I sat in the pub across from a girl I had just met. She was rambling on and on about how she had been cheated on by an ex-boyfriend. We had been introduced through a mutual friend and it was a complete chance encounter. I happened to know this boy she was talking about, but tried to downplay to what extent I knew him. ‘Do not ever date him,’ she warned, ‘because I guarantee you, you won’t be the only one he’s sleeping with.’
That was a week after I had begun seeing The Ex. Her Ex, the one she was referring to. He had told me about her. I knew her as some crazy girl who had some vengeance against him and had been telling this story to anyone who would listen. He claimed to never have slept with her, let alone dated her, but the warning lingered in the back of my mind for the subsequent months I was with him. The nights he didn’t call. The nights he didn’t show up as he promised. The rumours. All of it brought me back to that conversation.
‘That prick,’ she began, ‘is a liar and will sleep with anything that walks.’
I patiently listened as she ignorantly told his new girlfriend (me, of course) about how much she hated him. I had left the pub, laughing to myself, thinking I knew the real story. I went straight to him.
‘Guess who I just had lunch with.’
He looked at me, cocking his head to the side. ‘Who?’ I said her name and his eyes immediately began to roll. ‘That crazy bitch.’
My mother told me never to trust a man who was cruel about his exes. I ignored the advice. ‘She was absolutely mental. Have you really never slept with her?’
‘Never! I swear to God, (my name here), I helped her move once and then she started calling me all the time.’ I loved when he said my name.
I looked him in the eyes and said, ‘I believe you.’ Because I did. I had to. We went back to mine and had sex in the middle of the day before heading out for dinner and then back to mine again. It was summertime and hot. We were lying on my bed, watching tv in nothing but our pants. He was the most attractive man I had ever been with and I had never felt so physically compelled towards anybody before. We had sex again that night before falling asleep. It was too hot to sleep together physically so he pushed the couch up next to my bed and we fell asleep holding hands. I woke up in the middle of the night and he was still holding onto my hand. When I woke to a cold room in the morning I intertwined the fingers of my free hand into his free hand, waking him just long enough to pull him onto the bed.
Any and all warning signs were overshadowed by my complete infatuation with The Ex.
~
Everybody comes with a warning sign. Some aren’t quite so obvious, some aren’t even apparent at first, but some are so blatantly in your face from the first moment you meet them that you have to actively bury them deep inside in order to ignore the all the red flags that eventually start popping up.
A brief history of some boys I know:
The Ex – a cheater. Dill – a cheater. Dr. Boy – a cheater. Rower Blue – a major cheater. Shag Buddy – a cheater, as I found out via facebook and his ‘relationship status’. Grey – not a cheater as far as I know, but has self-proclaimed problems that he put forward as warning signs. They are far from as detrimental as the ones that came along with all subsequent exes. The fact that he was the one who advertised them almost completely negates them as well. They did not involve chronic cheating or a current girlfriend, so I was satisfied.*
I am not sure why I attract men who are in relationships. They usually omit the fact that they have a significant other, and had they not I would have never slept with them. It is usually an after-the-fact revelation. With The Ex I was so in love that I was willing to believe that everybody else was lying. Why would he lie? He wouldn’t lie to me, surely. Or so I thought.
Relationships don’t need to be that difficult. Having been cheated on, I am always rather distressed when I realise that I may have inadvertently been a cheater with somebody. In the case of Dill, I was well aware of what I was doing and that was my mistake, but I have discussed that in length. Being the other woman without knowing it always leaves you with a sense of betrayal. There is nothing that can come from that situation. I certainly wouldn’t start a relationship with someone who had cheated with me, since in general those who cheat with you will cheat on you.
Regardless, many many months of a relationship is hard to condense into one post so I will incorporate my relationship with The Ex into instalments on various topics of interest. I was listening to my iPod earlier and a song came on that pretty much sums up our relationship:
‘Are you ever too tired for sex?’ I asked Tom (aka Lad Boy) as we sat in the garden of a pub drinking cider and eating crisps.
‘Oh yeah, all the time.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I want to have sex all the time.’ I said, thinking out loud.
‘If I’m really tired it just won’t happen. Certain physiological factors go into having sex.’
‘Ah, right.’ I said. ‘So it’s only if you’re tired that you don’t want to have sex?’
He thought for a second, looking up towards the sky and squinting through his Ray Bans. ‘Yeah that’s usually the only reason.’
‘Well I think-’
‘Or if I’m hungry!’ he interrupted. ‘That’s a mood killer.’
‘You could eat during?’ I offered.
‘Nah, just have a cheeky sandwich and then you’re good to go.’
‘What if it makes you fart?’
‘Then I fart.’
‘Eww, if we were in bed together and you farted I would leave.’
‘You WISH you could get me into bed!’ he teased.
‘Am I that transparent?’
‘I see through you like I see through this pint,’ he said holding it in front of his face.
‘Right, then what am I thinking about right now?’
‘Sex with me.’
I gasped, feigning shock. ‘You never told me you’re a psychic!’
‘Nah, that’s what all girls are thinking about when they’re with me.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
‘Don’t worry, maybe someday I’ll be lonely and desperate enough to sleep with you.’
‘One can only hope. Cheers for that.’
‘Anytime love. Here’s to backup plans,’ he said raising his glass.
‘Ching ching!’
My conversation with Tom made me think about the idea of backups. There’s always one or two fallback plans stored away in my iPhone for a rainy day. How long should you keep a backup? Do they expire? Or is it more of a once in awhile pleasant surprise kind of thing? I’ve been struggling recently with certain backups who I receive the occasional text from. Mainly because I receive these texts on a weekly basis. My mobile conveniently displays the message on the screen as soon as it is received, and I’m fairly confident that Grey would be unimpressed with some of the ones that have been popping up during the wee hours of the night.*
Rower Blue: 1:45 am ‘Where are you? Come meet me.’
2:37 am ‘So you’re not coming out then? Fine! Whatever! You’re missing out.’
Shag Buddy: 12:40 pm ‘How did the exams go miss? We need to get together and catch up very soon xxx’
And, my personal favourite, Dr. Boy: 3:13 am ‘Sex?’
All of which went unanswered. I called Dr. Boy the next day to tell him he should go and delete the last text in the sent folder of his mobile.
‘What you talkin ‘bout?’
‘Just check your phone you muppet.’
He did and immediately texted me back. ‘Shit! Sorry…was well pissed last night.’
‘Whatever, just delete it. See you for football later?’ World cupping had led to a lot of drunken nights for the boys, so certain inappropriate texts were to be expected. Win, lose or draw, football seems to get them in the mood.
Is ignoring such propositions equivalent to outright rejecting them? Not that I expect to be needing to tap into my resource of backups anytime soon, but would it be inappropriate not to tell them I’m in a relationship? It’s not as if I’m married. Or as if I’m leading anybody on really. Though you can’t help but wonder, at what point will you get rid of your backups?
My backups get a bit tricky seeing as I am friends with a fair amount of them and run into them frequently. I’m not about to start completely blanking them in public. However, I am currently resistant to answering any texts sent after midnight.
2023 Update:
*These were the days of the iPhone 3 hence not being able to hide the contents of your texts
Tom was never, ever an actual backup. Despite talking about sex all the time there was never any danger of us having it with each other.
What’s wild is that Dr. Boy and I ended up unintentionally being neighbours in London after uni, and even then we never actually slept together. Just got drunk and made out a couple times.
Alone time. I have virtually none. It has been a bit difficult lately to excuse myself politely in order to blog about sex. I, thus, apologise for my prolonged absence. I shall now move on to the story I wrote about two weeks ago but didn’t have time to edit and post. It has now been edited under my anal scrutiny, but please do let me know if I have missed something. I know you will because most of you are like me and detest spelling and grammatical errors. Anyway, on with the post…
Exams. They’re terrible. Even neglecting my hobby of sharing stories with you all for nearly a month wasn’t enough to get the result I wanted. To be fair I did replace my hobby of writing about sex to just having consistent sex with one person so they’re just different degrees of distraction I suppose. I passed my exams though, so I’ll be welcomed back through the gates of my college once more in a couple of months.
Moving. Perhaps even more terrible than exams. We all have to do it, and yet it seems to catch everybody by surprise. After day upon day of drunken, post-exams debauchery, we’re still reminded once more that for the next three to four months we will lack the kind of independence we’ve held so dear during term time, instead watching mum and dad pack that independence into their people carrier somewhere between your duvet and desk lamp.
Home. Not so terrible actually. Ready meals. Friends you’ve neglected. Family pets. Self-sufficiency is overrated sometimes. I’ll look back upon that statement in September and probably disagree, but for now having to sneak into my room drunk at night is a fair trade for the stability being someone’s child offers.
Sex. Not going to be having much of it under this roof I’m afraid.
So begins the summer, but before I get ahead of myself I should probably give you a retrospective view into what’s been going on since I’ve been gone.
1st Week of May:
Began talking to Grey and casually hanging out. Mostly includes nights in the JCR playing pub games and drinking non-alcoholic beverages in preparation for exams. We hang out mostly with the supervision of mutual friends.
2nd Week of May:
Still hanging out with Grey quite casually and yet very frequently.
I have a date planned with one of the SBs (Shag Buddies, keep up), but begin dreading it the day before. The date has been called off and rescheduled too many times for me to pull out and since nothing has actually happened with Grey, I don’t cancel. Four hours before said date, I’m hanging out with Grey, praying SB cancels. Three hours before the date SB cancels for some reason I’ve forgotten. I spend the rest of the day with Grey and decide to decline all subsequent offers from SB in the immediate future.*
3rd Week of May:
I don’t have a shag-date as such, but have been planning a dinner and movie night with a friend whom I have slept with once or twice. It was ages ago. He has a girlfriend now, and we’ve moved seamlessly into platonic friendship as of about a year ago. His name will be Leonberger, or Berg for short. The Leonberger breed is one of the biggest breeds of dog I could find that had an interesting and appropriate name for Berg. The size refers to one anatomical feature in particular.
The back story to Berg is not so interesting as such, but it involved him liking me for quite some time, a time during which I had a boyfriend. Once I was single we had a short go of it, but I was regrettably still hung up on The Ex, so things between Berg and I didn’t go so well. He ended up dating a lovely girl with whom he is still with and they are very happy, so hurrah for them. I mean that in complete sincerity, as Berg is absolutely one of my best friends and the sweetest boy you could ever hope to meet. That said, to define what happened between the two of us as ‘sex’ would be an overstatement, as I don’t think I’m actually tall enough to ride that ride. His new girlfriend is even smaller than I am though, which always makes me wonder…**
Anyhow, back to May 2010. Berg and I grab some beers, burn our dinner while chatting and drinking and neglecting the oven, and eventually order pizza. Mid-dinner I get a text from Dill.
Dill: 20:31 Sitting up on the terrace with few beers if you fancy joining
Thirteen minutes later I got a text from Grey.
Grey: 20:44 I’m putting the kettle on, want to come over?
I wrote Grey back.
Me: 21:09 Sorry I just got your text. I’m having dinner with a friend.
Grey: 21:10 I hope for your friend’s sake that you’ve ordered take-away.
Now, I am not a bad chef. I just neglect certain aspects of cooking at times. Such as how long to actually cook something. It took me a solid half an hour to admit I had burnt the dinner I made, after which Grey reiterated his doubts in my cooking abilities. But in the meantime I wrote back to Dill.
Me: 21:11 Just having dinner with a friend. Thanks for the invite though. What are you up to later? x
Dill: 21:13 Duno [sic] what we’re up to later. Probably just more drinking. Let us know
Me: 21:34 Sweet. I’ll give you a shout later x
I continued my dinner and movie date with Berg. It was a film we’ve both seen together numerous times before, and yet we never cease to recite the movie to each other and then proceed to text each other the quotes for the subsequent week.
Berg had to get up early to get to his labs so he left around half eleven. I texted Grey and when I didn’t get an immediate answer I called Dill as I said I would.
Alright dahhhhlin?’
‘Al-right. What are you doing?’ I asked, laughing at his stupid greeting.
‘Nothing. Fancy a pint?’
My phone buzzed while it was pressed to my ear but I didn’t bother to see what it was. I gave into Dill’s invite.
‘Yeah alright then.’
When I got to the pub Dill had ordered himself a drink. ‘Yeah, cheers for the drink you dick,’ I said as I walked to the bar.
‘Umm, I think you actually owe me a pint.’
‘I don’t think I do.’
He sighed heavily and then said, ‘Fine then, what do you want?’
‘No, no. Don’t worry about me, I’ll get it. It’s too late. You’ve missed your chance.’
‘What? Missed my chance to waste money on buying you a drink?’
I ordered my drink and then we went to sit and chat about nothing in particular. It was good to be able to hang out with him again. We hadn’t properly spent time together since before our massive row that his girlfriend walked in on, and despite having made up it still hadn’t quite brought us back to friendship status.
The bar was closing and we finished up our drinks.
‘What now?’ It was getting late and I wasn’t sure there should really be a part two to our pub plan, but I asked anyway.
‘Actually I think my window is wide open. I should probably close it before some burglar comes along. Fancy a walk to mine?’
No, no I did not. ‘Eh, it’s a bit late, I should probably head home.’
‘Yeah true.’ Dill looked at his watch and pretended to be surprised at the time. ‘Yeah, shit. It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight.’ We did our awkward pause, then quick, but a bit too aggressive, kiss on the cheek that always left me with a bit of stubble rash.
As I walked away from the pub and towards home I pulled my phone out, having forgotten about the text that came through while I was on the phone to Dill.
Grey: 23:48 What are you up to? I’m bored.
Shit. I quickly texted him back, despite having neglected his question for about half an hour.
Me: 00:19 Just finishing up a movie. Fancy meeting in the JCR in a bit?
I don’t know why I lied. I wasn’t watching a movie.
Grey: 00:20 It’s a bit late for the JCR don’t you think?
Me: 00:21 Hang out with me! I’ve just finished the movie.
Again, not watching a movie. The lie had begun though and I had to cover it up with more unnecessary and banal lies.
Grey: 00:22 You could come read me a bedtime story or something.
This was the most flirtatious he had ever been via text message. I was definitely curious about the ‘or something.’
In the meantime Dill texted me again.
Dill: 00:28 Yeah so my window was well open. I’d have blamed you if my laptop had been stolen! Thanks for the drinks, you off to bed then? x x x
Fuck. I immediately regretted the open question as to what Dill was doing for the rest of the night. I responded to Grey.
Me to Grey: 00:30 If by ‘or something’ you mean come to mine and watch a movie, then yes that could work.
While I waited for Grey’s response I decided to shut down any possible confusion with Dill
Me to Dill: 00:31 Yeah it’s a bit late, I think I’ll just head to bed. Talk to you later x x
Dill: 00:32 Yeah probably best, laters x x ***
Grey: 00:32’30 Ok. I’ll be there in a minute
I made the right choice. That was the night that all ambiguity over what was going on between Grey and I disappeared and we spent many subsequent nights ‘watching movies’ at mine.
From that point onwards, it was as if some massive signal went off to every boy I have ever been even remotely involved with that I was no longer single, and thus they should all get in touch with me.
The day after the above incident T called to say that he had bought tickets to a concert and asked if I wanted to go. It was close to my first exam so I politely declined without any further explanation necessary.
The Shag Buddy who had cancelled on me a couple weeks before texted me to wish me luck in the exams and said we would have to get together once I was finished. I did not text back.****
End of May to June
Exam time. Don’t remember anything except all-nighters during which I crammed in as much information as possible in the remaining hours I had before exams. Having someone to have coffee and breakfast with and to listen to my constant whinging, and to (of course) have sex with consistently with helped immensely during this period.
One incident that does stick out during this stressful time involved Dill. I ran into him as he was off to a formal dinner. I had been having a particularly stressful day and he said he’d call me when he got back to college and grab a drink in the JCR if it wasn’t too late.
At eleven fifty-two my phone rang. Grey had texted to say he was going to be about an hour earlier so I knew it wasn’t him. Dill’s face popped up on the screen.
‘Hellooo?’
‘Hey! Alright?’ He was hammered.
‘Um, yes. I am alright. Are you alright?’
‘Yeah I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.’ His voice went up an octave each time he said okay, indicating that he was probably far from okay. ‘Uhhh, whatch doin?’
‘I’m revising.’
‘Oh right. Um, should I come over? Are you okay? Wanna chat a bit?’ As previously mentioned (as in a previous blog entry I believe), I had been having a hard time with some things and Dill had been there to help me through it. The backstory is too long and too personal, but basically his calls weren’t completely out of the blue.
‘Yeah alright, just for a couple minutes though.’
‘I’m outside your door.’
‘What?’
‘I’m outside-’ he knocked loudly ‘-your door.’
‘Oh, okay.’ I walked to the door, opened it, and was greeted immediately by Dill tripping his way over the doorstep and into my residence. Fantastic. Nothing bad could come of this.
‘Alright treacle?’ He slurred.
‘Yeah, I’m fine…how much have you had to drink?’
‘Pfffff,’ he exhaled as he stood there thinking. ‘A lot.’
‘Right, come on then.’
We went into my room and he put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah I’m much better.’
‘Good.’ Before he could finish pronouncing the ‘d’ in ‘good’ he had begun a backwards fall onto my bed, passing out as soon as his head hit the mattress. I shrugged and went back to revising. The least I could do was let him sleep off some of the alcohol for awhile.
I sat at my desk, revising and checking facebook, occasionally looking at my clock, trying to decide an appropriate time to kick Dill out. I considered calling Grey, but then thought better of it, deciding he might not see the humour in the situation. He would eventually see the humour in what was about to happen though.
At approximately two in the morning Dill began stirring in my bed. Finally, I thought, he’s going to get the hell out. He sat up, looked at me and announced, ‘I need a slash.’
‘Okay, well you know where the bathroom is.’
‘Right. Right. Be right back.’
Don’t bother, I thought. Go to the bathroom and then just find your way out. He didn’t.
Dill managed his way off of my bed and stumbled towards the door. How he got more drunk as he slept is beyond me, but he did. Quite a bit of time passed before I realised that my front door had not opened and closed, which would have been an indication that Dill had retreated for the loo. Rather, all of a sudden I heard a very distinct sound. A sound which was reminiscent of spraying something with a hose.
I turned around from my notes, looking towards my door to find, to my disgust, that Dill had decided that my door proved to be a sufficient urinal. Yes. Dill was pissing on my door. Fan. Tastic.
This whole predicament would not have been so horrible had my laundry not been directly next to the door and thus in the direct crossfire of Dill’s piss. Great.
As soon as I realised what was happened I jumped up from my desk. ‘Dill! What. The. FUCK?!’
‘Alright, alright, it’s alright dahlin.’
‘THIS IS NOT ALRIGHT!’
Dill had turned towards me to have a conversation but had not ceased to piss and thus peed throughout the entirety of this exchange. Needless to say, the next day was filled with apologies and Febreeze. I had retreated from my room and to Grey’s for the night, but the damage was done. Dill had marked his territory all over my clothing and floor.*****
Post-Exams
A lot of my time was spent with Grey. However on one night in particular I received a text from Rugby Blue.
‘Hey you, are you out? x x’
I was. Wasn’t sure if I wanted to be out out though.
‘Yeah, just at ******, where are you?’
‘On my way there actually. Stay putt miss x x’
Ugh I hate being called ‘Miss’ and thus decided to leave immediately. As fortune would have though, it I ran into him on my way out.
‘There you are!’ he said, kissing me on both cheeks.
‘Heyyyy,’ I said, feigning enthusiasm, ‘good to see you!’ I wanted to retreat as soon as possible.
‘We’re about to go inside, please come in for a drink.’
Damn. I had successfully ignored him for a couple months, but I suppose the least I could do was let him buy me a drink. ‘Okay, one drink.’
One drink it was, but I ended up talking to an Old Blue who wasn’t so old, but was tagging along. He was extremely attractive and took an immediate liking to me for whatever reason.
‘Where are you off to tonight?’
I had plans to meet up with Grey. ‘Well, just off to my college really.’
‘Great, I’ll come with you.’
No! ‘Hmm, not sure that’s the best idea.’
‘No?’ No!! ‘Why not?’ No immediate reasons came to mind. Except for one which started with a G.
‘Well my college is getting ready for the summer ball and under total lockdown security-wise.’ Total lie. No college is under total lockdown. Ever.
‘Can’t I sneak in?’
Fuck off! ‘I really don’t think so, no.’ I don’t know what my aversion to saying “Actually I have a boyfriend, I’m sorry” was, but I couldn’t’ do it. Why limit future possibilities?
‘Can I just do one thing?’ Old Rugby Blue asked.
‘What?’
‘This,’ he said, leaning towards me and kissing me.
Had he been good at kissing this may have gone in a different direction. However, ORB had this slow, wet, and overall cringe-worthy kiss. There was nothing redeemable about it.
‘Mm, that was nice.’ I lied. ‘But I really have to go,’ that was truth.
‘Right now? Are you sure I can’t come with you?’
‘I’m so sorry, but I really don’t think you can get in.’ He could. I just wouldn’t let that happen.
‘Okay, well I’ll miss you.’ Blehhh. I wanted to chunder. ‘Call me?’ Then he kissed me with his gross, wet, long kiss.
‘Yeah sounds good.’ Sounded awful. ‘Bye.’
I ran back to college where Grey was patiently waiting.
~
Recently I’ve been watching the second season of ‘Secret Diary of London Call Girl’ and panicking that, as Alex found Belle out, that Grey is going to find me out. The single life of an anonymous blogger is quite easy. The life of an anonymous blogger with a boyfriend gets quite difficult. Alone-time is essentially non-existent, hence my prolonged absence. I don’t regret what I was doing in the inbetween time, but there were quite a few times when I had to boyfriend proof my life. This meant erasing any hint of my alter-ego on my computer. Internet history, saved usernames and passwords, all of it. Gone. Any trace of the blog in my phone – a blogging app, the twitter app, the note in my phone containing the passwords to everything. Gone. Luckily I chose a universal password for everything, or else I would been without a clue as to how to log into anything.
A lot of people asked me in the past if me getting a boyfriend meant the end of the blog. Well, no. No it does not. Because there was a lot happening before him. However, I do respect him and our relationship enough not to blog about it. It exists, it’s good, and that’s all anyone in the great vast world wide web needs to know.
For the time being I’m going to retrospectively tell you about some great stories I’ve been saving for a rainy day. Too bad the weather has been so fantastic. It will probably start raining soon though, and I have a lot to tell. I’m sorry this entry lacks a certain element of, well, sex, but it’s what has been going on in my life. I think I might finally be ready to tell you about The Ex. It’s a very long and unhappy story, but it did involve a lot of sex. Just too bad some of that sex was between him and other girls while we were together.
Being cheated on, having bad relationships, all these things are not what drove me to write this blog. Dane and many other boys happened well before this Ex. Men will be boys. I could entertain you for months with stories of The Ex, and now that he is definitely An Ex I have absolutely no hesitations about writing about him.
For now though, I am very happy. I am also very bored. I have a lot of time on my hands, so I plan to give you much more than a bi-monthly entry. Thank you for your patience. I’ll be back soon.
x
2023 Update: Oh my GOD this post is so long. Tom eventually made me a proper website and did all the stats on how long people are on the site and he was like, “The average time on each page is quite high so people are actually reading all of this.” To which I, affronted, said, “Of course they are!” But even editing this I wanted to dip out halfway, so thank you if you’ve made it this far.
*I’ll keep this brief but I never elaborated on this guy because he was much older and kind of a big deal, but I will definitely tell the story of how I shagged the key speaker of a black tie event I went to someday.
**Okay I lied about keeping this update brief…I definitely have to write another post about Berg. He was the only man I’ve ever refused to sleep with because his penis was too big. And I regret that every goddamn day of my life. Should’ve tried harder! But when someone’s idea of foreplay is practically fisting you to prepare you for sex, fight or flight kicks in and I Forrest Gump’d it the hell out of there.
***Dill was such. A. DICK. I would like to tell you that I cut him off, but this bullshit went on for so much longer than it should’ve.
****I realised said older guy from above was probably looking for some sugar baby kind of situation after he offered to transfer me money to go and see him in London. It felt weird so I stopped replying to his invitations. In hindsight I’m like, “You FOOL.” I actually still speak to him, but haven’t slept with him again.
*****I used to change certain details so that no one could figure out who I am since I knew quite a few people at my college who read the blog. This was one of those details. Dill did not piss on my door. He pissed in my bed whilst passed out, and then the shouting ensued. I had to get his drunk ass into the shower (‘I bet you’re loving this’ is what he said. tome as he stripped out of his piss soaked clothes), then into some of my joggers (which I didn’t get back for over a year), and because he had pissed in my bed we both had to go sleep in his. I was FURIOUS. I think we ended up switching duvets because mine was ruined.
It’s not you, it’s me. And I have been ignoring everybody so don’t feel that I singled this audience out. Well I’ve been ignoring almost everybody.
I have some amazing stories that should be good summer reading. They include the usual suspects as well as New Boy who I’ll keep calling Grey for now, but I’m still not sure about that name. It’s funny, as soon as I stopped writing about sex I started having much more of it. Probably a coincidence.
Things to come:
1. As I mentioned, I reconciled with Dill. This backfired slightly in a mishap including him, my bed, and passing out. While I sat at my desk pulling an all-nighter for an exam. The details of the story are much more interesting that that synopsis.*
2. Grey. Me. Sex.**
2a. Everybody I’ve had sex with in the last year calling me and asking me out as soon as I started seeing Grey. (Including T, Rugby Blue – again- and some others I have yet to introduce you to.) ***
2b. Me feeling like it would probably upset Grey if I slept with someone else.
2c. Me realising I didn’t want to sleep with anyone else.****
3. Post-Exam drunken shenanigans. Balls (as in parties, not the anatomical ones). Punting. Pimms. Hangovers. Lots of parties in gardens.
All to come in due course. But right now I have to return library books, go shopping for formal wear, go to an afternoon Pimms party and then get ready for a black tie event. Exhausting. Somewhere in there will be sex if I don’t drunkenly cock block myself as I have the last few nights (as in too drunk to function or even text Grey to come over).
The week has gone thusly:
-Tuesday night: successful retreat from club with Grey for sex.
-Wednesday night: began to text something to Grey when I got back from drinking with friends. Woke up the next day with an unsent message reading ‘crom overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr xcxxxx’
-Thursday morning: got Grey to come over finally.
-Thursday evening: Grey and I go to separate places, neither of us return sober or early.
00:28 text from me: ‘I’m not drunk’ (I was) ‘What are you doing?’
01:27 text from Grey: ‘Sorry I didn’t have reception, on my way back.’
01:34 me: ‘Come over.’
01:35 Grey: ‘I’m really knackered, and I have to get up early.’
01:37 me: ‘Noooo. I’m tired tooo. Come over.’
01:38 Grey: ‘You’re just going to pass out as soon as I get there.’
01:45 Grey: ‘You’ve passed out already haven’t you?’
Didn’t get that last one until this morning because I had passed out. Was woken up stupidly early by Grey calling though, then forced out of bed when he came over to make me coffee. Still unsure why I had to be awake at 9, but I was able to drag him into bed for awhile before he had to go. I have been in bed since. Watched the Inbetweeners, had some orange juice. It’s been sobering.
I hope you all have been well, and I’ll be in touch again soon.
2023 Update:
*Dill pissed in my bed.
**Grey was a premature ejaculator who told me it had never happened to him before the first time we slept together then it continued to happen for the entirety of our relationship.
***My first boyfriend who slept with me once called to apologise and asked if he could come visit.
In order to minimise distractions during this hectic time in my life, I am taking a break from writing about sex. Partially because I am not having any at the moment and writing about it just makes me depressed. But mostly because I am terrified of failing my exams. The ‘Oxbridge’ part of my life is more important than the ‘sex’ part of my life.
But to give you a short synopsis of what has been happening as of late:
Dill – we are on speaking terms again and have gone back to being friends, but on a lesser scale. As in, we don’t text each other ten times a day anymore, but are fine to hang out together in the company of the rest of our friends.
The rest of the Tube Stops – half of them I rarely see because, like me, they are revising like mad, and the other half I have sporadic outings with to the cinema or to dinner in town.
New Boy – I suppose he warrants a dog-esque name at this point. He is another one of the minor reasons I have no time to write this blog lately, being that I spend at least an hour, usually more, procrastinating with him every day. Mostly over tea or snooker. I think Greyhound is a decent name for him. Grey for short.
Those are pretty much the main male figures in my life at the moment. I have plenty to write about, just no time!
I’ll be back to let you know about post-exam escapades, which are mega. This town turns into the Lashional Front come June, so sit tight and I promise to tell you all about it … as long as I survive the next three weeks
2023 Post Script: Should’ve just thrown in the towel and gone out partying. Got a Desmond but exactly nobody has ever asked for my uni results in my professional life.
No, seriously. Living in my self-absorbed bubble, where the world revolves around me, my exams, and ultimately what I want, I’ve managed to create my own universe to the exclusion of just about everyone.
Casual sex has been convenient in these dire times, as I haven’t the energy nor the spare minutes to invest in a relationship. Recently I’ve been in all sorts of relationships, but none of them fit the criteria of an actual romantic union.
I have many different men in my life who play many different roles. The closest thing I’ve had to a boyfriend this year is someone who already had a girlfriend. Why, might you ask. Well probably because subconsciously there was no threat of that getting too serious, and when it did I hit the self-destruct button.
I have friends who can fill in as pseudo-boyfriends whenever I like, going on dates with them, but not being involved physically with them. I have guys I can sleep with at my discretion, but with whom I have no monogamous agreement, nor any obligation to call or speak to.
Then occasionally, like now, I meet someone who I want to put into all of those roles. Or so I think. How do you really know with people you’ve just met? And how to you choose which role to put them in first? Sleeping with them right away could potentially end the possibility of a relationship, but waiting too long could put you in ‘friend’ territory, ending your immediate possibilities of romance as well.
In compartmentalising the men in my life to fill the immediate needs of the moment, while simultaneously extracting any kind of pressure to commit on my part, I’ve lost any and all sense of how an actual relationship should begin.
I can remember my first relationship as if it were yesterday. We saw each other every day and spent all of our time together at school. Collaborating on projects, sitting together at lunch. We were inseparable.
One day I was looking out through a window and I saw him outside. It was at that moment I knew that I wanted him. I walked out, marched right up to him and asked, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
“Okay,” he agreed without hesitation.
And so began the first of many love stories to come. We were four. I didn’t know what a boyfriend was actually meant for, I just knew that I should have one. Puppy (the only name really appropriate for this boy) and I were together throughout all of nursery school before tragically being separated by our parents’ choice of location for our primary education. I still remember his name and his curly hair. Ah, young love.
If only dating were as easy as it was when I was four. You like me? Well I like you, let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend. Bosh.
But, no. Now we have to over-analyse and over-think and over-discuss every minute detail of our prospective partners. When did the shift from ‘I want that, I’ll go and try to get it’ to ‘I want that, I wonder if it wants me. What if it doesn’t? What if I think I want it, but I really don’t? What if—’ etc … occur?
I met someone recently in college that I rather like. He’s cute, funny, and we take the piss out of each other on a daily basis. The majority of our relationship has consisted of pub games in the JCR. Cute, funny, and we play games together at school…a bit of deja vu going on here, no? Granted, I don’t think there was alcohol or exams involved when I was four, but the general theme of the situation was fairly identical. Why, then, can I not take that next step that four year-old me took, without a second thought or hesitation, and just ask the guy out?
Ok well I did ask him out technically, but in a very casual, “Oh I heard about this thing, do you want to go?” kind of way. We went to an event in town, then to the pub, then to the JCR as we do. As we left we gave some more banter about each other’s pub sporting abilities before we parted ways towards our respective rooms. Alone. There was that awkward, “Well … bye…” at the end, before I quickly turned and retreated to my room. How is it that I’m more comfortable coming on to a stranger than I am to someone I’ve just spent an entire night with? This is the dangerous part of relationships, where you either make your move, or you become eternally cast as a friend. I know, because this is how Tom (aka the artist formerly known as Lad Boy) and I began.
Tom is very attractive, and I’m sure he knows it. We began spending a lot of time together in our first year, always in the JCR, until one night we decided to go to formal hall together. It had all the characteristics of a date, so I thought maybe this would be the night he made his move. He told me he would come get me at 7, which I assumed meant at least 7:05 in boy-time, but at 6:58, as I was still putting on makeup my phone rang.
It was Tom. “I’m outside, are you ready?”
“Umm, yeah,” I lied, “I’ll be right out.” To this day, Tom is annoyingly early to everything. I, on the other hand, am habitually late to everything. We fight like a married couple about it.
At 7:03 I made my way outside, where he was waiting, wearing a suit and a ridiculous tie. “Hey,” he said and kissed me on the cheek.
“Hi…nice tie.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
“It’s horrible…and yet amazing at the same time.”
“Yep, that’s what I was going for. Shall we?”
We spent dinner talking about nothing and everything. Something about our personalities clicked and we sat in our exclusive bubble, ignorant of everything around us, just enjoying each other’s company.
After dinner we went to the JCR to meet up with another lad who would ultimately become the third member of our trio, a lad so consumed with lad culture that the only appropriate name for him is Über Lad, or Übe for short. Other possible names I thought of: Hackett (because he looks like he just walked out of a Hackett advert); Banker Wanker (what his profession will ultimately be); or Captain Douche (because we call him things like that to his face quite often). Übe was discussing his summer plans which involved activities that no one under 30 would actually enjoy and were most likely fabricated to impress us, but Lad Boy and I sat waiting for his monologue of pretentious banter to end before taking the piss. Übe is actually quite lovely, despite his compulsive lying, and finally said, “Basically, I’m going to get lashed and hit on MILFs,” shrugging his shoulders.
“Good lad!” I said, patting him on the back. “Aren’t you going to work at all?”
He thought about it for a second (he usually needed a moment to get those wheels turning), “I might be a punter.”
Tom and I almost choked on our beers, then started laughing. “Yeah RIGHT,” Tom said. “When have you ever punted?”
“Mate,” Übe said, getting very serious, “They teach you how. I don’t need to know how to punt.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that may be the only criteria for the job,” I said. “Ten quid you fall in the first time you try.”
“Alright!” Übe said, getting defensive. “You guys don’t think I can punt?”
“If I paid to be punted along the river and got some knob who didn’t know how to punt I’d be well angry.” Tom said, getting caught up in Übe’s agitation.
“Well I’d know how to punt by the time people were paying me, wouldn’t I?” Übe argued.
“Really? Are we really having this conversation?” I asked, but they were really having that conversation and having none of my attempts to change the subject.
“Why don’t you get a job doing something you know how to do? You know they give you money to donate sperm, you’re probably the master of wanking so that would be right up your alley.” Tom suggested.
“Waheyyyy,” Übe said, sticking two fingers in the air at Tom.
“Yep, nice one.” Tom said, seeing off his drink. He tapped the bottle to his shoulder and recited, “E.G.” then turned to me. “Your round.”
“Yeah alright then.” I said, getting up. Tom followed me to the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“Seeing as it’s your round, I’ll have a double whiskey.”
“Anything else? Crisps maybe? I could order you a take-away while I’m at it. Actually, here, just take my purse.”
He thought for a second, “Nah, just the whiskey, ta.” I’m not sure why he likes to talk like he is from South London. He most certainly isn’t. Übe is from somewhere around there and I feel like Tom subconsciously mimicked his speech pattern. I, on the other hand, sound like a total twat if I attempt to speak like that. Then again I probably sound like a total twat no matter what.
“Hey bender!” I yelled to Übe, who looked up right away. Ah, bless him. “What do you want?”
“Whatever. Not bothered really,” he said scratching his head.
“Whiskey?”
“What? No way. Get me a cider will ya?” I smiled and laughed a bit. As much as Übe tried to come off as ‘well hard mate’, he was like a big goofy puppy that we liked to play with.
We sat there, me with a Stella, Lad Boy with his single-malt whiskey, and Übe with his Magners, and at that point I knew that I would never sleep with either of these lads, because I had just become their ladette. This has become more and more apparent over time, as I’m the one they go to for advice on birthday presents for girlfriends (who are rarely girlfriends for long), the one they have Sunday roasts with to divulge details of their exploits the night before, the one they call to go down to the pub, and so forth. I think I was even deemed ‘Honorary Lad’ at one point during a particularly drunk night when I beat Übe in a drinking competition.
Though I found both Lad Boy and Über Lad extremely attractive when I first met them, I now appreciate their appearance as I would appreciate fine art – as something nice to look at, but which you’re not allowed to touch. At one point or another people have thought I was dating Tom or Übe due to the amount of time we all spend together. The truth is though, we passed “Shag-able Land” and moved straight to “Ladville” once we began telling each other every time we pulled. I have enough guys I can shag when I want to; a girl needs some boy friends as well.
Back to the situation at hand: new boy, who is in dangerous territory of becoming one of the lads. I can see it happening, even though right now it’s all flirty and ‘oh he might like me, and I think I might like him, but I’m not sure if I like him. Should I kiss him and see if I like him? Should I wait for him to kiss me? But what if I don’t actually like him and then he’s kissed me and—’ ugh! I just chundered at the sound of the desperation. This is why I don’t like dating. I don’t think it is an exclusively female trait to obsess, though we do it more often and more aggressively than men.
I am trying the best that I can to not worry about what’s going to happen. In fact I’m not even going to give the new boy a name until I figure out if he’s going to be one of the boys or one of the lads.
I will say that this period of ‘courtship’, if you will, is rather exciting. Not knowing what’s going to happen. In some cases it’s ended very well, in others extremely well – as in the case of the Lads, who are two of my best friends despite/due to our romantic incompatibility. I may be crap at dating and figuring out whether or not someone is interested in me, but at least I can take solace in the thought that at the very least I’ll end up with another drinking buddy.
2023 Post Script: It’s funny because my current group of friends are very much like my uni friends. A bunch of guys who I would never sleep with but whom I spend most my time with.
Ube went AWOL quite some time ago. He became a Banker Wanker and hated it then decided to go off the grid once he quit. We think he’s probably working on a boat in Mexico or something. Turns out punting was probably his dream after all!
I just went to see Tom a couple months ago, but he lives in another country so we can’t just pop down to the pub when we want but we’re still thick as thieves.
And this new guy who’s about to feature heavily in the blog…we absolutely should’ve just stayed friends, but you’ll see why.
Ah, facebook*. Can’t revise with it, can’t have a social life without it. These days at least. That’s a bit of a hyperbole, but it has become the most-used forum for sharing media, announcing events, and now even trumps email as the way to send personal messages. Supposedly two yanks at Oxford created it while they were at Harvard. Oh, do they row as well? I forget. It’s not as if that was the only thing mentioned in the BBC commentary leading up to the boatrace. Who won again? Just kidding, I was at the boatrace, standing on the shores of the Thames, sipping from my pint as those banana-like boats sailed past. I digress, this is not a Rower Blue Part II or anything involving a threesome with the Facebook Twins.
The facebook homepage changes more often than my timetable, and has now begun to include what they presume to be a handy little sidebar of ‘Suggestions.’
“You have 2 mutual friends with this person, why not be their friend too?!” they suggest, excitedly. Well, if I wanted to be friends with them I would have sought them out through that handy little search bar you’ve provided, wouldn’t I? This ‘Suggestions’ section also suggests that you poke/message/write on the walls of friends that you apparently don’t interact with enough. Facebook is in no way inspiring me to add or contact friends. Especially since the people who show up are often people who (in the case of ‘add a friend’) I don’t like, or (in the case of ‘reconnect with them!’) am not bothered about talking to.
The other day, however, facebook suggested I reconnect with someone I used to date. The little picture of him stared me in the face until I caved and clicked on it. I was definitely not going to do as the book told me and message him, but some casual stalking couldn’t hurt. Still single, still hot as ever (damn him), and still not an avid user of facebook according to his recent activity, or lack thereof.
Recently it’s been as if facebook is mocking me. Suggesting I add people who I’ve de-friended, and suggesting I get in touch with exes, or siblings of exes, or mothers of exes (it’s true, I am friends with the mother of an ex on facebook), or even worse, current girlfriends of exes. Absolutely not, facebook. I do not want to talk to these people. I’m only friends with half of these suggested people because I would have felt bad rejecting their request.
There’s one ex in particular who keeps popping up and I would be a total liar if I said didn’t miss him. He’s off on some spiritual-cultural-exchange thing, backpacking his way around Europe somewhere. Such a stereotypical thing to do in your early-to-mid twenties. As a result, I have not seen him in about a year or so.
Quick side note, in case you didn’t get the memo on Twitter. I decided that I needed a better way of naming the boys I talk about, since ‘(random aspect of their personality here) Boy’ was getting a bit dull. The tube stop thing was good for the boys I’m friends with, but I don’t think it’s representative of all the boys I talk about as a whole. Scanning my room for inspiration I saw the tube stop map again, pictures of friends, clothes on the floor (brand names maybe? No, that’s stupid), timetable (zzzz, I do this as an escapism from uni, I don’t want to incorporate any more details about my academic life than necessary), then I saw it. A group picture of some friends and I during a summer holiday. There it was, sat regally in front of us, tall and handsome – the family dog. Concept. There are exponentially more breeds of dogs than boys I have slept with (for now), so I will always have options. I love dogs, and I love boys, so this is perfect really. Ingenious even, if I may.
Back to my story. This ex who was facebook haunting me was a bit like the dog in this picture, which was a Great Dane. Really strong looking, with chiseled features, like a thinner version of the statue of David. His mother was a model and he clearly had her looks, though not overwhelmingly so. His dad is an actor (yes you’d probably know him) and he has his charisma. He was that subtle kind of hot that doesn’t really grab your attention immediately**. The comparison to the dog ended at ‘really strong looking’ by the way. Anyhow, this one will be called Dane.
Dane and I met my first year in uni. He was two years ahead of me and, as I mentioned, I would not say our attraction was immediate. Dane was a complete sweetheart, and he made me laugh a lot. One day as I was walking out of my department I noticed a rather attractive person walking towards me and it wasn’t until his face lit up upon seeing me and he waved hello that I realised that I was ogling Dane.
He came up and we kissed hello on the cheek. “I like your hair,” he said pulling at a strand of it. “It looks different.”
“Really?” I said, pulling at a bit of it myself and examining it. “I’m not sure what I’ve done differently to be honest, maybe you just haven’t seen me in awhile.”
“Maybe. I just don’t think I’ve seen you wear it down before. It looks nice.”
“Thanks …” If the conversation hadn’t then moved immediately from my hair I would have begun to suspect he was gay, but luckily he asked where I was walking to and was conveniently, perhaps purposely, going the same way.
As we walked we discussed films, started singing Journey songs as loud as we could after we had come to the conclusion that they are hands down one of the best bands ever, and strolled through town grabbing flyers off of message boards for things we claimed to really want to go to, but never would, saying that we should ‘definitely go together!’ In the course of a thirty-minute walk I had fallen for him completely. It was as if we had known each other for years, despite never having had a conversation that reached beyond the depth of commenting on the weather, and the generic ‘So, what are you studying?’ bollocks you go through with everybody the first time you meet. Sure, we had a lot of mutual friends and saw each other at parties, but it wasn’t as if he was on my short list of people I hung out with on a regular basis. Until now.
As fate would have it, we had lectures around the same time in the same general location every Monday, Thursday, and Friday, and thus made our thirty-minute walk from lectures to college together three times a week. The walk, done alone, probably wouldn’t take me more than 17 minutes – 14 if I’m in a hurry (I’ve timed it). But we would mosey our way around, sometimes taking a detour towards the river to walk along the water and extend the time we spent together even more. We would talk about anything really, sometimes not talking at all – opting to sing instead. Dane had a great voice and loved to sing. Sometimes he would just look at me as if he were about to say something and then go, “Just a small town girl—” then in an octave higher than could possibly be comfortable for him, “livin in a LONELY WORRRLLLD” at the top of his lungs. I would laugh and he would carry on with his ballad for another second before bursting into laughter himself. His laugh was loud and happy sounding. It was contagious and made everyone else laugh with him until we all forgot what was even funny to begin with.
At a dinner party one night there was a large group of us sitting around the table, drinking wine and eating. Amongst my friends it was no secret that I was a virgin. It was also no secret that Dane was a virgin – though it always confused me as to how that was, seeing as he: a. was not religious; b. was extremely attractive; and c. had been at a uni where drunk girls flung themselves at him constantly for more than a day. Despite his ability to dress well and his inclination towards breaking out into Journey songs, we had almost certainly ruled out the possibility of him being gay as he claimed he wasn’t and often pulled girls. In fact he went home with girls almost every time. wewent out, but just never managed to seal the deal. A mystery to all.
The conversation at dinner had turned to sex, as it often did, and Dane and I were sat next to each other across from a particularly loud, but quite funny friend. We shall call him Mutt because he’s a ginger, and who really knows what breed that is. I would say ‘just kidding’ or something to that effect, but I have quite a few ginger friends and I’m sure they’re used to the banter. So Mutt looks at Dane and I and says, loud enough for the entire party to hear really, “You guys are both virgins, why don’t you just sleep with each other?!” We laughed that kind of uncomfortable ‘I-have-to-laugh-and-avoid-eye-contact-with-everyone-now’ laugh.
Then our other friend, Serbia (‘Serbia’ because that is where he is from, and to get the full effect of his statement you have to hear it in a Serbian accent) said, “What?! No! That’s a terrible idea. They wouldn’t have any idea what to do!”
There are … no words. Dane tried to redeem himself by saying, “Oh, come on! It’s not like I have no idea what I’m doing.” I certainly would have had no idea what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to offer that piece of information to anyone. Well, I would have a vague idea, but it was definitely something I felt would be better to do with someone who had actually had sex before.
Still, I couldn’t help but think it would be a bit romantic to lose your virginity to another virgin. In reality, it would probably have been horrible had Dane and I lost our virginity together, but I was naïve and full of romantic optimism, so it was not for lack of trying that I did not lose my virginity to Dane.
Dane and I had many conversations about the joys of being single and how neither of us wanted a relationship. Just having started uni, I had enough to deal with, and being his friend was time-consuming enough. It was as if we were in a non-committed boyfriend-girlfriend scenario sometimes. Dinner together, going places together, always sitting together or being together at parties. I’m sure people assumed we were dating – well I know they did, because they would often ask me what was going on with me and Dane, but in reality we were both non-committal freaks.
We had had a cheeky kiss once or twice at parties, which always raised speculation as well, but it wasn’t until Serbia’s birthday party that we properly got together and ended up back at mine after ducking out of the party early. When we got back to my room he kissed me and it felt as if our lips had been made for each other. I can still remember the dizzying excitement I would get just from kissing him. Our torsos pressed tight against each other, we kissed some more before he pulled away and said, “Let’s take a shower.”
I had never been completely naked with a boy. Hell, I hadn’t even been half-naked with a boy when the lights were on, so naturally I took a moment to think about this proposition, during which he began to take off his clothes. To this day, I would rank Dane as one of the five most attractive guys I have ever been with, in fact he’s one of the most attractive men I know full stop. My inhibitions quickly flew off with my top and he led me to my shower, leaving a trail of clothes in our wake.
If you’ve ever lived in college accommodation you are probably aware that shower space is kept to a minimum. A square-like container suitable for one is how I would explain this bathing receptacle, and it wasn’t smooth sailing from the start. There was some awkward fumbling, and him being over a foot taller than me put quite a strain on my neck in terms of kissing. Neck cramped, and annoyed by the constant spray of water in my face, I finally broke away and said, “My neck really hurts.”
Without any kind of hesitation, or consideration of my thoughts on the matter, he bent down as if doing a leg squat and hooked his arms under my thighs, bringing me up with him as he stood. I moved my hands from around his neck to grasping the cubicle walls. I wasn’t heavy by any means, but the whole ordeal seemed like it was probably a bit stressful on his body, though he assured me he wasn’t. The confined space became convenient and made things feel just a bit safer knowing that even if we did slip, there was nowhere for us to fall.
The water beat against my back as we kissed some more, our naked bodies pressed against each other in complete innocence as to what we were meant to do next. Eventually the shower ran out of hot water and he carried me to the bed, placing me on the sheets without drying either of us off. I reached my hand across to my alarm clock, which doubled as an iPod player, and pressed play, hoping that whatever music came on shuffle was an appropriate soundtrack. As the beat began I smiled at what a perfect song it was before going back to kissing Dane.
I am thinking it’s a signThat the freckles in our eyes are mirror imagesAnd when we kiss they’re perfectly aligned
He pulled away for a second, looking into the freckles in my eyes, and said, “That’s really sweet,” then pressed his lips back to mine, wrapping his arms around me and pulling my leg up around his waist. And so the Postal Service, among many other cheesy artists, was the first track to the soundtrack of our first time together. We weren’t together in the biblical sense, mind you. When we took a break to come up for air he explained that he had never been able to get it up with a girl, and thus had never been able to have sex.
“Well…” I started, trying to choose my words carefully, “have you ever considered that it’s because you’re not with a guy?”
Without hesitation, or surprise at the question, Dane thought for a second and said, “No, I don’t think that’s it. I mean, I have wondered that as well, but after thinking about it, I’m definitely not gay.”
“Have you ever tried having sex while sober?”
“No.”
“Maybe that’s it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He kissed me and got up to gather his clothes from the trail we had left. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he claimed as he put his jacket on, then came and kissed me once more, pressing himself against the duvet that separated him from my naked body.
“Bye.” I said, slightly relieved that things weren’t exactly working downstairs for him. This isn’t how I wanted it to happen. Not on some drunken night where neither of us would remember the details the next morning.
I woke up the next day, resolute in what I knew I deserved. I wanted to be in a relationship, sober, and with someone I trusted the first time I had sex. It wasn’t as if I didn’t trust Dane, he was one of my best friends. I just didn’t trust him as a boyfriend. That didn’t mean we couldn’t meet up now and then for the odd shower or some naked time. Dane’s little problem downstairs was a consistent occurrence when he drank so there was never really any threat that anything would happen. We went home together on a less-than regular basis, and it was usually fun, but he was quite moody, sometimes being irrationally angry at nothing in particular.
The morning after storming out of his house after a fight over this irrational anger I received a phone call from Dane.
“Hi, I’m really sorry about last night. I don’t know why I get like that. Well, I do, but—” he paused, “this sounds so stupid, but I get really, really angry and annoyed when I’m hungry.”
I sat there for a second, contemplating this excuse. “Are you joking?”
“No. Like I said, I know it’s stupid and I’m so sorry for yelling at you, but really, I don’t know why, but I just get really agitated when I haven’t eaten enough.”
He was too thick to make something like that up and I couldn’t help but be a bit relieved that it wasn’t me he had been angry with. “Why didn’t you warn me before? God, if I had known that was all it was I’d just carry a meal bar around with me at all times.”
He laughed on the other side of the line and my anger disappated. He had this incredible power to flood you with happiness with the sound of his laugh, so I could never stay angry at that. “Let me take you to breakfast,” he pleaded.
“Yeah alright, go on then you nutter.”
And so things went. We continued on with our casual ways, and it was with Dane that I realised that boys don’t notice the minute flaws girls see when they look at themselves in the mirror. They’re just so happy to get you naked that they can’t be bothered to notice if your boobs aren’t perfectly symmetrical or if your belly-button looks slightly odd. I also found it hilarious that while I wasn’t usually keen to take all my clothes off, it was Dane’s favourite way to be. Completely naked. I’ve come to find that’s not rare, boys love being naked. It’s brilliant. Dane played a big role in building my sexual confidence, and while we weren’t having sex, at the time it was the most intimate relationships I had ever been in.
Then one day, completely out of the blue, I received a text from Serbia, saying, “Dane’s lost it! You’re the only one left! xxx”
This text sounded cryptically like something from 28 Days Later, so I texted him back asking what he meant.
“He’s a man! He’s done it! He had S-E-X!”
My heart seemed to drop from my chest to the centre of the earth. How did this happen? I thought he couldn’t get it up. Was it me? A million things flew through my mind, but the text had also come oh-so-conveniently about an hour before an important meeting with someone in my department. I remember nothing from the meeting, all I could think about was Dane and sex. So, not actually unlike most meetings I have, where my attention wanders from the matter at hand to racy thoughts. On this occasion though, the thoughts were more troubling than amusing.
After Dane lost “IT”, as Serbia put it, I really was the only one left. It was less embarrassing and more empowering though, as if being part of some exclusive society. I could have had sex whenever I wanted to, I knew that much. It wasn’t through arrogance that I thought that, just through experience that I knew it to be true. Luckily I waited for The Boy, who despite his terrible girlfriend management skills, was incredibly patient and perfect for being The 1st One.
Dane ended up being the third person I slept with. After being dumped a week after losing my virginity to someone I went back into virgin-mode for a couple of months, not trusting most guys and knowing that all they probably wanted was sex. Luckily I was friends with mostly boys at the time and, having a vague clue of what had happened, they tried to reassure me that most boys weren’t like that. It worked to an extent, and one day after a long afternoon of drinking in the sun I was walking back to college with a friend who was Czech. Since the only relevant breed of dog I can find is Czechoslovakian Wolfdog, I’ll just call him Wolf.
Wolf was, and still to this day is, one of my favourite people on the planet. When he came to uni his grasp of the English language was minimal, so he went about communicating through a language which is universal amongst students: alcohol. Wolf threw himself into the social life of this fine institution and was immediately the life of every party. I would watch as girl after girl pulled him, more amused than anything. He was never somebody I thought of as more than a friend, but on this afternoon, pissed and needing sleep before heading back out, we decided to crash at his since it was closer than mine and I innocently believed we were simply lying down for a kip.
I was lying with my back to him and he slid his hand around my waist. His touch sent a shock of electricity through me, and suddenly the last thing I wanted was to sleep. We ended up having sex twice, getting dressed, then meeting back up with everybody else as if nothing had happened.
About a month after Wolf, I was out with Dane and some friends. I spent the night dancing with Dane and flirting and we eventually ended back up at mine. This time there were no problems on his side and after half an hour in the shower together (his trademark foreplay) we were in bed naked, and it was almost as if we had never been in this situation before. How many times had I sat there thinking I was ready, only to find he would not be ready at any point that evening? This time was different though, and after I asked if he had a condom his face lit up, then he asked, “Is this your first time?”
I pretty much laughed in his face before admitting, “No.”
“What?! When did you—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I said, pulling his head towards mine to kiss him.
Having sex did not change anything in our relationship. Our conflicting schedules, however, did. We saw each other less and less, though we would get together for the occasional, and eventually rare, shag. The last time we slept together I came over while he was attempting to finish an essay. We were chatting and about to get down to business when we heard a bang on the door. A second later two of our friends barged in drunk, holding a bottle of rum and demanding we take shots with them. Said friends stayed for about an hour just talking to us in their drunken ignorance to what they had interrupted.
As soon as they left our clothes were off and we were in his shower (so predictable). We moved the party to his bedroom where we got creative and tried as many new positions as we could muster before falling asleep in each other’s arms. Dane wasn’t big on cuddling, but on this particular night he slept with his arms around me. He had left the window open, which had apparently made me very cold as I woke up to him pulling me upright and putting a jumper over my head as if he were dressing me for school. Half asleep, I dozily lifted my arms as he put his oversized jumper on me before placing his arm behind my back and gently lying me back down on the bed.
I woke up early the next morning, his forehead resting on the back of my head. I had to be somewhere, but wanted nothing more than to stay there all day. I got up and dressed, then walked over to the bed to say goodbye. Dane sat up and pulled me to him for a kiss. As if we somehow knew it was the last time we would be together, it felt like we were kissing goodbye at an airport, pressing our lips together and holding each other a bit tighter and a bit longer than usual.
I can scan through pictures on facebook and find one from each of the nights I’ve written about here. It’s an odd thing being able to browse through pictures which span years and know exactly where I was when they were being taken, and exactly where I went afterward. Looking through the tagged photos of Dane during the time we knew each other best, I was often either in the picture or on the other side of the camera, snapping shots of him and his big laugh, or of him singing loudly to anyone who would listen. Pictures from the first night we went home together, taken in the small pub we crammed everybody we knew into for Serbia’s birthday. Pictures from the night we fought, him pissing on a bin. Pictures of us taken by friends at formal events looking smart – him in a suit and me in a little black dress. Our relationship, and its subsequent fade-away, is chronologically catalogued for the facebook community to see. There is a significant change of tone in the pictures, when they go from almost exclusively him and I, to a gradual lack of my presence in the pictures and in his life. I look at the pictures of him now, still tall (I don’t know what else I would expect…he certainly wasn’t going to get any shorter) and very much more handsome than he was when he was 19. In his most recent pictures he’s shirtless on a beach somewhere sunny, and I can’t help but wonder which Journey song he’s singing.
2023 Edit: *Saying that you can’t live without Facebook really dates this blog haha…I think I’ve posted exactly one time on Facebook in the last three years.
**In hindsight he was not subtly hot at all, I was just blind apparently. He was hot as hell and still is.
God as I’m editing this I’m remember why I never explicitly wrote about sex because I want to CRINGE into another dimension. But the dialogue and that fucking song are all what actually happened after we took a shower together. EW it was so cringe haha.
This post was exceptionally long so I will try and keep the update succinct. Like a lot of the people I’ve written about here, I did eventually sleep with Dane again. And I also ended up sleeping with that ginger, Mutt. But both of those are very long stories that probably necessitate their own new posts.
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?”
“Uh huh.”
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. Seriously…google it) and went back out to dance my way through the sea of fellow students and townies who were probably just one VK away from joining Sarah on the floor.
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. It’s probably more to do with the fact that 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’s reminiscent of the taste of 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, 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. Probably unsurprisingly, 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 most 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 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.
2023 Post Script: I think this is still applicable…and probably why I’m still single. I read about something called the “Triangular Theory of Love” a few years back and it really stuck with me. Here’s a handy visual:
Essentially, intimacy, passion and commitment are the three necessary components to a good relationship. Passion is obviously if you’re physically compatible and attracted to one another. Intimacy is if you actually like them as a person and are friends. And commitment is whether your lives are realistically compatible, as in can you co-exist easily.
I have never met someone that ticks all three boxes. I think the easiest to find is intimacy and commitment…I’ve dated people where it’s going well but the sex isn’t great and there really isn’t that kind of spark there. People will argue that spark goes away but that just sounds like someone who settled for a partner who’s bad in bed and trying to justify it.
The hardest relationships to walk away from are where there’s only passion and intimacy. That’s basically every person I’ve ever been in love with. Whether they lived in another country, couldn’t commit, or simply didn’t have the time for a serious relationship…those are the worst to get over.
I hate when people are like, “If they wanted to be with you, they would be.” Thanks Dr. Phil, but sometimes the reality is that love simply isn’t enough and there is no amount of it that would prevent resentment over giving up a life changing opportunity for someone who can’t come with.
Look at Alexis and Ted in Schitt’s Creek. That was a mature breakup where the only thing that was wrong was timing.
Sad? Yes. But what would’ve been more depressing would have been either of them giving up their lives for the other one.
Sometimes people come and go out of your life and unfortunately for me the one man who seems to linger like a fucking, I don’t know I can’t think of something that isn’t gross, ummm, like something that lingers when you don’t want it to, is my very first boyfriend. You might be thinking, surely not that boy who you lost your virginity to and then immediately dumped you. But, yes. THAT now-man-boy-person. THAT ONE.
I shit you not, I have just taken a freelance job in a five person company where he is one of the five. Another friend runs said company and asked me to help out and I love this friend so I was like
There is a lot more to the story with that ex, including him apologising to me years later and us sleeping together sporadically over the last decade, although not for a good while now.
But that being said, I cannot escape this man. I saw him last month and it turns out he lives fifteen minutes from me.
I cannot emphasise enough how non-existent of a chance there is that anything would ever happen between us again. For one, he’s still a fuckin dumbass. I introduced him to my best friend and afterward my friend was like, “who the fuck was that ding dong?”
He’s still infuriatingly hot, but I shan’t be swayed by his good looks. Not again!
Anyway I say that now but we’ll see. We still text each other on the day we first slept together because it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day to say ‘Happy MLK Day x’. What a way to celebrate that man. Unfortunately, knowing me, if he ever did try it on again I’d probably be like
But here’s hoping that our paths never cross during our work for this company that will almost certainly never cause us to intersect due to the remote nature of our roles.
(Even though we agreed to go to coffee sometime last time we spoke 😬)
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
Dear Readers and fellow sex-havers (or non-havers in some cases – Sexless@Oxbridge you know who you are, and thank you for ceasing to proposition me),
I have lied to you. Why, might you ask, would I bother lying to a group of anonymous followers who have no idea who I am or who I’m actually talking about? That in itself is a good indication that deep down I knew what I was doing was wrong. I had sex and did not tell you. It wasn’t the kind of ‘ha-ha he has a small willy’ sex or ‘ha-ha we fell off the bed in the middle of it’ sex. It was ‘I had sex with Dill who still has a girlfriend’ sex. There’s no ha-ha here.
February
Dill was the most unsuspecting of the Underground Gang. Arguably the most attractive (depends on your type, T3 is quite easy on the eyes as well), Dill was the one I knew the least until a couple months ago when he kissed me out of the blue.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” he stammered.
I had always thought he was attractive and that it was rather unfortunate that he had a girlfriend, and even more unfortunate that I actually liked her. Not in the ‘I’m not gay, but if I were …’ kind of way, but in the ‘If I weren’t utterly and completely into your boyfriend we would probably be quite good mates’ kind of way.
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” He immediately did it again. I’m not one for resisting a snog with an attractive boy, so I suddenly found myself in a dark corner in college, kissing my friend. Ironically enough we were at a Valentines Day party.
Our kissing was interrupted only by momentary flashes back to reality and, “No, we can’t.” Or, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m such a dick.” “No, it’s my fault I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I have this effect on all men.” Okay, not that last part. But I was thinking it.
For whatever reason, we justified him walking me home, which led to more kissing and eventually lying down in bed together and having a fully-dressed cuddle. Scandalous, I know. I woke up with his arm around me at about 2 am and got up to use the toilet. I came back and saw him there, in his suit, passed out in my bed, his arm limp and sprawled across the area of bed I had previously occupied. An immediate wave of guilt came over me at the thought of his girlfriend, in bed, wondering where her boyfriend was. I leaned over and poked him in the shoulder. “Dill…” I whispered. Nothing. I leaned my head closer to him, my mouth hovering over his ear. “Dill!” I yelled. He woke up, startled.
“Fucking hell!” he grumbled.
“You need to leave.”
“Uh, um, yeah. I’m so sorry,” he grumbled some more incoherencies. He got up and I walked him to the door. “Really,” he said, eyes closed, shaking his head, “I’m being such a dick, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dick.” He looked me in the eyes for a moment and then kissed me goodbye.
The door clicked shut. “Fuck,” I whispered to myself. Nothing good was to come of this, I knew it then as clearly as I know it now.
This morning I had to go through our text messages, all stored in one long list, one after the other, his then mine. I was looking for some trivial piece of information in one of them for Briony. I made it to the beginning of them all, having skimmed passed the one I was actually looking for. I laughed at most of them, then reached the beginning.
Me, 2:28: ‘Hey hope you made it home okay x x’
Dill, 8:35: ‘I’m so sorry about last night. Feel so guilty. And I feel like such a dick. Sorry again’
Me, 9:01: ‘I think we’re both in agreement that we acted like complete idiots, so I think we should just forget everything and do the healthy thing, which is to bury it deep inside and never talk about it again :)’
Dill, 11:22 am: ‘Agreed. We were both just really drunk I guess. I can remember trying it on with Foster as well! Have a good day, later x x’
(Six days later) Dill, 20:53: ‘What you up to tonight? Foster and I are down the pub if you aren’t up to much x’
To be able to pinpoint the exact moment when things shifted from in my control to completely and utterly out of control is an interesting discovery. I remember exactly where I was when I got the last text. Walking down the street, away from a bar where I’d been on a date, which clearly didn’t go spectacularly as I was with the said date who was on his way back to the library instead of back to my room. Nerd. I looked at the text as it flashed on the screen and my heart jumped a bit. ‘Fuck.’ I thought again. None of that, heart. I kissed my date goodbye, texted Dill to find out which pub, and hopped in the first taxi I saw.
March
Dill and I texted each other everyday. To the extent that I was grateful for my unlimited text service when I saw my bill which outlined how many texts came from and were sent to each number. He was the only one to break into the triple digits. Nothing sexual, just banter and jokes. He’d take the piss out of me, I’d take the piss out of him, all banal inside jokes which would bore the hell out of anybody else.
We were going to a party for the friend from the Underground gang who didn’t warrant a name at first, but does now as he’s come out of his engineering shell. We shall call him Temple, Temp for short, for his temporary status as one of the gang. He’s still in trial-mode. It was Temp’s birthday and I was running late so I called Dill to see if he would pick up some alcohol for me. No answer. Bugger. It was a surprise birthday party and with my luck I’d run into Temp in the stairway on the way to the surprise if I risked going to the off-license for some booze.
My phone rang, it was Dill. “Hey,” I answered.
“Hi, it’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.” She didn’t really say that, but it was Dill’s girlfriend. “Dill left his phone at mine, he’s just off to the shop to get some stuff for Temp’s party.”
“Ah, I see.” I said as casually as I could. “I was going to see if he could pick up some beer for me because I’m running really late.”
“Oh, I know. I still have to straighten my hair and put on my makeup. Dill wants to leave as soon as he’s back which should be about now.” Damn her and her ability to relate!
“Ha, yeahhhh … just remembered I’m not wearing any makeup, better go put some on. See you soon!”
“Yeah, see you. Bye!”
Fuck, she’s nice. Really nice. Like I want to be friends with her and tell her about all my boy-troubles nice. Oooh, yeah about that last part.
Easter Monday
I was on my way back from visiting the parentals over Easter and texted Dill to see what he was up to and if he wanted to grab a pint when I returned.
Me, 15:37: Alright, chavvers? I’m on my way back now, wanna swoop me up from the station and go for a pint afterwards? xx (One of Dill’s many redeeming qualities is that he has a car and thus is used as my personal chauffeur at my discretion).
Dill, 16:00: Fucking hell (my name here) I’m not a taxi service, get someone who actually makes a living driving you around xx
Me, 16:03: Train gets in at 16:45 xxxx
Dill, 16:11: Yeah alright then xx
He was late, but it was no matter because it meant I didn’t have to carry my bags to the taxi stand and actually pay for a ride. “You’re so lazy,” he said in his south-London twang.
“Don’t even pretend like you don’t like having the privilege of seeing me.”
“Whatever. It’s only because no one else is in town. To be honest I forgot about you completely while you were gone.”
“That’s blatantly a lie.”
“Whatever! Get in the car.”
We drove to mine, dropped off my bags, drove to his, parked the car, then walked to the pub.
“Alright?” he asked, about an hour too late.
“You should really stop using that in the middle of conversation.”
“What? ‘Al-right’? It’s a completely acceptable thing to say.” He said, the speed of his speech increasing towards the end of his sentence.
“Yes, but it’s completely unnecessary and should be saved for greetings.”
“Whatever.”
“Yep, nice one.”
“Shaddup. What do you want to drink?”
“Cider.”
“Tramp.”
“Fuck off and get my drink!”
I bought the second round. He had cider as well, I’ll have you know. So we sat in the pub like a couple of tramps with our pints, catching up and just chatting shit for the most part.
“I’m hungry, you have dinner yet?”
“Yes, in between you picking me up and us being here I snuck in a lamb roast.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Always.”
“Do you want dinner or not?! God.”
“Alright, alright, calm down. I could eat. What do you want?”
“Should we go to the store and cook at yours?”
At mine, eh? I had hoped that by confining our one-on-one get together to a public sphere that it would discourage any inappropriate activity, but it seemed that this was not going to be possible.
“Yeah go on then.” I caved. We went to the first shop we saw, but discouraged by the food selection and shameful lack of alcohol walked to a bigger brand name shop which would most certainly have the pizza and beer we required.
Back in my kitchen we burned our food and drank our beer. This kitchen is not for my use exclusively, and someone else came in wanting to cook something. “Want to go watch a film in my room?”
“Sure,” he answered without hesitation.
Back in my room I pulled out my laptop and moved to my bed, which was the only logical place to sit, obviously.
After rejecting every film or show I rejected, Dill finally said, “I don’t actually want to watch a movie.”
“Okay…what do you want to do then?” I asked in the most naïve voice I could muster.
He started kissing me, and this time there were no interruptions or sudden glimpses of guilt for what we were doing. Without knowing it we had been in a pseudo-relationship, and the progression from texting every other minute to sexing in my bed was seamless.
That’s not entirely true, there was a moment when he stopped and said, “I don’t have any Johnny’s.”
“I do.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.”
I reached over him to grab the box of condoms. “And who calls them Johnny’s?”
“Shut up,” he grumbled, smiling as he grabbed the box from me.
The sex was unremarkable really. A bit ordinary, and nothing to blog about. Size was average, foreplay was average, sex was average. Not mindblowingly awesome enough for me to immediately demand that he dump his girlfriend and take up residence in mine as my personal sex slave. We fell asleep, him wrapped around me, suffocating me. As he breathed down my neck I couldn’t help but wonder how I went from waking up in a panic every morning wondering whether or not my (ex)boyfriend was cheating on me to being the other woman. I stared at the wall, his arm wrapped tightly around me, thinking about how I use to hold the Other Women of the world in contempt. ‘I would never!’ I use to claim. Never say never I guess.
We didn’t text the next day. But like clockwork on the day after that he sent me one of his sarcastic texts taking the piss out of some aspect of my name. The texting carried on, and the next couple of times we saw each other was with friends, but it was obvious that without knowing it we were acting like a couple. Sitting together, ordering food to share, arguing about trivial things.
“Get a room.” Someone said, after witnessing one of our many arguments. It was then that I realised just how inappropriate things were.
April
We were at Shoreditch’s house drinking beer and playing poker and one by one the Tubestops left, until it was myself, Dill and Shoreditch.
“I want to be in bed by midnight,” Shoreditch had announced to everybody. It was quarter to one and Dill and I were still there. We eventually got out of Shore’s hair and walked out together.
Unconsciously I began walking with him, in the opposite direction of my place. Dill put his arm around me, “You can stay over if you want.”
“Yeah, alright.”
We argued over his lack of desirable outfits for me to wear to bed and I settled for one of his t-shirts and my pants. When he invited me to his I assumed his bed would be suitable for two. Not the case. The only possible way to sleep was with close and constant contact. We started to kiss at one point but I stopped and excused myself to the toilet. Looking in the mirror I knew I didn’t want to be there. Dwarfed in his shirt, I stood there on the cold tile, contemplating what to do. Go back to bed with him and wake up to more apologies? No, thanks.
I went back to his room and put a pillow over his head. To shade the light I was about to turn on, of course. ‘Placed’ would be more accurate than ‘put.’ As I began to dress, he lifted his head, the placed pillow falling to the floor. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Wha-where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“I’ve gotta go, my house is on fire.”
“I can sleep on the floor if you want.” He rolled onto the floor, lying on the fallen pillow.
“No, that’s not it. Get up.”
“No, no. I’ll sleep here.”
I finished dressing and went over to where he had already fallen back to sleep. “Dill, get up.” No response. “Get. UP.” I said, trying to heave him up by his arms. He was too heavy, and I almost collapsed on top of him when he fell back into his makeshift bed, still holding onto his wrists.
I tried a different tactic, hooking my arms under his and clean lifting his torso off the floor. “Get back into your bed!” I demanded. His housemates were most likely quite confused. I persisted until he was tucked in. I placed a swift kiss on his cheek and walked out into the streets of the early morning, filled only with people who, like me, were sneaking back from places they shouldn’t have been. ‘Fuck!’ I shivered in the cold of the morning.
Later-in-April
Tuesday
Me, 10:24: Hey, do you want to go to dinner this Thursday with Foster, Goodge and I? We’re going to formal hall at Jesus but we have to book tickets now x x
Dill, 11:20: Na, I better not ta. Didn’t see the missus all weekend so I’m going to put in some time with her this Thursday since I’m busy tonight and tomorrow. Try and get Foster some btw, he’s counting on you x x
How fucking dare you.
I’m generally quite relaxed and avoid drama at all costs, but honestly – was it actually necessary to let me know that the reason you did not want to spend time with me was because you felt guilty about not spending enough time with your girlfriend? No, it most certainly was not.
Why did I feel like a jealous girlfriend? I put an end to this incessant texting and realised that those who cheat with you will cheat on you. Even if he was to split up with his girlfriend, I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Okay, I’d probably sleep with him again, but he’s far from the realm of relationship-worthy men I know.
Saturday
Dill, 9:51: Hey, are you going to this thing at T3’s? I’m going to be a bit late, but hopefully see you there.
Saturday 21:00
I’m at T3’s having a perfectly decent time with the gang. Foster is hitting on me again, but it’s more endearing than annoying. Goodge is explaining to us why he thinks he’s dying, per usual for his hypochondriac ass. Shoreditch is trying to get us to listen to the playlist he’s made, some dub-stepper who is playing at Glastonbury or something. T3 is holding my attention mostly with his entertaining commentary on anything and everything. His new favourite saying is, “Umm, really?” in the brattiest, girliest voice he can put on, whilst still maintaining a brilliantly foreign and hilarious accent. I laughed so hard that I almost cried when he replied disbelievingly with this to Goodge’s statement, “I’m dying.”
Dill is late, as promised, and walks in with his girlfriend. Everyone carries on as normal, but there are plenty of nervous glances between the gang. People aren’t blind and have assumed the worst, I imagine. Which would be the truth. Dill’s girlfriend sits next to T3 and Dill walks up to me.
“Alright?”
“Been better.”
“What’s up?”
“I think you can probably figure out why I’m upset.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Fine, I won’t.” I walked out of the room towards the toilet and he followed me out. I pushed the door to T3’s room open and Dill closed it when he followed me in.
“Why are you upset?”
“Why would you bring her after texting me earlier to make sure I’d be here?”
“She’s my girlfriend, I had to bring her!”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s really not up to me, is it? You have clearly made your choice. I don’t want you to break up with her so I can be your girlfriend, I want-“
The door opened and Dill’s girlfriend walked in. “Is this the line for the toilet?”
“No, I’m done, go for it.” I said, and made a move for the door.
She went into the toilet and Dill called after me. “Hey!”
“What?” I hissed.
He gestured as if to say, ‘Where are you going?’
I gestured as if to say, ‘Fuck you.’
My only wish is that T3 had been there to say, “Umm, really?”
2023 Post Script: This was wild to relive, y’all. And this was just the tip of the Yikesberg. I left out a lot of shit at the time for the sake hiding my identity, but I definitely need to do a follow up on this shit show at some point. But that day is not today this post was fuckin long enough. Thank you if you’re still here reading.
Okay there are a couple of things that stick out to me:
When his girlfriend called me from his phone…how did it not cross my mind that she was very likely reading all of our texts? He passed out in my room once and the idiot never locked his phone so I checked to see if he was deleting our conversations and he wasn’t. Homegirl knew! And she still went on to marry his dumb ass! Married.
“I’m generally quite relaxed and avoid drama at all costs” TALK ABOUT DELULU. Two things I was never at any point during uni: relaxed or drama-free.
The end of this story sounds fake, but I assure you that entire conversation did happen. The only thing I lied about was that the party was not at T3’s. It was at my place. And our fight happened in my room, which his girlfriend 100% walked in on. And she didn’t say, “Is this the line for the toilet?” She said, “What’s going on?” To which I replied, “Nothing” before storming out. A friend later told me that it was the most awkward silence she had ever witnessed when I left the room, then Dill followed me, and then everyone looked at his girlfriend, and then she got up and followed us. When I say homegirl knew, she KNEW.
Thinking about Dill, his girlfriend and I back then…all I can really say is
