I’m sitting in the bar of a restaurant being antisocial with my laptop and pint, mostly because the bar is full of businessmen and business school students, so I want to exude the ‘don’t approach me’ vibe as much as possible.
In light of recent events a date with myself is what’s needed I feel. Do I wish things had gone differently with Dill? Not really to be honest. I can’t recall once in my life having something bad happen which didn’t begat something better. Disasters are warning signs that there’s something else you’re meant to be doing. Or someone else in some cases.
The things I do feel bad about, or thing rather, is Dill’s girlfriend. I ran into her about a day after the party and the fight with Dill, and we had a chat about nothing in particular. She asked if I had been alright that night because I had looked ‘upset.’
Well shit.
If I didn’t feel bad enough as it was before, I certainly felt like a right areshole then. Here was a girl, who is clearly suspicious of my relationship with her boyfriend, and yet she still has the common decency to stop and say ‘hello’ and ask me if I’m okay. One thing is for sure, Dill has fantastic taste in women.
I also wish that stupid fight had never happened because it was so unnecessary. Then again, whenever I’ve just tried to avoid Dill he’ll text me or show up when I’m in the college bar with T3, and we’ll digress back into old habits. Maybe this was the kick in the arse he needed to finally stop leading me on, and the kick in the arse I needed to realise that he is not what I want.
Post-fight, the saying ‘when it rains, it pours’ is applicable to the sudden influx of interest from men. I was sitting in my room, feeling all gloomy and bad for myself, drinking wine and watching The Inbetweeners. It was pushing 2:45 when my phone rang. I glanced at the picture on the screen and immediately picked up the phone, holding it right in front of my face to make sure what I was seeing was correct. I looked at the picture for a moment, the grass-stained shorts, the action shot as he plummeted to the ground whilst holding a ball. It was definitely him. His name shone in white above the picture. Rugby Blue.
I slid my finger across the bottom of the screen to answer the call. Part of me thought he was calling by accident. I haven’t spoken to him in months.
“Why hello, Mr. (his surname here). To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“(My name), hi. H-how are you?” Drunk, of course. It was almost 3 am…I’ve made these calls before.
“I’m good. You?”
“Y-yeah, yeah. I’m quite well. D-did I wake you?” His bumbling Hugh Grant act never impressed me much.
“You did not, I am still awake.”
“Oh, well, great! What are you doing?”
“I’m about to go to sleep.”
“I’m right down the road from you, we’re having a party. Come over.”
“Who is we?” If it wasn’t the royal “we” I was immediately out.
“Well, myself and (Rugby Blue’s mate).” This sounded like the beginning of a bad porno film.
“Just the two of you?”
“Um, yeah. Not quite a party then I suppose. I wish I could offer you more.” Believe me, so do I Mr. Blue, so do I. “My mate is leaving in about ten minutes.”
“So this isn’t a party at all then?”
“Well … nnnno, not exactly.”
I sat there and momentarily thought about going over. Maybe he had learned some new tricks and could be a tsunami of love, or at least a riptide or something. Recapping our previous encounter briefly in my mind, I thought better of it. He was probably the same small-dick, selfish lover he was a few months ago. “I can’t, I’ve got a lot on tomorrow.”
“Aww, come on.”
“I can’t really, I’m sorry.”
Sometimes saying no is as gratifying as saying yes. And sometimes, as in the case of Rugby Blue, they live in a world where it’s opposites day and ‘no’ means ‘yes’ as he continued to call and text me well into the morning. His annoying persistence, while flattering, more than justified my decision to stay at home in my underwear and t-shirt, drinking wine and watching telly.
The next day I woke up late, having been kept awake by a pestering oaf. I pulled on some Nike shorts, threw on a hoodie and rushed out the door to make it to a lecture. As Sod’s Law would have it, whenever it is that I leave the house looking slightly disheveled, nine times out of ten, I will run into somebody I have slept with.
There was the instance when, having ventured out in sweatpants, trainers, and no makeup, looking as if I had just been warming up for the London Marathon, I came face to face with someone I had a one-night stand with. Quite embarrassing.
Then just last week, hair in a ridiculously messy bun, sunglasses on, looking like a walking hangover, a boy I slept with biked past, his head craning around to look at me. Luckily I could pretend I didn’t see him, with the sunglasses and all.
Then yesterday, looking down at the chain of my bicycle as I messed around with the gears, I heard a bike bell ring and looked up, expecting to be careening head-on into another bicycle. “Hey beautiful!” It was Shag Buddy, cycling towards me on the opposite side of the street. So, not looking as terrible as I thought then.
As humans, it is inherent in us to make mistakes. I made a big mistake and it may have cost me one of my best friends, but knowing myself, and knowing Dill, we will probably sweep this one under the rug eventually*. I don’t want to be Dill’s girlfriend, but I know I would miss his friendship if I let this fester and self-destruct over time.
I may not be tempted to sleep with Rugby Blue ever again, but the knowledge that I could is amusing enough in itself seeing as he’s unknowingly notorious to you all for having a small willy and propositioning me casually for unprotected anal sex the first time we slept together.
As for Shag Buddy, looks like it’s time to give him a call. I forgot just how much I like being compared to actresses and told I’m beautiful over and over again.
2023 Post Script:
*We did not sweep this under the rug eventually. Had another huge fight about a year later whilst, unbeknownst to me, his girlfriend was once again in the next room and heard everything. Unsurprisingly, I haven’t seen either of them since leaving uni.
Still trying to remember who this Shag Buddy was. I kind of have a vague idea but this was a long time ago. I’m pretty sure it’s this guy I met at a party who was an artist and lived down the road from me. His place always smelled like weed, but he was nice and always compared me to random famous women. None of which looked anything like me or each other. I think the most random one was Mariah Carey, but he was high most of the time so that may have something to do with it.
It’s funny because currently I’ve been sleeping with a guy who also lives just down the road from me, but his late night texts are getting tiresome. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to date this man, and we have an agreement that this is strictly hooking up, but the last couple times I’ve gone over to his he’s been too drunk to do anything and then insists I sleep over even though he’s like a human koala when he sleeps and I’m like a human furnace when I sleep, which makes for a very uncomfortable night of lying there staring at the door trying to plot my escape from his kung fu grip.
The other night he texted me an emoji. Just “😘” …I was like, “Grow up and use the aubergine emoji like an adult.”
Needless to say, I decided sitting at home drinking wine and watching telly was still the late night move that it was over a decade ago. Just kidding I went over to his house and was immediately disappointed by a limp dick and cigarette breath.Unfortunately it was late and passing out at his was more convenient than walking the five minutes back to mine and he somehow convinced me he’d be better in the morning, but apparently he can’t get it up with an aggressive hangover either SO. Lesson learned. I muted his number and don’t look at WhatsApp after midnight anymore to prevent that from ever happening again.
Like Murtaugh said, I’m too old for this shit. Whatever people want to text me late at night when they’re drunk is between them and God. Meanwhile my late night vibe will continue to be
