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In my second year of university, a few friends and I went to the Greek Islands on holiday. It was a typical young person’s holiday involving little more than days spent on the beach and evenings drinking and trying to pull girls.
On the island of Ios, most nights ended up in a big open air disco called something like “Fiesta” or “Siesta” – I can’t remember exactly, but it was something suitably holidayish. On our second night in the disco, I met a good-looking Irish girl. We were both drunk and full of holiday cheer, although I was, I think, quite a bit drunker than her. Nevertheless, she agreed to “go for a walk” and somewhere down a narrow lane we began kissing. I was pleased to have pulled so early in the holiday and was just thinking about whether I should take her back to the room I shared with my friends and risk them walking in on us, or suggest a stroll to the beach in the hope of finding a secluded spot, when the girl suddenly stopped kissing me and said, “Do you want to go to bed?”
“I was just thinking that,” I smiled. “Mine or yours?”
“No,” she said, “Do you want to go to bed? You just don’t seem that interested.”
In the end, she went home and I went back to the disco to find my friends, but I still have no idea what I was doing wrong.
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