That's not my name

Readers of a prudish disposition, look away now (which is way this post is likely to be crawling with typos: I have to write with my eyes shut).

Single Friend #1's dating misadventures just got even more tragicomical. The latest addition to the club is a young, dark-eyed artisto, with an irresistible smile on his face and too much dope in his system. And a flamboyant sex life. An inconsistent oscillation between interminable nights of passion and cigarette-filled afternoons of ennui, spent staring at the ceiling in silence. The uncertainty, not knowing how each encounter would end, made him even more attractive in the eye of the fool, who kept going back to his tiny, smokey flat.

Until that evening. When, after a considerable amount of cheap wine, in the midst of love-making, he ran his fingers through her hair and, in a single sigh, called her "Debbie". Not SF#1's name. Being stared at by eyes wide open in shock and surprise, he tried to quickly back-pedal and mumble some feeble explanation ("This other girl, no, I mean, my ex.. No, not what you think, not now, I mean, right now, clearly not, it is just the two of us in this bed, right? Unless you would be interested.. Ouch! Hey, stop it! You can do some permanent damage there..").

Which brings us back to the theme of nudity, and, in particular, to the question: how do you retreat with dignity when scantily clad? Especially if gravity, babies, pies and too-little-time-to-exercise start taking their toll on your slightly squidgy self? Can you take the moral high-ground while trying to cover your high, middle and lower grounds? And how can you expect a man to listen to any heated accusations when he is clearly mesmerised by the naked boobs bouncing in anger in front of him? Not a chance.

SF#1 opted for the silence treatment and a swift disappearance. Unfortunately she also ended up leaving behind some items of clothing she will never see again. Who knows, maybe they will fit Debbie..