When I was 19, my friend and I went on a summer roadtrip to Coolangatta to blow off some steam before going back to uni. We did all the usual touristy crap, got sunburnt and bought stuff from a 12 year old street kid in Nimbin, etc, and wound down on our last night by drinking vodka in a seedy bar up the road from our hotel. We got talking to some of the locals, and when we eventually made tracks, one of them followed me outside.
“Hey, do you want to come back to my place?” he asked.
“Oh, no thanks,” I said.
“Well can I come back to your hotel?” he tried.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, “Not really. No.”
“I’m not going to lie,” he continued, “I don’t want to watch tv or talk or anything. I just want to have sex with you.”
“Yes, I realise that,” I said, “I’m leaving now.”
“Okay…” he said, “But you should know that when I get home, I’m going to think about you while I masturbate.”