I've often wondered just how far I'd go just to exchange bodily fluids with a bird, but the other night I think I reached even my limits. I'd been working on her for a little while, and while she wasn't utterly repulsed by my advances, she wasn't exactly throwing herself onto her back, waving her legs in the air and shouting "Get inside me like a steam train entering a surprisingly moist tunnel!" I was forced to sink to depths of depravity the likes of which I have never sunk before. No, NOT rohypnol. (I find a knife and a transit van much more effective) Instead, I actually took this young lady to the ballet. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame at this tactic, but I had a very good rationale for this I swear. First, she had been a ballerina once, until her body had developed too much, fnar fnar. So she loved the ballet apparently, and this seemed like a sure fire way to get her in the mood to strike a few poses. Secondly, the thought of watching extremely limber Russian jailbait prancing around without the aid of money being thrust into their lingerie seemed not too unattractive, and probably more cost effective. Thirdly, did I mention she used to be one of these extremely limber jailbait ballerinas with the added bonus of tits? In any case, I felt vaguely justified about taking her to the nutcracker. This was my first mistake, as I soon found this was the name of the ballet due to the comfort level of the seating provided. I was also rather annoyed to see that our seats were not so close to the stage that I might get an inadvertent lapdance should one of the Russian tarts fall off the stage. At least we were close enough to be able to spot the camel toes that seem to be so closely associated with leotards. Now I have no idea about the story of the nutcracker, but apparently the Pied Paedophile of Hamelin gives some kids presents, then steals them away to train to fight the mole-man army while providing one girl with an inflatable doll that she runs away with to play with the fairies... or something like that. So watching young ladies prance around the stage wasn't that bad, nice arrse here, great legs there, mini-tits everywhere. Then all of a sudden MOOSE KNUCKLE! Bloody hell, the blokes come prancing out, sporting the kind of bulge usually associated with people smuggling parakeets through airport customs. It doesn't matter how athletic the feats being performed are, if you do them wearing spray-on tights you're going to look err... less than firm wristed. It's for this same reason I think pro-wrestlers are also trying to overcompensate for something. Oh the horror. The sight of nubile young Russians with their legs tied behind their heads was lost in the horror of male leotard packages. Barrse-tards. for almost two hours I sat/squirmed through this, while my shag-to-be's eyes glistened at the thrill of it all, the dirty minx. Gotta shag though.