As I mentioned earlier, while bitching and moaning about Americans, my younger brother is in town. We’ve gone out once or twice since he’s been here. A few days ago, we were out drinking one night, nothing too horribly exciting.
We had found another group of non-Swedes (a few girls and a few guys) that we were talking with. They were all taking a few days to explore Stockholm.
Nice enough people really. I happened to be talking to an Irish girl when suddenly another guy tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was Irish. It’s got to be the bright orange beard. He was Swedish. I responded in Swedish, that no, I was not, but this girl was. And pawned her off on him. That’s just the kind of wingman I am. Even for people I don’t know.
Turns out, he was not appreciative of the girl being pawned off on him. Turns out he was gay. And turns out, asking if I was Irish, was his pick-up line. This was revealed to me later, by my loving brother, who had encouraged the whole situation.
CBCC had been asked if he knew me. He kindly said, yes, of course he did. We were brothers, perhaps he should talk to me. So the guy did just that. I guess he needed an ice breaker. Personally, I would have preferred being asked if it hurt. You know, when I fell from heaven. But instead, my orange beard was just too hypnotizing and he worked with what I gave him. Which was not much considering I immediately, and unknowingly, shot him down before turning back to the rest of the group and letting the gay man talk to the Irish girl.
Despite my hairy Village People chest, I’m not gay, and apparently, I have no sense whatsoever of people who are. I live my life oblivious to most things, and gay men trying to hit on me is one of them. In the end though, I’m just pumped someone tried to pick me up in a bar. It’s the little things really.
Welcome to Sweden. And bad pick-up lines.
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