would like to be slapped?

By a girl?
Or, probably you would prefer to be pickpocketed, ....by another girl?

I am getting way ahead of myself here. Where do I start? Let's go chronologically.

It is 7:30ish. My sim is dead. I can't call. I pick up my deskphone and dial. Too much work, too little time. Why is there tomorrow anyway? I shut down the machine and leave in a huff. Destination, Tropez. Alas, can't find Samborera. The waitresses are opening bottles of Tusker left right and center. That seductive hissing sound as the bottle top disengages; I can't wait. I peer about and I see a bubbly shadow on the other side, so I make my way there. There is a woman at the table.

Tempo rising. The beer is getting to all of us (including those who don't drink). The lady starts doing salsa on the seat, leaning perilously towards Samborera. Red flag! Time to go, time to go.

ChinaMan sends me an SMS. Zeep. Nothing extra-ordinary happens here. I escort him to the stage.

It is now late. I am delirious. As I come back from the neighbourhood of Jazz, I meet a twilight chic next to the Sony showroom. I stare at her a bit as I pass by.
Hi.
Wow. I backup. In a flash I am at her side. Hi yourself. She places her hands on my shoulder. We start some quasi-haggling. Buy me beer. I am broke. 500. Too high. Her hands are on my mid-section. I am kneading her breasts.
.
.
.
I decide I have had enough fun for one night. I withdraw my claws from her chest. I put my hands in my pocket, in a gesture of neither satisfaction nor despair. She realizes I am not bringing any business her way and makes to go.
There is no phone. THERE IS NO PHONE!My blood chilled. Quickly. My phone is old, but I am not giving it up, especially when I am staring the thief right in the face.

I grab her arm. "What?" She has become hostile now. I want my phone, madam. She laughs derisively and mocks me: "what phone?". At this point, I am not joking at all. We argue. How did she get it out of my pocket in the first place? I was sure it was her. She even dares me to search her, which I do. I run her down like a professional officer of our delightful police. Nothing.
She laughs out loud. She wants to leave. I detain her. She starts shouting. Damn. I am worked up now. She tries to claw my face and get away. I lift her and slam her into the wall. As she tries to free herself, wriggling and shaking, my phone pops off her shoe! I grab the handset.

"Thats mine". The nerve of that woman. She lungs for the phone. I throw her off. She tumbles, falls and screeches on the pavement for 10 metres. At this point I think she realizes that indeed life is dear, and I might just take hers if she continues being silly. She contents herself by insulting me from a safe distance of 20 metres. I am walking away.

I proceed to the stage and hop into a mat. I sit next to a drunk woman, wearing a short skirt with a huge slit up the middle. The slit is split wide open and almost the entire length of her thighs is visible. Man! Don't I just love these night jaunts! Being silly, and the alchohol obviously not helping, I am contemplating touching her legs. She stirs from her drunken stupor as I make unsure movements and addresses me thus:
"If you touch me I will slap you so hard". Is it worth it to be slapped? My common sense (which is hardly common because if it were I would never be in half as much trouble) kicks in and I immediately abandon my intentions to massage those thighs. But not quite. So I counter:
"But I can stare?" to which she replies "Stare all you like". Ahhhhhhhhhhh. I move my face to mere centimetres from her thighs and study them cell by cell.

Ai ai.