When you start clocking up so many shags you forget not only names but exact numbers it takes its toll on you. Not physically so much, but mentally. Somehow the dream of one of these random fucks turning out to be ‘the one’ becomes less and less likely. You realise you are no longer addicted to the dream of finding Mr Right, rather you are addicted to the sex – the ‘high’ of scoring the cock you demand inside in you; another ‘notch on the bedpost’; a funny fabulous story to recount down the pub; a boudoir conquest; an escape from the loneliness – just a couple of hours in the arms of another, even if the comfort and attention is all just pretend.
And it started to hurty by the time I was thirty. Constant disappointment as I left one bedroom without wanting a return invite (if one was even extended). With the crushing realisation my wonderful twenties were behind me and facing the inevitable reality that I was just a slag who’d spend their life alone I thought I’d at least diminish the prospect of allowing myself to be a doormat to beautiful men.
There’s a great line in a Blur song (before they completely creatively disappeared up their own arses) – ‘and the mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty’.
Mine did. It has ever since if I’m honest.
I’ve always said there are three things I don’t do:
1) Bestiality (it’s okay to have a sneaky watch on zootube)
2) Poo (accidents are sometimes unavoidable)
3) Paedophilia (it’s always wrong and makes me ill thinking about it, let alone writing about it)
But Cougar Town was approaching. A stream of married men, experienced men had an emotional edge on me, upsetting the balance of power. The only alternative was to stop chasing older guys and start seducing younger men. The rationale behind it was that if they were older they’d be less experienced with women which would allow me to feel more in control and chances were less complicated emotionally (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way I’m not sure how complicated emotionally men ever are – and I’m not a staunch feminist man hater). I could have saucy sex without any sticky heavy emotional ties. Young guys wanna fuck – not get married and have babies.
I have to say for the most part this new plan worked – there’s a few other stories tucked away in that catalogue that I’ll return to at another time. Young might be fun but it can be…..messy in an inexpert way.
I wish I could remember his name. He was a scouser and I met him on faceparty – just as they eradicated all the ‘oldies’ from the site. I was lucky to get a code to reboot my profile and access this young person’s domain.
There is an escapable beauty in youth. Youth aside though he would remain beautiful even as he aged. In a few more years he could easily have gone Goth, but when I met him he was ‘geeky’. A little scouser that was a good catholic boy, and spent his time painting famous scenes from cult movies and selling them on eBay. A comic book collector. I’d have loved him when I was 13, but I was 30 now and I had the ability to not have to lust from afar. I could use my feminine wiles to draw him to London. And I did.
There was an innocence to him. Despite my reservations that my size would put him off he assured me it didn’t in the slightest. He thought I was ‘interesting’ and ‘sensitive’. I don’t think he realised I was just emotionally retarded. At 16 I suppose to him I was interesting. When he asked about seedy Soho and how sexually adventurous I was I’m guessing given my sexual history and overactive imagination a teenage girl couldn’t really complete. Perhaps I was the embodiment of maternal sexuality – I wonder if it was that I was non-threatening but highly available? Whatever he clearly thought I was worth the risk so he told his mum (he was from a single parent family) that he was headed to London for a comic book convention one weekend.
Picking him up from Victoria coach station I did feel a bit mumsy. I was vamped up appearance wise but I was shocked at how boyish he was. I wasn’t even sure he’d have pubes and I hoped to god he hadn’t lied about his age. It’s gotta be legal!
He was so skinny and wearing all black. He had jet black hair and deep green eyes – like a cat that had transformed into a boy. All leanness – I remember him telling me he had something like 2% body fat. His arms were like twigs and I had a feeling I wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute my favourite sexual position of me on my back with my legs wrapped round his neck…but I was willing to give it a try.
I just hadn’t thought through how overwhelming it may have been for him. He’d been to London once before with his Dad who had warned him off Soho, which clearly piqued his curiosity so I felt it was the best place to start.
Regardless of him being underage I didn’t incur any problems in getting him into pubs in Soho. And I definitely needed a drink to take the edge off as I felt like a naughty nanny. He was awfully shy and confessed that he never ate in public with cutlery (McDonald’s for dinner then – I kid you not!). But after a few drinks he relaxed enough to let go of his backpack and sidle closer to me on the couch at the trendy Soho pub.
All the texts and instant online messaging began to creep into the conversation. Did I mean the things I said online? Did I like him in the flesh and still want to do the things I had promised? Was I really happy to go shopping for sex toys with him to use later? Hello Mr Cutey Cute – YES!
I had my first kiss at 15 and never had another until I was 21. I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I sat in that bar, looking at the evening crowd tottering in for a night on the West End and should’ve felt out of place but as he eventually mustered up the courage to kiss me oh so gently, so tentatively I melted into the seat. It was a kiss I should’ve had 14 years earlier, but it was worth the wait. My cynicism and pain of rejection forgotten in that moment. To kiss like a teenager, to just explore, to be excited at the prospect of sex – it felt so innocent and exactly what I needed. There was no need to analyse, think it out, contemplate the art of seduction – the attraction was there and that motored things on.
Me moving my hand up his thigh, him moving his kisses to my throat, ears, panting like a puppy as his hands gently brushed over my exposed cleavage. I could feel myself dripping wet and decided to make a move.
I avoided Ann Summers – it’s way too mainstream and inoffensive. I opted for Harmony – decent stuff but not intimidating.
It wasn’t crazy or extreme toys we bought. We held hands and selected some handcuffs and a blindfold. Ever the gent he insisted on paying…..with his pocket money no doubt.
After a Maccas we headed back to mine. At the time I was living in the very hip Lambs conduit Street in Holborn – above a Café, with the landlord’s and café owner’s mother and a mysterious flatmate I never saw. The difficulty was that my room was a refurbished loft. You literally opened the front door of the flat to see a ladder. One had to climb the ladder to get to my bedroom. The ceilings were low but the room was massive – it’s just that it was directly overhead the town other bedrooms in the house so all movements and noises can be heard.
There was a single bed in the room, but I tended to use that as my couch and had a double futon on the floor. It was only when I was finally getting to strip that tight t-shire off to reveal a taunt skeletal pale white torso I heard the words I dreaded.
‘I lied about something’
‘I ummmm I never slept with another girl. I haven’t done this so. I might not get it right.’
Ding, ding, ding – JACKPOT!!!
I promised it’d be okay. And for just one night I didn’t feel used. I felt treasured, admired. To have someone desperate to explore your body. To try things they’ve only ever seen in porn movies and magazines. Someone without any need to be cruel. I had an urge to sing with angels – ‘I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I’d been sad and blue but you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new’.
For him everything was exciting. And knowing that my warm, wet minny was the first his mouse would visit was very flattering I must confess.
It wasn’t dirty sex, it was pure sex. Like the best vanilla ice cream ever that makes you think – ‘why do I always opt for chocolate and strawberry – this ice cream flavour is bliss’
That’s not to say the toys were neglected. I got him up on the single bed where I could cuff him to the bed posts and blindfold him. Suck him until he was begging for mercy. Demented with pleasure. I straddled him then – knowing I’d be the first woman to ever mount that lovely proud flawless cock – and rocked. I removed his blindfold and the sight of it was all too much. He was begging to suck my breasts and who I was I to deprive him.
Notwithstanding his impressive stamina it had taken its toll. He began begging me to get off. I was a bit miffed. I normally try and bare my full weight on my thighs in that position so as not to squash the man underneath. But he seemed distressed so I leapt off only to find as I did cum came out of his penis like a fire hose had been turned on and was unmanned – his cock whirling round, cum flying out like a sprinkler. It was a blast that jettisoned over us both. I reached down and rubbed the cum on his stomach down and massaged his balls with it while he moaned. Still handcuffed I let him watch as wiped his cum between my legs. He begged me to uncuff him and no sooner had I then he got quite forceful and pushed me down on the bed cuffing my wrists.
He put the blindfold on and I felt his fingers probing inside me, deeper and deeper. My body responded and he intuitively twisted them inside me making me moan. He spent a long time orally investigating the new shaven pleasure garden before getting hard and putting himself inside me again. With him in control it was a lot more frantic and frenzied – but who doesn’t like a good rogering now and again. Technique can be forgiven as long as lust and enthusiasm are present.
He was quick to withdraw again before ejaculation. He stood by the single bed, his eyes closed tight and his mouth fixed in a firm line, willing his cock not explode again. I got him to uncuff me and told him to kneel down as I positioned myself into a sitting position on the bed edge, legs dangling to the floor. He obliged and spreading my legs wide, then lips I gave a few clear concise instructions as to exactly where the clitoris was. Inexperience is sweet but lapping a cunt like a dog is only fun for so long – eventually you need to hit the right spot. It would only be fair to the next lady he laid with.
It was an exercise he seemed to enjoy as it wasn’t long before he was back inside me, my ankles in gripped in his hands as he pushed my legs over my head to go as deep as possible before withdrawing and cumming all over the backs of my thighs.
There’s always that awkward moment when you feel sticky and … well I’m an Aussie and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) – we like to shower once a day and I just can’t sleep if I feel dirty. So it was down the ladder for a shower but by the time I climbed stark naked up the ladder – which given my size cannot have been a good look. His green eyes were beaming and he was asking if he could do me doggy style. It seemed rude to say no, but I have to say by this time, age was taking its toll on me. I was thirty after all and not only needed my beauty sleep but wasn’t used to pulling an all-nighter – even if I could have a lie in tomorrow. This last session not only involved me on my knees on a hard loft floor with threadbare carpet, gritted teeth as I endured the pounding but was accompanied to a soundtrack of my elderly Portuguese flat mate (landlady’s mother) yelling in broken English that she didn’t deserve this noise at 3am.
I know longer felt like a porn star, I just felt tired. Eventually he collapsed and slept and I was grateful.
And like two teens aware that it was an infatuation there was the awkwardness the following morning of getting him back to Victoria Coach Station so he’d get home for school on Monday, finding a place to have breakfast that didn’t involve cutlery and him awash in catholic guilt saying if I was pregnant he’d stand by me.
He headed back to Liverpool and took my teenage dreams with him.
I’ve thought long about where to start and it has to be the beginning. But please don’t think the unfolding of my Odyssey will follow chronologically; with the cock-numbers I’ve clocked up I really can’t remember it that way. Sometimes, on a tube or in the middle of a street, I’ll get a really vivid sexual flashback to some encounter – one I’d long forgotten. Thus for the purposes of this recounting I’ll write as I remember. It certainly couldn’t be done on an alpha-names-basis because I honestly can’t recall every one.
In fact, I’d quite convinced myself every guy I slept with whose name I couldn’t immediately remember was called ‘James’. Then I realised, statistically, it looked like I’d slept with an inordinate number of Jameses so I decided to ‘fess up to myself and admit at times I maybe hadn’t even bothered finding out. As per the title of this blog though, all but a tiny few of these ‘Jameses’ were complete and utter dicks.
But I digress.
First I’m going to tell you about my flowering (vomit inducing – but what phrase to use?). Fear not, for those of you with teak-like sensitivities when it comes to pure filth. I’ll get round to that, but just not here and now.
This tale is tame in comparison to what I get up to slightly later in life, but a girl has got to start somewhere – and like quite a few I did so hymen intacto, albeit later than most. I was 21 when I finally ‘did it’.
Losing your virginity will always be memorable. I think. Certainly for a lot of women, definitely for me.
I’m not a hair racist, I promise (though we have some floating round my family so the propensity is there. They’re called ‘rangas’ in Australia after the Great orange-coloured Ape. I apologise on their behalf.). But I nearly got fucked by a ginger. And not the best looking one at that. He would have been my first. He wasn’t unattractive, but had that kind of sallow, underfed, English look that weirdly appeals to me. I liked him. But this was back in the day when mobile phones were something you had glued to your hand permanently as status symbol and only a tiny few had discovered text.
Having met him the week before, I arranged to see him the following week at the same club. One we were routine regulars at in Norbury, South London, of which more shortly. Had it not been for my best friend and clubbing companion ‘L’s’ poor time-keeping and inability to value or prioritise the needs of others, the first cock that entered me would therefore have been attached to a bush of ginger pubes.
Still, ‘L’ was just…’L’ and, it’s important to note, that particular Friday she was ‘very ill’ but ‘forced’ herself to go to the place anyway ‘for my sake’ (and her own to some extent). But by the time we got there I was running well over an hour late for the pre-proposed rendezvous which had been arranged the week before and with no contact since. ‘L’, I (and my date) were such regulars there, that on waiting to be let in, the Bouncer himself delivered a rather short and infuriated message from my Ginger-(bread)-Man. He’d fucked off. So it was over before it even began.
‘L’ was indifferent. Her current fellow wasn’t present that night so she was happy enough to have me to herself – more so because Gingerbread had spilt two pints of beer over her the previous week (one of which we’d purchased).
But there that night was Gavin.
This was back in the late nineties, when boy-bands, particularly Irish ones, were all the rage. The nightclub we were at in Norbury (imaginatively called ‘The Norbury’) was at the back of an Irish pub so had quite a few Irish punters.
Gavin was every schoolgirl’s dream. I was a late starter at 21 so still possessed a teen girl’s heart and was immediately filled with a longing to just…just have a kiss actually. I wanted him as my boyfriend.
He wasn’t tall, maybe 5’7, very slim and had the hair style of boy bands at that time – curtains and beautiful blue eyes. Apart from the height issue (which is more to do with me being Australian and considered tall in comparison with my British counterparts – especially in 4 inch heels) he was undoubtedly my type.
But I knew from the rather meagre female pickings looks-wise in the club that night there were a lot of girls there thinking he was their type too, so competition was high. I was a big girl then, but not morbidly obese. With a great looking face and youth on my side, getting guys wasn’t difficult, but I was just on the cusp of discovering this.
My esteem and experience was low, but ever the determined dreamer and with wild youthful optimism, I thought I’d at least give it a crack. I felt very much aware of what I then thought were my physical failings so convinced myself I couldn’t rely just looks alone. The thumping music was hardly amenable to my dazzling him with personality, wit and intellect. I was left then with only one choice. It was this. For me to demonstrate – the dance.
I must’ve busted some serious moves on the floor. A fair criticism of my antics is that while I can execute some complicated moves and have great rhythm, I suspect if ever marked on grace I wouldn’t be standing with a gold medal round my neck. Others may differ. I AM good at this stuff so maybe I’m being hard on myself – because it did do the trick I wanted that night.
He boogied his way over to me. Then it was a dance off between me and some cougar-type who must’ve been in her odd-40s (which for me at 21 seemed ancient) but I shimmied her clean off the floor. One swing of my child bearing hips had her staggering back to the bar as I funked it up with my Gavin to the point where he said ‘It’s okay – you’ve got me now you don’t have to try so hard.’
I was completely mortified I’d been quite so obvious and more so at the thought of what my dancing must’ve looked like to have warranted such a comment.
It got to the end of the night and though I hadn’t had a kiss from him publicly – allegedly as a result of the presence of friends – he waited for me after as I collected my stuff from the cloakroom. Outside my best friend’s squeeze was waiting for her but I leapt at the invitation to go for a ‘walk’ with my prince.
He crossed the road heading us down some residential side street. I felt slightly worried here. My best friend and her boyfriend ware providing my lift home and I, completely unfamiliar with the territory was unsure how I’d navigate my way back to their car. But hormones and an abundance of intoxicants overpowered rationale. We’re not talking date-rape here, we’re talking lack of inhibition.
I remember walking to a front door. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring of keys asking me which one to try. For some reason it hadn’t quite clicked this might be his house. There was a rush of adrenaline at the thought he may in fact be breaking and entering someplace. I got the keys wrong twice so the third time he chose and let us in to a very dark, modest and quiet dwelling. Period; typical suburban three up three down at a guess. He told me he lived there with his brother. Naively I believed him. Looking back, this might not have been a total lie but if it had been the case why wouldn’t he have taken me to his bedroom and why the necessity to ensure the lights were off and noise kept to a minimum? So I found myself in the kitchen, located at the back of the house.
So, as for that first kiss….
OK. I’d only ever really been kissed by three or four boys previously plus a girl (and I liked it). But he looked so bloody gorgeous. Even my friend ‘L’ was shocked that I’d ‘pulled’ him (bit of a backhanded compliment there) but then…
Then smell of his breath. It was like he’d eaten a four cheese pizza made with the strongest blue cheeses going, rancid meat and hadn’t brushed his teeth for a week. I tried to push my disgust to the back of my mind but the smell is always the first association I have with this memory.
He began undressing and I watched, in an unbelieving way, realising, actually, tonight I was entering (I thought at the time) another world – the world of the fully initiated. I felt excited, ‘grown up’. And the knowing I’d made the decision to do this with someone completely random rather than waiting for a relationship made it doubly true. It felt like an empowering choice (which in hindsight it was) and one that would lay the foundations of the following ten years of my sexual life.
His build was slight and boyish and I inhaled sharply at the definition of his torso. The sinewy muscles in his arms, the hairless chest and the six pack stomach chiselled out of the leanness of him. I felt my desire for him increase and there was part of me wanting to thrust my fist in the air and shout ‘yesss!’ at the joy of having scored such physical perfection and overall prettiness. The foul, the previous liplock I could forgive in exchange for the sight of that young, hard body. He took my hands down to his jeans but my fumbling at undoing his belt frustrated him to the point where he finished stripping himself.
I was almost too scared to look and face the reality of ‘cock’ but he was eager enough for me to do it and grabbed my hand, forcing it down there. I gripped it and it felt firm and smooth and warm and huge. Intimidating in a way. I wondered if they were all so big (in time I would discover he was a rare find and while the term ‘hung like a donkey’ might have been applied to him this is not the general rule as most women will have found). Somewhere in the duration of his undressing I mumbled I was a virgin and he told me it would be okay.
He stood there naked in the moonlight, shining through the kitchen windows. I was dumbstruck, holding his penis and not sure what I was supposed to do.
‘You’re going to have to take your clothes off, or do you want me to do it?’
I assured him it was fine. But the thought of being totally naked in front of him frightened me. I had awful body image issues. I kept having to remind myself if he didn’t fancy me he wouldn’t be there, certainly he wouldn’t be standing to attention so aggressively.
As nice as I looked (and believe me as a woman there can be massive effort involved) to have to strip down and reveal the accessories and garments used to achieve this is a daunting prospect. It was all about where to begin.
I knew the large waist-high natural control knickers had to be removed pronto and the tights would have to go too. I imagined those items were the most likely to make that…thing I was holding decline rapidly into a state of floppy uninterest.
At the time I’d always insisted on wearing said knickers one size too small, really to ensure they held my tummy in in public. So I rolled them down and felt my tummy rolling out, toned-like appearance gone but the roundness of my stomach hidden by the kind cut of my simple black dress.
Then I realised I hadn’t factored my shoes into the equation. I looked down at the straps and tried to undo them. But it’s quite a feat (or perhaps feet) to remove strappy shoes while standing, kissing someone, massaging their cock and thinking about what a penetrated hymen is going to feel like.I got one shoe off, which then had me force one bare foot in tip-toe position so I wasn’t looking lopsided during the ongoing kissing thing.
The second shoe wouldn’t budge. The strap was so tight, it just wouldn’t slip through the link and because of its tightness I couldn’t just kick or rip the shoe off my foot. I was wrestling with it. It was now an enemy to the outfit, an enemy to my dignity and of the entire night. I saw my chances of sex slipping away.
Eventually I crouched down to do it. Not glamorous or seductive. The incident was traumatic, leaving deep psychological scars forever to echo through my life – sexual or otherwise.
But having flung the last shoe off and now able to kick off the tights and knickers I was left standing in my black dress. This I could slip off easily enough and the bra to follow, releasing my plump breasts in what I thought a downward swing.
Then I was standing – naked in the moonlight too. Nowhere near as pretty or toned as him I thought but the hard-on didn’t wither with his scrutiny of me. I could feel his blue eyes take me all in. Standing and being judged, purely on appearance.
‘Get down and suck my cock.’
I knelt down, self conscious of my nudity and all my wobbling bits. I gave it a try, a hesitant lick and put a bit in my mouth but it seemed…too much to take. My approach was unprofessional, amateurish. I licked it like a lollipop until he forced it in my mouth. I knew you weren’t supposed to graze it with your teeth so I was mindful of that but did one blow (as in the title of the job in question) or suck? He either took pity of my inexperience or was frustrated by it. He pushed me on my back and told me to spread my legs – wide. With no experience I could really only follow his direction.
The kitchen floor was hard and uncomfortable. It was summer and I could feel myself sticking to the lino but my curiosity meant the feel of the surface could be overlooked. Legs spread and my vagina exposed for inspection by someone other than myself had me quivering in the balmy summer night.
A lot of women I’ve spoken to discuss the pain involved with losing one’s virginity, especially if one’s hymen is intact – which, as I’ve said, mine was. But I’ve heard a lot say they suffered in silence.
Not me. I was very vocal about it all. He spread my legs even further, pulled at the sockets then gripped my wrists above my head and tried to slide his formidable cock into me.
Every time he tried to enter, he would be greeted with an ‘Ow!’ or ‘Ooh no that really hurts.’
I must’ve been talking ten to the dozen from nerves as well as the pain as he tried to insert himself. In the end he shushed me and told me to stop talking and put his hand on my mouth.
He forced his cock inside me. And yes it fucking hurt. Every thrust, the length of him going all the way in and then almost pulling himself out completely, repeatedly stretching me and causing pain.
But their was a pleasure to it too.. Eventually my muscles relaxed and began to accept, rather than reject this alien invasion of me. There was something soothing about the weight of him on top of me, sweat enabled him to slide his body up and down on mine, our skins as close as you can get which bought me to a state where I could more readily enjoy this new experience.
With that said, because I was quite a good girl and rarely stayed out late or went out more than once a week, the toll of our recent burst of socialising had taken its effect.. Once my cunt got used to the sensation of him moving in and out I began to feel my eyelids grow heavy at the rhythmic insertion and rocking. He must’ve noticed because then he told me to grip my thighs around his waist. I obeyed without question. He instructed me to do it tighter; as tight as I could. There really was a degree of fitness required to this new hobby, and I wasn’t the most energetic or gym-friendly of girls but I was still slightly worried about crushing him between my very ample thighs. Perhaps though, the warm, soft, silky pale flesh felt good because as I really gripped him he began to increase pace. His new vigour was sharp – painful again – but rather than risk a telling off or being physically restrained from verbalising any discomfort I bit my lip and endured it.
At this point, whether through noise, scent or both, a dog from outside made itself known but very unloved by barking, jumping and scratching at the kitchen’s back door. It immediately snapped me out of what at worst could have eventuated in an embarrassing slumber mid-intercourse or at best silent endurance of a consensual hard pounding. Gavin could see I was shaken by this and definitely put off my stride from our four legged friend announcing its presence at the door not three feet away.
‘Don’t worry about the dog; it’s okay.’
But by now though it had started to dawn on me that, given he was the same age as me, he probably lived with his parents and there was a chance they could walk in on us. By the time that thought popped into my head the reality of the situation really hit home. I was in a strange house, with a strange guy, in an area of London I wasn’t familiar with and no way of getting back to my bedsit.
I checked my watch – I’d really only been gone for a little over half an hour but if I missed that lift home I’d arranged on leaving the club I’d be lost. I endured more pumping but whilst he had his head down (in the work sense of the word) moving in deeper and more roughly I felt my attention drift to watching the minute hand move along on the watch face of my wrist.
‘I have to go,’ I whispered.
‘No you’re fine, just let me come.’
Great, I hadn’t even used a condom – one more thing to worry about.
‘No, I really have to. I’ll miss my lift.’
I began raising myself on my elbows muttering I needed to find my friend and put my clothes on. Possibly not in that order because I was getting quite hysterical and loud. As a result he withdrew his cock and let me stand and dress quickly.
I apologised profusely and walked to the front door. As I tried to open it, I found it forced shut. His hand was pressed on the frame, preventing any exit.
‘I want to finish fucking you.’ He was naked and his erection looked as angry as he did.
‘I want that too but…please I need to go home.’
I had the sinking realisation that irrespective of the difference in our weight he was infinitely stronger than me and could cause real problems if he wanted to.
‘I didn’t come. I want you to finish me off. It’ll be nice – for us both.’
I tried to push his arm away but it remained cemented. Whether he was fooling around, or he thought his parents may make an appearance or the tears welling up in my eyes hit a nerve, he moved, unlocked the door, and let me go.
A brusque kiss before I shot out, like a mouse released from a humane trap.
I found my friend’s car but no sign of her. Relief flooded me that I’d still get my ride. She turned up after five minutes, furious at me as she’ been walking the streets with her boyfriend (to be) in an attempt to locate me. Apparently I sat on the bonnet of her car swinging my legs like a pixie. I was shoeless. In the rush to leave the house I hadn’t bothered with retrieving my footwear. Getting them off took long enough, I couldn’t risk any more time in getting them back on.
So. What happened with Gavin?
The week after that incident I saw him at the nightclub, but was too shy to say anything. Eventually he came and found me at the bar and asked if I was going to avoid him all night. I was lost for words but thrilled that he found me and wanted to talk.. He told me he wanted to see me again, to fuck me again but couldn’t tonight because his girlfriend from Ireland was over visiting.
Then a sinking realisation in fact, this man, beautiful as he was, was never going to be my boyfriend. Chances were I would never sleep with him again. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and took drinks to my friend to update her. She did her best to protect me that night, ensure I kept my head held high and behaved in dignified fashion. And I did. But as we left the club on the last song (unlike us – we were usually to the last ones out) I broke free from her, ran back to his table where he was seated alone. I could see ‘L’s’ head shaking knowing what was going to happen.
‘Why?’ I asked, ‘I really liked you.’
‘I like you too but she’s…’
He shrugged and I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. It seemed somewhat fitting the last song of the evening was Ronan Keating’s ‘You say it best when you say nothing at all.‘
‘L’ was right – I shouldn’t have said anything.