I was swinging my leg off of the mechanical bull at Johnny Utah’s that I had just conquered when I noticed a guy with an awesome duck backpack.
I went up to compliment the fit, dirty-blonde in the white tee with a naked girl on it. He, in return, complimented me on my excellent bull riding skills and then proceeded to tell me about his funny bag collection. I told him that I had a funny bag collection as well so he challenged me to a competition. I exchanged numbers with the hot guy, who turned out to be British. And for about a month, we sent each other pictures of ourselves with ridiculous bags.
Eventually I met up with British Bag Boy and not for lack of effort.
At the bar, he ripped his pants dancing. He explained that his legs had been getting bigger from crossfit and that he’d been ripping all of his pants. I suggested bigger pants.
He wanted to resolve the pants issue by going back to his place and he invited me to come. I fell asleep the second that my face hit the pillow.
The next morning he pounded me so aggressively that I wasn’t even involved. I thought his cross-fit would make him fit and therefore good in bed, but apparently fit does not mean skilled.