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The Forborne Posturer

I’m going to change my ways. No more writing cynical, heavily filtered perceptions. No more judgmental nonsense. Wendy thought this would make a great inspirational poster, maybe even an adjustment to her own life, one that she should apply. The blog she ran was becoming bloated with such observations. The comments came less and less and the shares were her’s alone.

Wendy worked as a barista in the most fuck’me hipster wonderland cafe called The Forborne Posturer. Hippies, surfers, uni students, yoga mums, numbnuts with fucked up hair, cabbies, hookers and their clients, just about every bugger. Some of the more desperate wore outlandish vintage hipster clothes and carried manual typewriters, vinyl record players simply to provide a statement of their deluded “unique level of cool” to people they mistakenly think gave a fuck. A fuck they didn’t. Well, the hookers, their clients and the incredibly fit the yoga mums did of course.

Wendy wasn’t any of those.

Wendy was a 30 something woman who enjoyed live music, a social drink, good food and a good fucking when she could be bothered. She could be bothered today she thought. The last gig she’d enjoyed was a distant 3 weeks ago now and she scoured the local alternate music, art and stuff mag for the next. The next leapt out like an eye test.

The Moist Boys were to be playing at her local haunt the Mudpuddle in 2 months. She bought a ticket and wondered who she could invite to this show. The last invite was an embarrassingly sloppy night of lost opportunity and disgusting mess. She tried very hard to get the cocktail barman hard. He’d enjoyed too many of his free cocktails, a sip for them – gallons for him style. He was shit faced but his shit facedness didn’t turn on until he got to Wendy’s small one bedder. He collapsed on the one bedder, farted, followed through and then proceeded to vomit over Wendy’s inquisitive cat. Mumbles ran off and hasn’t gone back to the bed since. She used to almost kick Wendy out as she’d own the bed prior to the grotesque regurgitation.

Wendy had received a huge amount of apologies and a good seeing to later on that week. Harry had quite a style when he wasn’t completely off his tits. He worshipped Wendy’s tits and all of her other bits. Wendy didn’t mind that at all and prayed at the proud alter of Harry as well.

Wendy thought while at work … “Who gets a go for the Moist Boys ?”

The manager at The Forborne Posturer was an annoying dickhead. Man-bun, yoga style harem pants, no socks, the obligatory beard (and beard oil) three Tibetan woven bracelets (that stunk like sweaty jock straps) a classic car, actually it was just a shit box but he thought it was so cool. In fact, Wayne thought that he was the king of the hipster hippy dudes and was a trendsetter. A red setter set more trends than this plonker.

“Why don’t you and I go and get Moist together perved Wayne. I like them, I like you and I’d love to get all organic on your arse.”

“Fuck off Wayne” … offered Wendy.

The cafe was packed. All the handsome Instagram models types and their incessant posing knew no boundaries, their pouts, their coffee, this week’s organic health fad foods, their watches, clothes, bums, tits, sunglasses, even their pets. The camera sounds overwhelmed the in-house music sometimes. The cheek kissing even had a slurping noise that Wendy would never get over. The quietest and seemingly nicest person in today sat very much removed from the glorified fools and just sat drinking his tap water and eating his double serving of bacon and eggs, just like he did every Thursday morning. No fancy schmancy, just good old fashion I’m super fit and need a big breakfast. Well, the fit part was an assumption on Wendy’s part. When she cleared his table she caught a glimpse that confirmed her wish. He was as buff as a jewellers left thumb and was actually buying a ticket to the Moist Boys as she approached and loitered. Well, chuffed, turned on and emboldened by his actions, she pounced.

“Moist Boys hey, I’m going as well, I love the Moist Boys” … Wendy rolled that last bit out like a strippers introduction. The buff boy couldn’t help but notice and to Wendy’s joy said as bold as brass .. “Great, I hope I get to catch up with you there.”

The date was soon to be set, buff boy could not escape Wendy’s grasp. The next Thursday she offered her number and willingness to be sort of, maybe if you’d like, it’s OK if you don’t …

Unspoken of course … I want to go with you to Moist Boys, have a few drinks and fuck each other senseless before the night is through.

Oddly neither stunned nor reluctant, (Wendy was super hot after all), buff boy said hell yeah. His name being almost irrelevant was Peter and he was very keen to follow Wendy’s plan. Wendy was very excited and raced home when it was time to do so and started typing out a blog post. Mumbles approached the bed and curled up as Wendy tapped like a banshee.

The post, when finished turned out to be a cross between a modern-day dating tale, a band review and an overview of the Mudpuddle, which remained her favourite local music venue.

The post got 5,867 shares, heaps of twitter action and the comments never stopped. Wendy and Peter have seen a few more bands together since and remain great fuck buddies.

Wendy’s new philosophy … “You just never know what is going to happen at work.”

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