And then there were 27…

So today was a make or break Budapest day at my hotel. The fact is that I was scheduled to be here for 5 days (until Saturday) and I was openly debating just leaving and moving back towards Brno. I’m not going to do that considering I have a hotel booked at it doesn’t cost anything additional to be here — so why waste money going somewhere else?

“wocka, wocka”

But the truth is that I still haven’t warmed up to Budapest. My first night I was basically chased by Romany Gypsies upon arrival, my first full day was primarily sleeping and today just started off all kinds of awful. The food here sucks and that just makes me miserable. Nothing was making this turn the corner. The only redeeming quality I’ve seen so far is that its a cheap place to visit. But then again I haven’t done anything because I didn’t feel like wasting time in a place that showed no interest in me.

Prague gave me drama from the moment I saw it on the drive in. Prague made me chase her. Budapest started off like the crazy psycho girl that wants you and won’t leave you be. Budapest made me want to fucking get out of dodge, and quick.

But I held out — despite the awful food, despite almost being mugged, despite sleeping off sickness… and I’m starting to think that I did the right thing. Because, after the lunch run to McDonald’s and finding out about testicles (read earlier posts if you’re lost), I came back to a welcome sight: a conference. Conferences are great places to meet people that are in the exact same situation — miserable. It is also easy to meet women because they are usually there alone — and since they don’t know you, but know you aren’t in the conference, they are more open to flirting with you. They aren’t hesitant about being called out; or shitting where they eat.

I used this opportunity as a way to salvage my stay. Instead of buying a Budapest 3-day card, I opted to park my ass in the lobby and wait for the options to present themselves. Almost immediately, the company’s receptionists at check-in were making eyes. And at the first opportunity, they came by to see what I was doing (having been on the other side, I know just how fucking boring it is to be the check-in people person… and I do the exact same thing — I chat up people, especially girls). Just to kill the monotony and boredom.

I told them that I was on vacation but was in desperate need of some locals to show me around because I was confused about the city. I then said that I was in lobby because doing work from my room was getting boring.

And just like that, *poof — the magic girl fairy showed up. Suddenly women were all engaging me in conversation. And I have the cute girl with the jet black hair, Edit, to thank. Apparently she took it upon herself to be my wingwoman. Which is always a good play (when a girl is your wingman). First it was Aniko — who sounds totally slanty, but isn’t — who was like the head sales manager at the hotel or something. Then its Kriszta — the group services agent, and soon enough various members of the conference. Aniko had a boyfriend but was nice enough… but Kriszta sounded promising. She told me that she gets off the clock at 10 pm but “stays around at least an hour or two later to ‘work out’.”

If that isn’t a fuck invitation, I don’t know what is.

Then came the wildcards: the people at the conference. Obviously Edit doesn’t know these people but still sent them my direction. The first couple were nice enough but not anything worth writing about. It was more like speed dating, except I wasn’t really chatting, more or less humoring. Then came this 40-something (I’m guessing 43 if I have to put a number to a face) and she proceeds to say, point blank: “God, I need some cock! Oh, sorry, ‘Hi, I’m Danielle.”

for all that hockey hullabaloo, and that bitch Anne Murray too…

Now you see, that, right there… there is something empowering about that. I laugh and say my name and then “let me guess, since you are so mild-mannered, I’m going to go with Canadian.” She’s like, “I’m from Montreal, how’d you know?”

I read your name tag: Danielle M., Montreal, Canada.

… so an hour later, she’s getting dressed and is like — so what room number are you in for the next time? “416.” Ok, great… hey wait, that’s my room number. That’s right sweetheart, and when you “need some (more) cock,” just tell me in the lobby again.

Let that be a lesson: Never, under any circumstances, disclose your room number. It’s your panic room should you need to retreat away from anybody or anything. Once you disclose it, you are done.

So I return to the lobby with my computer — Canadian flag in hand — and I see this woman that is staring in my direction, yet expressionless. She looks like she’s in a coma, just staring at the elevator. I wave and she briefly breaks out of it. Naturally I say, “caught you daydreaming, huh, is the conference that boring?”

She laughs and says ‘No’ and that she is just waiting for someone to come down so that she can get the key and go back into the room. Then I hear it…

“Oh Jacqui, you are back! Have you been waiting long?,” from behind me. Soon enough I’m looking at the woman I just met and banged, and the daughter she failed to mention she had and who was staying in her room on the bed that we just violated. “Was it fun? You’re going to love it here, the men are really nice. And I see you’ve met Ryan Bingham.” [if you get this reference, you watch too many movies]


Jacqui: “Wait like George Clooney’s character in Up in the Air?” [you little motherfucker Jacqui]

Searle: I’m sorry? Don’t think so, never saw the film.

Jacqui: “Oh, well that’s his character’s name in that movie. How do you two know one another?”

Super awk-awk-awkward

Danielle: “Actually we met working out early today.” [Nice recovery, Danielle]

Searle: “Actually, your mom is lying, we just had sex in your room for the last hour or so… I’m kidding.”

Ah. Fuck.

Crisis averted. Remember, the truth WILL set you free. As in, not even fucking around with that one again. But this isn’t a one-night stand because we had sex in broad daylight… so no harm no foul. And no, definitely not going up that direction again. 416. 416, 416. Child on board. 416, with child. Wait, MILF! YES! FUCK IT LIST!

Fortunately Jacqui leaves and Danielle is pulled into a conference meeting. I could’ve been a massive vagina and just gone up to my room and avoided them both — but I was feeling dangerous. And there was this girl that had literally walked by me 13 times (and those were just the ones I was counting) with her head down, and all 13 times she steals a glance after walking past. Same routine each time.

I thought to myself — I’m going to distract her next time and figure out what her story is; see what she’s all about. Part of me thought she was either slow, daft or slightly retarded. However, she did have a fabulous rack and walked like Jan Brady so they bounced to the rhythm like two kids pillowfighting. It was kinda adorable.

The longer I stayed in the lobby, the more observations I received/made, and the more I liked what I saw. I had it in my mind that my best options were the people in the hotel, because I wasn’t going to be prowling the Budapest night for vaginas. And the options in the hotel were quality. Not Czech girl quality, but better than randoms at a bar. And the T&A coefficient was strong. As was the waist-to-hip ratio.

Finally, daft girl comes by yet again — her 14th trip past me since I’ve been there. I wave. She smiles but proceeds to leave the hotel anyway. Well that worked terribly. I ask loudly across concierge “so when you come back, will you sit and chat?” Smile again, out the door she goes.

An hour passes and those mangy conference-goers are doing the idle chit-chat thing. No sign of Canada which means she retreated to her own panic room and is avoiding me. Great! Makes life easier for me. But then this super hot older woman strolls in from the outside. I haven’t seen her before because she’s now officially checking in. She has the bellboy grab her bags that she’s dropped off already. Within seconds I disseminate that she is either Russian or Ukrainian. I also realize that I have absolutely no shot with her, because nobody does, which is a great thing.

Ah yes, the forbidden fruit. Perfect.

I use her services anyway, unbeknownst to her. You see, women don’t react well to competition. It’s pretty much why women’s sports inherently suck, by definition. And they certainly don’t like competition in the looks department. Call it the Hooters waitress rule but hotter women equal hornier men, which means larger wallets and better tips. Hotter women get more attention. Hotter women affect the less attractive woman’s bottom line.

Now this chick is a stunner. She looks like a Russian Jayne Mansfield (pic.). Flawless skin, bleached blonde hair, boobs like pow, cute face, tiny waist…

…Thick legs in shape. Rump shaking both ways. Make you do a double take. Planet Rocka show stopper. Flo froppa head knocker. Beat stalla tail dropper. Do my thang motherfuckers.

Clearly she’s had work done. Then I see it; her bags. I think she thinks that she’s Fergie — Gucci, Prada, Louis V.; 5 bags deep. Perfect. She’s high-maintenance (something I completely loathe). I’m instantly not attracted anymore — but she is undeniably hot. Late 30’s, tits might be 5-7 years of age but more likely 8-10 years old or more. Other women are chatting about her and I’m just blatantly ignoring. By design. Women like being paid attention to. I oblige by chatting with the masses instead.

Not 30 minutes after her grand arrival, Mother Russia is mingling downstairs, in a different outfit entirely. She thinks it’s the Oscars, I believe. She breaks code and engages me. “Hello, I’m Karina.”

Hi, Karina, I’m Ryan.

“You here for conference?” No, I’m on vacation.

“Where from?” The United States.

“Why here? You come for girls?” No, I’m married.

“You no wear ring though. I no believe. Good looking like pretty cat. I look to hook up with young guy from America? How old?” I’m 40.

“Perhaps, yes… maybe… no. You 30. I 33, you like older hot chick?” Oh… well there are plenty of guys here that are looking for a cougar and can help you out. I’m happily married though. Enjoy the conference.

[and if she’s 33 then I’m the fairy fucking godmother… 42 at least]

And with that I rejoin other conversations. All seem to be impressed that I took the woman down a peg or two. Before dinner another one asks, “Are you really married?” I tell her the truth. She gives me her room number and I tell her that I appreciate the offer but that I can’t meet up tonight… but maybe tomorrow. She agrees.

And she’s South African — Apartheid South African — so now I won’t ever have to go to Africa to capture that flag in my life. Provided I act on it. I doubt I will but I’ll continue to feel her out tomorrow during the day. It is a good way to deflect attention too… you don’t want somebody clinging to you, after all.

Through it all, I notice walking girl pass me by yet again, but she’s with a guy this time so I just nod and give the universal “I know, and it’s perfectly fine… I understand” look. Its the aww, shucks lip bite/half shrug.

It wasn’t looking promising but it was starting to get later on in the evening and Kriszta (the girl from the hotel staff) came up to tell me she was getting off work soon and asked if I was still interested in getting together (which I thought would save the night). I told her that I would be at the bar on the second floor — but she said that I should meet her up on the 7th floor roof — by the outdoor pool, etc. It’d be away from other guests and her coworkers.

Oh, yes, discretion. Good call Kriszta. Never want a fuck invitation to be seen by coworkers and guests. Very smart play. Then we can get down to business in private. I say that I’ll go up at 10:05 pm and wait for her to show up. But if she isn’t there by 10:25, I’m leaving. 10:09 she shows up…

And I can report that I just finished up hanging out with her. I can also report that apparently I don’t know what an invitation to fuck is after all. Because she

1. has a kid and

2. a boyfriend

…so that was out of question.

It was her legs workout day anyway — so we worked out our lower backs and legs for like 90 minutes. Now I can’t fucking walk. She was like a East German discus thrower…

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One thought on “And then there were 27…

  1. […] is imperative that before you read this entry — you read the previous one. This way you can get slightly acquainted with the girl in question. If you read this without first […]

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