Confessions of a Schweffer

I considered writing about a schweff success (cuz ya know, I get loadz’a action), but apparently people love misery so here you go, a miserable tale of shweff-gone-wrong.

I wish I could live up to trashy magazine fame and call this something like “my boyfriend ate my mum and then married my dad” but unfortunately this is a simple case of flirting faux pas. The year was 2012, the month was May and yes you know where this is going….I may dipped into the pool of anti-schweff.

The target was an ‘unknown’, well not quite. We hadn’t yet met, I had simply admired from a far…as you do in St Andrews. Right? 

My draw to this particular target was totally superficial, after all, I knew nothing about him. With a few mutual friends in assistance, including a ‘Sex Coach’, the night of May Dip would see mission schweff take off. The location: a house party we were sure to both attend. I sauntered in full of drunken confidence and began a wonderful night of mingling, dancing and boozing the night away. Then BOOM, my crush enters.

After a few pep talks, a lot of whisky and a fresh coat of mascara I shimmied (I literally shimmied) my way over. I extended a hand and I introduced myself. A bold move to start with…self introduction. So far so good. Now for the crucial post intro silence either to be filled with lively conversation and flirtatious exchange or a simple send off suggesting the end of a very (very) brief affair. In my case, I made an attempt at the former. Armed with wit and charm I went in guns blazing.

Perhaps I’d had a little too much to drink, or maybe I just thought it would be hilarious, but I preceded to confess to “being a huge fan” and “watching you walking on North Street”. Obviously I could sense my somewhat forward approach was not going down well so in a moment of insanity I decided to run with it and go with a “sometimes you just have to put yourself out there, so this me putting myself out there for you…”.

Oh god, kill me now. After what felt like an hour (but was more like a whole 3 minutes) of confessions of a St Andrean stalker, it came, the inevitable and final “I’ll see you around”. If you are reading this, and you know who you are, I hope one day we can laugh at the whole thing as we watch our kids grow old….but for now, you can rest easy. I am onto the next skinny white boy….(luckily in this town that doesn’t give too much away).

Photo © Anna Gudnason