Cockblock Heartbreak On The Dancefloor

The art of cockblocking hasn’t been lost on the majority of London clubs. There’s nothing that gets on my tits like some other joker trying to get, quite literally, on my tits.

For those of you who aren’t quite down with the kids, allow Wikipedia to explain:

To cockblock is to prevent another person, intentionally or inadvertently, from having sexual intercourse with a third party. A cockblock or cockblocker is a person who engages in such obstruction or intervention. According to an article by a freelance writer, Joshua Bernstein, in the New York Press, cockblocking is a “foul act in which someone interferes with another’s attempt at finding happiness inside someone’s pants.”

We all have our methods of bounty hunting on the dancefloor, right? My tactic usually involves physically shifting myself to within ten feet of the target and briefly catching her eye mid-gyration. If this doesn’t work, I’ll jab her in the kidney when she walks past me. You can snigger, but nothing says “he’s interested” like a poke and a Cheshire cat grin.

The trouble with London dancefloors is that they’re inevitably infested with the same vermin such as myself, all looking to impress with the same high school charming techniques. And much to my despair, there are other guys who care about getting noticed much more than I do.

As the night progresses, the cockblocking escalates to the point where there’s an hour left until last orders and every man is throwing himself at whatever will dare to waggle it’s hips in his direction.

There comes a realization that your hopes of playing the disinterested James Bond, man of nonchalance, are contributing to your own downfall. I’ll usually earmark a girl I like and catch her eye a few times throughout the night, but no more than that. An hour between stares, maybe that’s where I’m going wrong? I’ll shoot her this occasional smoldering gaze, attempt to sip suavely from my…err…Vodka Red Bull, and then fuck off to the toilets after I’ve spilled it all down my shirt. Which is usually gaping open with four buttons ripped off their hinges at this point.

So there I am staring at my own sweaty reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not for too long, of course, what with some penny pinching prick and his bag of fragrances mocking “No spray, no lay” in my left ear lobe. I mouth to my own badly swaying mirror image that it’s time to get serious, it’s time to home in for the kill.

By the time I’ve exited the toilets, you can probably guess what awaits me. A rival wanker has hijacked my dancefloor territory and parked himself, and a group of his Ben Sherman adorned tossers, in the way of the love of my life. My shapes are flailing unnoticed in the darkness and he’s only gone and bought her a drink. Wait, is that his hand on her hip? I poked it first, bitch.

Another night, another heartbreaking cockblock on the dancefloor.

I’ve learned my lesson though. Synchronized toilet breaks are the way forward, London. You heard it here first.

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