Smile! You’re in Fucking London!

Julie E. Miller

March 2, 2007

I’ve always been attracted to assholes…maybe not in the literal sense, but in the archetypal personality trait sense. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want a guy who’s going to abuse me physically or verbally. But I’ve always liked them to be cocky and arrogant. I don’t know what it is, but I find biting sarcasm and blatant honesty to be a real turn on.

My junior year of college, I decided I needed to do something for myself. So my friend Jess and I packed our bags and off we went to London, England.

Needless to say, that first time he ever spoke to me I knew he was the one…not the ‘one’ in the forever and a day sense, but the one as in he had to be the one British guy I kissed. He was arrogant, he was a badass. Everyone told me not to.

But how could I not?

Our first night at the pub, he approached a few of us asking about weed…anyone who knows me well enough knows that I don’t smoke weed…never touched the stuff and never plan on it. He was my type though…and he looked like a rakish Christian Bale. Michelle, one of my fellow London girls, told me he was ugly, told me what a loser he was.

But I just couldn’t listen.

His name was Dominic…and I had a serious case of lust on my hands.

The next few times we ran into him, the only thing he could ever manage to stutter out was a, “Smile! You’re in fucking London!” Of course, we all adopted this phrase and laughed every time someone said it. The second time we ran into him, he bought my friend Mari and I a drink.

And after that, I got a severe case of the nerves. I couldn’t approach him as much as anyone told me to. They all told me I needed to talk to him. They told me to follow him out one night and tell him he forgot his beer. In my own drunken stupor, the only thing I could even think of telling him was, “Come back! You forgot my virginity!”

Thank God, I didn’t actually say it to him.

And then, one night I actually found courage through one too many tequila shots and vodka and lemonades.

All night I’d stared at him and acted like a total high schooler. I even tripped him on purpose and then looked away as if I hadn’t done it. I mean, who does this sort of thing?

As we were leaving though, my moment arose…as who was walking up the stairs behind me, but the Christian Bale look-alike, Dominic?

Knowing it was now or never, I blurted out, “You know. You don’t love me, but I think I love you.” Alcohol. It makes you say things you never would sober.

He stopped walking and looked at me and said, “You know. Will you call my mother and tell her that so she knows someone does?”

Of course, my response was to wrap my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek.

Looking back on it, this whole exchange was so unbelievably immature…but writing it down, I still have this huge cheesy grin on my face.

I then went on to blabber about how I wanted to have his babies, how I had wanted to talk to him all night, and how I never had the nerve to approach him because I didn’t feel as if I was good enough.

To which, I got, “You shouldn’t. You’re beautiful and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

So what if it was probably said because he was drunk. This was one of the nicest things anyone has ever told me. My stomach churning, I grabbed his face and told him to kiss me. And as chaste as it was, I did it.

I got my kiss from my pretty London boy.

And now I don’t have to worry about approaching him, because it’s done. I got what I wanted and that’s that. Do I want to date him? No. Do I really want to have his babies? No.

But for those few minutes, I was a femme fatale laying it out on the line…even if I was incredibly inebriated.

And you know what?

What a hell of a memory to take back to the States.

Note: I know you haven’t heard much from me lately…as I am in London at the moment. I’m finally starting to write again, as my creativity has been sparked. I’ve got a short story rolling around in my head…so the minute I get the chance, it’ll be posted. Be on the look out. --Julie