To be fair, I was in Berlin for five of those days. Not hunting for Aryan cock, but on a wholesome, family trip looking after my adorable little cousins. That’s not to say, however, that family trips to Berlin haven’t turned into complete and utter debauchery in the past, but that’s another story for another time, maybe. Berlin was great. It always is. The boys (my cousins) were horrendously naughty but have such butter wouldn’t melt faces that they could get away with murder. I got a rash on my face because the 5 year old thinks it’s hilarious to lick instead of kiss; I got scratches on my cheeks and chest and an almost bald spot because the 7 month old likes to grab and pull on everything; and I got sick. In fact, we all got sick.
At first it was just my sister. She was whining and complaining all evening but I ignored it as she has a strong tendency to be something of a drama queen. Next thing I know, she’s vomming in the bathroom and eloquently describing how diarrhoea is like having a wee out of your bum. An hour or so later, my aunt gets it. Around 10pm, the 3 year old wakes up with it. We think back and realise the 7 month old may have had it. I start freaking out. These are not good odds. I decide that I am strong willed and I refuse to get it. Mind over matter. ‘Move your big toe’ and all that jazz (we can only be friends if you get that reference, by the way).
So, with the apartment becoming more and more like The Walking Dead, I shut myself away with the 5 year old – who slept soundly through all the commotion, by the way. The kids’ room is really cool. They have this thing called ‘the high bed’. It’s basically another level built into the room where the 5 year old sleeps. It has a play area and loads of cool stuff up there, but the steps are sketch as fuck if you’re anything more than 3 feet tall. But being cocky and confident that I was stronger than any bug, I slept up there anyway. Obviously, around 3am, it came for me. With one hand over my mouth I clambered my way across the high bed – thank fuck for night lights – and then tried to slide down the stairs on my arse. I leapt over the 5 year old in the pull out bed I should have been sleeping in and legged it to the bathroom. Of course I was a fraction too late. Brilliant. There was sick everywhere. In my hands, in my hair, all over the loo, on the walls and on the floor. Just brilliant. After cleaning, I go back to bed. Obviously the high bed is out of the question, and because I’m so loving and want to give him the best chance of not getting sick, I steer clear of the pull out with the 5 year old. This leaves the 3 year old’s bed. Just to be clear, it’s not just a bed that the 3 year old sleeps in, it’s made for 3 year olds. It can’t be more than 4 feet long. I’m 5’8″. Fuck my life.
The next morning, the 5 year old gets sent to school to keep away from all those infected. An hour later, we get a call saying he was sick as soon as he got off the school bus. What a trip.
Anyway, I’m back in London and better now, so things are back on track. I had a third date with the American the other day, so obviously I slept with him. He bought me Smarties, Skittles, and Penguins – how could I not? It was great. Casual and easy. No awkward fumbling. Watched episodes of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia naked and eating Skittles in between rounds. Perfect. I do have two issues, though –
- He wants me on top all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I like it up there, but not the whole time. Oh, you want to switch positions? Great! Oh, reverse cowgirl? That’s still me on top. Fucker. But, when I am bouncing about up there, I can see Big Ben and the London Eye out of his window, so I don’t mind too much.
- He talks too much. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not the biggest talker. This extends to sex. I don’t mind a bit of dirty talk, but if you ask me a question mid-thrust, I’m not going to answer. And then it’s just awkward; you’ll think I’m not having fun and I’ll want to gag you. The same goes for narrating what’s going on. You don’t need to. I’m right there with you doing it. It’s not a documentary and you’re not David Attenborough. I’m not going to lie, I did tell him to stop talking a couple of times and swiftly redirected his mouth to much better use.
So, as you can see, a lot of the list is yet to be completed. My birthday is a week away. Wish me luck!