The last time I was single, the phrase “the drought MUST end” was coined by my friend Johan after he decided that it had been Far Too Long since I’d bumped uglies with someone. He was Swedish and as hardened a drinker as that geographical association should imply if you’ve ever met a Swede before. We’d go out, he’d have 15 Sambuccas then try to push me in the direction of any available male “Come on [my surname]. The drought MUST end”. A bunch of us went on holiday together and the phrase literally became a mantra for the entire trip. Peer pressure has never been a big motivator for me so the drought still didn’t end for a good couple of months. And when it did Johan merely berated me for the fact it had taken me so long. I actually could have ended the drought on the holiday having said to one of the boys that if he won the next hand of cards then I’d sleep with him. I was losing the entire game then literally won on the last card. The universe stepping in, I still think…
But I digress. And even I’ve been thinking lately “Come on [me]. The drought MUST end”. Just because I kinda feel like I’d be ready to start seeing someone again (an as yet unidentified person, admittedly) and not because i want to beat Dave to the aisle but because I think it’d be a laugh. Watch me grow ;o) And I really don’t think that the first person you sleep with after a drought should be a person you’ve actually invested in. Just a personal philosophy. Now usually I sleep with my ex boyfriends for a year after we break up but -as you know – this was not the case with Dave. You lived every moment of the year after we broke up and there were no bedtime stories there. If there were any justice in the world then Superhot and I would have been at it like rabbits since October (damn you Superhot) but ’twas not to be. So the hunt was on.
Now long-suffering readers may remember that last July I went to a house party where I drank a bottle of rum. There followed another house party at the same house in December where I watched the X Factor final and drank a bottle of rum (and some eggnog, ’tis the season etc). So summer rolls around again, which meant another party and – you’ve guessed it – another bottle of rum. Predictable, moi? Now due to all the rum, you’re going to have to forgive me for being hazy on the details, but the drought was definitely ended. The owners of said house are of a theatrical persuasion, so the parties tend to be populated with gorgeous creatures talking about what bastards their agents are. And as a result, i had the enormous good fortune to start talking to a gorgeous creature whose body of work includes appearing on a Top Trump card. How cool is that? He was the first to admit that he’s the shit card that you try to get rid of first, but still – a fucking Top Trump! Now, I’ve never slept with someone who’s a Top Trump before and this seemed as good a reason as any. Which is probably what motivated my decision to agree to go home with him. We’d got to kissing at some point but I really can’t remember the whys or the wherefores. So anyway, after wandering the mean streets of Hackney in search of a cab, we started the long journey to Fulham. Which seemed to be on the far side of the universe. Top Trump got out of the car at some point to get some cash and the driver made some remark about “my boyfriend” or something . Ever the demure maiden I said: “that’s not my boyfriend, I don’t even know his surname. I’m not entirely sure how I got into this cab. I don’t know why I get myself into these situations…” Cue the driver catching my eye in the rear view mirror for the rest of the journey and laughing as TT’s arm disappeared further up my dress. Cab drivers… If they had any sense they’d fit cameras in their cabs and stream live onto the internet. Maybe they do. If they do, I should have quite a fanbase.
Anyway, after journeying for several weeks, with me asking “seriously, why would anyone live in fulham?” about every 14 seconds, we got back and the deed was done. Now normally I’d probably go into more detail (not gynaecological but at least with some sort of punchline) but someone who knows TT reads this and i just feel a bit icky about that. Even I have some integrity. You really want more? OK, no farm animals were harmed and I had a nice time, thank you. But I was already pretty sure this was going to be a one-off, and would actually NEVER have gone back with him straight off the bat if I’d wanted to see him again, so I got itchy feet pretty fast once we were done. Which is why, having got there at around 4am, I legged it at 7am without saying a word whilst he remained comatose. Which I sort of feel bad about, but at the same time, who really enjoys that hungover morning after chat? I mean really… So yeah, I called a cab and was back home by 7:30. Then woke up at 10:30 still wearing my dress AND jacket. Such a lady…
Fast forward 48 hours and I found myself at dinner with several of TT’s acquaintances, all of whom were at the party and all of whom are just ITCHING to talk about it – turns out that the party was an uncharacteristically slow news night so TT and I are the talk of the town. One of the guys, leering like Leslie Philips on a double dose of Viagra, must have asked me “so, have a good time Saturday night then?” *wink* at least 20 times. It was a long evening…
And I do feel sort of bad, because if some guy ran out on me I doubt I’d feel great about it. But then I think boys are wired differently in that respect and he may be overwhelmed with relief. I still don’t think we’ll end our days together (he’s not quite Pasty Child League, but he is a good few years younger than I am) but I’m contemplating getting in touch if I can find a non-patronising way to say “it’s not you, it’s me” ;o) If I can, I could sell the formula for billions. Will think on’t.
If nothing else, I’ll leave you with an image. He’s currently filming the Christmas special of a popular detective series, so my family will have a break from Charades this year and instead we can play “Hey Mum And Dad, Guess Which One I Fucked?”. That should help the goose go down nicely…
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