I Used a Fake British Accent to Get a Girl to Dance With Me
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
I was three tequila sodas deep when I saw her.
She was tall—like, model tall—with a thick curtain of dark hair down her back and the kind of posture that made everyone else in the club look like they were slouching through life. She was wearing a black dress that looked simple until you realized it fit her like it had been negotiated directly with her body. She was dancing with two friends, completely unbothered, not scanning the room, not pretending she wasn’t having fun. Which, for reasons I can’t fully explain, made me want her attention even more.
I did a quick internal audit of myself. Five-eight on a good day. Average face. Decent arms, but nothing that screams approach me immediately. I had nothing interesting to open with. No clever line. No shared context. Just vibes and a mild buzz.
That’s when my brain offered up its worst idea like it was a gift from God.
Do a British accent.
I don’t know why my brain went there. I’m not British. I’ve never lived in England. My exposure to British people comes exclusively from Love Island, a semester of watching Peaky Blinders, and one regrettable situationship with a girl who studied abroad in London and wouldn’t shut up about it.
Still, the thought lodged itself in my head. A British accent would make me interesting. Exotic. Mysterious. At the very least, it would buy me 30 seconds of attention.
I walked over before I could talk myself out of it.
She glanced at me, neutral but open, the way hot women do when they’re used to being approached but haven’t yet decided whether you’re worth engaging with. My heart was pounding. I leaned in slightly so she could hear me over the music and said, in what I hoped sounded like a casual London cadence:
“Sorry—bit random—but you’ve got the best energy on the floor tonight.”
She blinked. Then smiled.
“Oh my god,” she said. “I love your accent. Where are you from?”
And just like that, I was in too deep.
“Uh—London,” I said. “Well. Originally.”
Originally from where, sir? The suburbs of California? I nodded like this was a perfectly normal thing to say.
She introduced herself. I told her my name, still British. Every sentence felt like walking across thin ice. I was hyper-aware of every vowel, every R I couldn’t pronounce too hard. I kept my sentences short to avoid slipping into full American. I sounded less like a real person and more like a man doing a bad audition for a Netflix rom-com.
Every sentence felt like walking across thin ice.
But it was working.
She leaned in closer when she talked. She touched my arm when she laughed. She asked what brought me to the States, and I told her I’d “moved for work,” which is vague enough to be believable and specific enough to shut down follow-up questions.
After a few minutes, I asked if she wanted to dance.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
On the dance floor, the accent mattered less. Music swallowed words. Bodies did the talking. She moved confidently, effortlessly, like she wasn’t performing for anyone. I matched her rhythm, grateful that dancing didn’t require a nationality. Her hands found my shoulders. Mine settled on her waist. At one point she leaned in and shouted, “Your accent is so hot,” and I nearly blacked out from guilt and tequila.
We danced for two songs, maybe three. Eventually her friends tugged her away, whispering in her ear. She squeezed my hand before leaving.
“Find me later, yeah?” she said.
“Absolutely,” I replied, still British, now committed to the bit like my life depended on it.
She disappeared into the crowd. I stood there, suddenly sober, staring at the space where she’d been. The adrenaline faded, replaced by the realization that I could not—under any circumstances—maintain this lie past another drink or two.
At one point she leaned in and shouted, “Your accent is so hot,” and I nearly blacked out from guilt and tequila.
I left the club twenty minutes later, accent retired, dignity questionable, but strangely proud.
Did I get her number? No. Did I hook up with her? Also no.
But for three glorious songs, I was a mysterious British man in a crowded club, and a hot tall brunette chose to dance with me.
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