we’re kissing. Yep. Right there. In the middle of the party, in front of people I vaguely know and absolutely do not trust to keep secrets. So I do the only sensible thing—suggest we take it outside.

Now outside was supposed to be discreet. A quiet snog under the stars. Romance! Mystery! Maybe a cheeky wind-blown hair moment. But no. Instead, plot twist number two: Ex-Friend’s Brother and his girlfriend walk out mid-lip-lock. And just like that, we’re in a Netflix teen drama. I pull myself together and wander over to do the awkward "Heyyy, fancy seeing you here even though we both know we’d rather be anywhere else" chat.

The brother, by the way, looks like a Greek god who moonlights as a protein shake. He’s polite, inquisitive. He glances at my party snog, looks at me, then back at my party snog again. “He looks good,” he says, deadpan.

No. No, sir. He does not look good. He looks like he’s halfway through a pizza and a quarter through puberty. I smile and mumble, “Just met him tonight,” while dying inside. The cringe. The cold, harsh cringe of being caught in the act with someone you already know isn’t going anywhere.

The guy takes my number. I vanish. Houdini, but in heels. And like a true one-night plotline, he vanishes too. We never text. We never call. We just evaporate from each other’s lives like tequila shots on a hot night.

And honestly? Probably for the best. Overweight lads in their twenties with unfinished beards and a penchant for handsy flirting aren’t quite my final destination.

But the story? Oh, it was worth it.

Stay tuned for the next instalment of Poor Choices & Prosecco: A Memoir—because if I’m going down, I’m at least making it funny.