Pick me up

I looked around the club. A few mildly interested gazes hovered like flies about my person, before one such glance and it's source descended upon me.
"It's too early! A bundle of neurons squealed anxiously in the back of my mind; I hadn't yet even begun my first drink, and had none of that liquid courage that I relied upon. Dread's clammy hand caught my throat, and I knew the speech centres in my brain had stalled. My vision came to my aid though. As my assailants features came into focus, beneath the lights surrounding the bar, I realised my concerns were unfounded; she was good-looking, but not so impressive that she'd blow any of my circuitry.
She smiled ravishingly, and swung her hips: "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
Her bad pickup line missed me by a mile, but my eyes were drawn magnetically to her legs.
"Hmm," I said, following along with the imaginary script. I frowned thoughtfully, to look rugged and masculine like the hero in a typical 50's crime film.
"University maybe? I go to Curtin" I suggested.
She pouted wonderfully, and swung her hips again. I was prepared this time. Her legs were old news.
I didn't need to hear her say "me too" (she did anyway). Inwardly I scoffed; as if it matters. We'd never seen each other before, that much was obvious.
While we were talking I could feel myself being scoured by eyes I couldn't see. The light  around the bar reduced my vision to about an arms length in front of my face. Nonetheless the invisible gaze(s) was as intense as the golden eye of the sun focussed through a magnifying glass, and I was the sorry insect on the receiving end of that beam.
"I'm studying physiotherapy" I said.
"That's why your so hot"
I pretended not to have heard that, and prayed the bad lighting would hide the blush that stormed across my cheeks. Instead of responding, I took a long refreshing swallow from my neglected beer. Returning a compliment like that is like diving headfirst into a puddle. Always test the water first.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm in second year journalism." she giggled. I missed what was so humorous, but didn't have much time to consider this; because she moved closer to me by about a foot. This was an especially rivetting circumstance as there had only been a foot between us.
"My friends think your hot." she breathed onto my face. For a journalist she had very limited subject matter.
I needed some time to hide behind my drink, and tailor a snappy response, but she'd cunningly disarmed my beer arm. to raise my drink I would have to run my knuckles up her chest.
"What do you think about me?" she asked.
Uh oh. I could feel virtually feel a cross hair take immaculate aim between my eyes.
She looked at me, innocently. If journalism didn't work out, she could easily be a politician with a poker face like that; she was waiting for me to slip up.
Something that I always do. Either I say something too affectionate or insultingly indifferent. I was going to blow any hope I had, my failure was inevitable.
I opened my mouth, and was about to annihilate the situation, when the music changed.
The music which I had previously ignored; the music that, as the volume increased from impossibly loud to haemhorragically deafening, initiated a brain wave in my grateful gray matter.
My tortured cerebral circuits were back online.
I pressed my mouth to her ear, and shouted: "I think your absolutely stun-gorge-ning-ous-retty'.
I minced my words like vegetable soup-unrecognisable, but satisfying to those who want it.
Lets just say she wanted it.