EFFIE BATEMAN | BRISBANE | CONTACT
Honestly, if local woman Alyssa Clarke had rethought the events of her night, she would have seen that the warning signs were all there.
The suggestion to do sambuca shots.
The request to exchange Snapchat names.
The slight almost indescribable nod to the DJ before Limp Bizkit started playing.
But no, as Alyssa eyed the tight rolled up white T shirt barely containing the bursting mound that Jared’s enormous bicep, the looming red flags quickly had turned into a haze of fiery lust. She should have known better than to go home with a hot stranger she met at The Rush, but after several months of no activity she figured a late night with a charming country boy was good enough.
Speaking to our reporter the next day, a very hungover Alyssa recalls the night’s events.
“I should have realised when I saw a Nissan Skyline in his driveway”, says Alyssa as she attempts to keep down her glass of water.
Alyssa tells our reporter that she’d suspected her country beau might have been on the lighter side of twenty and that her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the empty Nundy bottles on his bedroom mantlepiece.
“Yeah I’m too old for this shit, fucking empty bottles of alcohol aren’t decor mate.”
She adds that it might have been okay if there’d been the odd bottle or two of something other than the spirit staple.
“Honestly, Wild Turkey is my limit.”
“But even that’s pushing it.”
More to come.
