I was in the toilets of a club last night, standing at the sinks and giving myself a quick look-over in the mirror when a girl walked in and pushed a cubicle door open, accidentally hitting whoever was slouched on the ground and hugging the toilet for dear life. Having had no idea anyone else was even in the toilets at the time, I was equally as startled as the girl who barged in on this girl taking a nap in the loo.
“Oh! Sorry! … Sarah? Is that you?”
“Yeah …” Sarah said, her voice echoing through the porcelain.
“Are you alright babes?” Now, I don’t know these girls. But it was clear to me that Sarah was obviously not alright.
“Yeah,” Sarah lied.
“Do you want some water babes?”
Now, this idiot friend walked to the sink, downed her VK, poured some water into the somewhat empty bottle, then brought it to Sick Sarah. Great, that’s just what she wants, alcohol-scented water.
“Here, now don’t spill it.” Right, yeah make sure you don’t spill water on yourself, because then you’d really look ridiculous.
I heard the bottle hit the floor. Guess she’d be looking slightly more ridiculous with apple alcopop-flavoured water all over her skirt, which was actually already wet from whatever liquid was on the floor she had been lying on for God knows how long. I don’t even like to step on those floors, I shudder at the thought of actually sitting on them. But I think this was the least of poor Sarah’s worries. Having exhausted the amount of time socially acceptable to pretend to wash my hands while actually spying on this little scene, I wiped my hands on my shirt (those hand-dryers are a threat to public health. Really, google it.) and went back out to dance my way through the sea of fellow students and townies who were probably just one VK from being like Sarah.
There was no point to that story, I just thought it was entertaining. Though not rare. Touch wood, I have not been sick from alcohol in over a year. Why? Well, quite simply I just started drinking more and I think my body has adapted. I jest. Even more simply, because it’s very hard to shag someone when you are out of your mind drunk. It’s also quite hard to maintain acceptable standards when drunk. There’s often a point, when sipping on a drink that quite resembles Pick ‘n’ Mix, when you stop thinking, ‘Who here do I fancy?’ and start thinking, ‘Who here looks as if they want to leave soon?’ The process of selection and courting gets shorter, and the list of possibilities gets longer. The list basically entailing every male in sight. What is this primal, carnal desire for sex that suddenly comes over people? Is it due to the alcohol? Or is it secretly just festering within us at all times, trapped by our inhibitions.
There are some people with whom I have an unexplainable and constant desire to touch. Not in a stalker kind of way, just in a way that if we’re together, I find myself near them, small gestures no one else would take note of, such as our legs touching when we sit next to each other. We’ll stand close together, as if magnetically drawn to one another. It’s such a purely physical reaction, that I can’t help but assume it’s chemically related to the way they smell or something like that. It’s often mutual as well, they’ll touch my arm when they talk to me, or, in the case of boyfriends, hold my hand all the time, rest their hands on me when we’re just sitting together. Unexplainable, but it’s also with these people that I have the best sex.
Maybe, then, there is something to be said for that moment you stop thinking and start sensing who to sleep with. There’s less reasoning and more feeling to that kind of process. Not that I think we should all get drunk and wander around touching people to see if there’s a spark there, but I do believe that when it comes to sex there has to be an element of physical compatibility – not in the way that they look, but in the way that they make you feel. More often than not, there just isn’t that ‘I have to have you’ kind of feeling with people, but when you find that person who makes your cheeks burn and your heart pound by their mere presence, I would suggest you hop on the right foot and do the wrong thing with them, because the sex will probably be explosive. If nothing else, do it as a science experiment.
I do apologise for the terrible, terrible pun in the title. I thought ‘The Sixth Sense’ would give the impression that I was about to write a ghost story. Or make people think of that weird little kid. Either way, it was all bad.