First kisses don’t always end with a twist, Kesha

I don’t know about you guys, but the potential of a first kiss scares me shitless. I can’t read signals – I don’t know what I’m feeling, let alone what the other person’s feeling. People don’t always have a ‘move’ à la Ryan Gosling in Stupid Crazy Love, SO HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF SOMEONE WANTS TO PUT THEIR MOUTH ON YOURS?

You wait for the ‘moment’.

I think that, often, those movie type magic moments are so fleeting that they’re really just hard to recognise, especially for a first kiss. When you know someone well, moments are there all the time – you can be smiling at each other on an escalator and know it’s the time to kiss. It’s not though, by the way, save that shit for private, you animals. Every first kiss is a new experience; every time is like exploring new territory. No, not literally the insides of their mouths, metaphorically, YOU ANIMALS. I think that unless you’re crazy confident, you can never guarantee that a kiss is on the cards, and this is why there’s no natural ‘moment’ for it. So, more often than not, the moment has to be fabricated. This can happen in a number of ways, some more standard and socially acceptable than others.

For the most part, no one really says anything before a first kiss, it’s usually all about ‘the eyes’. In my mind, I don’t even know how to make ‘the eyes’, but apparently I give them out all over the shop. Oh well. Boys are generally pretty good at picking up on this look, and that’s how they know they should go for it, especially in club type situations. After a date, or when you’re a tad more sober, however, it can be a little bit more difficult than that, and guys tend to come out with a line of sorts..

“So..” You know that awkward pause when you’re standing on the platform/at your bus stop after a great date but neither of you has really been explicit about your intentions? And you have 3 minutes until your appropriate mode of public transportation arrives and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye? And you don’t really want to leave without getting felt up a little bit? But no one’s doing anything? Yeah, that’s when one of you will be so bold as to say ‘So..’. And then you make out until TFL cockblocks you and it is glorious.

“Come here.”/’Get over here.” He says something to this effect, grabs you, and lays it on ya. This is probably my favourite, except for the split second of mild overwhelming panic when you’re not entirely sure what he wants you over there for. I enjoy that it is dominant without being forceful, and that the guy is confident enough to sense what you want and take charge of the situation. PERFECT.

“I really want to touch your face.” We’d been through three hours of drinks, a drunken walk home, and the whole of The Big Lebowski whilst lying on the bed together. No one had made a move, and to be honest with you, I was quite content with that. However, we had met on Tinder and pretty much planned for me to stay the night, so I knew a kiss was coming at some point. I just didn’t expect it to take so fucking long. I basically spent five hours wondering when the kid was going to make a move. We were lying really close on the bed, he kept touching my legs – it could have happened at any time. Eventually, he must have decided that the opening credits of Megamind really set the mood as he got closer and closer to my face and declared that he wanted to touch it. I should probably say that it wasn’t a completely random thing for him to come out with, as it is a well known fact that I freak out and smack anyone who touches my face, but, still. It was weird.

“You’re so awkward.” He wasn’t wrong, but that was definitely weird to say, right? So, we were sitting on his sofa (which he made an effort to let me know was from Heal’s) and I was downing my drink because he kept staring at me and I was hella unnerved by it. I told him to stop, he said his line, and then he just went for me. I was sitting with my knees up against my chest. I know I said I’m shit with signals, but I could not think of less inviting body language! How did he read my acute discomfort as his ‘moment’? He then later tricked me into his bedroom by saying he could hear his housemate at the door. His housemate was not at the door. I’m just that stupid.

How do you feel about first kisses? What’s the weirdest thing someone’s said to you before they’ve made their move?


Berlin, tampons, and handshakes

If you follow me on Twitter (do it), or paid attention to previous posts, you may know that I have family in Berlin and have just been to visit them for 10 gloriously tiring days. Although my time there is mainly spent doing the school run, going to playgrounds (they have sand, it’s cool), eating ice cream, playing with Lego and yelling at small children, I occasionally also manage to get out. I am fully aware that I in no way take advantage of being in probably one of the best cities ever to go out in, and I know it’s a pathetic excuse, but those kids are fucking draining. Every time I feel like I want a baby, I just think of them and my tubes literally try to tie themselves.

Don’t tell their parents I said that.


A trip to Berlin wouldn’t be complete without heading back to Prenzlauer Berg. And a trip to Prenzlauer Berg wouldn’t be complete without heading back to Duncker Club to make me feel like I was 16 again. 

Duncker is dark and grimey and alternative and gothic. To me, now, this is a logistical nightmare. All my band t-shirts have been relegated to pyjama status and I enjoy wearing big earrings and a bold lip out. I left the apartment in denim shorts, a plain black t-shirt and flats, and my uncle told me that I was overdressed. Fucking Duncker. When I was 16-18, I didn’t wear make up and I dressed so grungey that I fit in perfectly there, but I have evolved since then, as people do. My other issue is this: how the fuck do you dance to that kind of music? I tend to just sit the fuck down, sway a little, and drum my hands on my thighs. THAT’S NOT A NIGHT OUT.

I hadn’t been to Duncker for about four years, and I really didn’t want to go. Throw in that it was, like, a million degrees that night and I had just started my period and a four year old had told me that I would never have a boyfriend like John Smith, it’s safe to say that I was in a dark place. But, it was our last night in town and my sister really wanted to go out. What a bitch. So I sucked it up and we set off to meet The Travelling Welshman at the club.

Basically, Duncker sucked. The band sucked and drove everyone out. They sounded like they were 15 and playing in their bedroom, though their abundance of facial hair signified otherwise. I felt a little bit bad for them to be honest, but I felt even worse about the fact that I was sweating out of my fanny. It was time to leave. 

We ended up walking ten minutes to the Welshman’s apartment so that we could pee, he could roll a joint, and I could have horrendous flashbacks of losing my virginity (not to him) in his apartment. When I went to the bathroom, though, I noticed that he had a little dish-like bowl full of assorted tampons and pantyliners. Weird, right? I came out and asked him if he had a steady female night-time companion who kept them there, or he just kept them there for lady visitors to borrow. The answer was the latter. That’s weird, right?! My first point was that it made him look like he had a girlfriend, that girls he brought back would definitely think he had a girlfriend. He didn’t care about that. My second point was that it’s just weird. Like, I appreciate it when a guy has shit like face wipes or something that I can take my make up off with if I’m staying over, and I get that women aren’t always armed with an emergency tampon in their bag and it’s useful and considerate to have – but to have it out on display? WEIRD! What do you think? Let me know!

So, anyway, we ended up at Kaffe Burger, which always tends to be a good night. It’s a pretty well known place – Russian Disco, and that – so it tends to attract a lot of expats and tourists. Again, it’s crazy casual, and fairly run down, but nowhere near as grimey as Duncker Club. Due to said large number of expats – which Berlin is literally so full of, by the way – I didn’t have to wait more than 30 seconds alone at the bar holding my vodka cranberry and my sister’s Campari and orange (weird, right?) before an American decided that my resting bitch face wasn’t going to deter him from striking up a conversation.

He was really lovely. He was 32 and a freelance animator. He’d moved to Berlin for a girl (like literally half of the men there), and ended up staying for 7 years. He was like a taller, slightly darker version of Donald Glover with the stupid hipster glasses and so much energy I couldn’t keep up. I genuinely enjoyed talking to him; he was funny and interesting and attentive. He bought me drinks and would help me look for my sister when I got worried that I hadn’t seen her in a while. He told me that he really liked me – what do you say to that? – and that he wanted to kiss me. Naturally, I laughed and downed my drink. I told him that I needed to talk to my sister and the Welshman as it was miraculously two hours later and 4am, and I needed to check when hometime was. I came back and told him that I had to go, and gave him a handshake. A HANDSHAKE. That’s not a euphemism, either.

Like I said, he was really lovely; I just didn’t fancy him. I didn’t want to kiss someone just for the sake of kissing someone. Had I been more drunk, I probably would have been all over it, though. And, considering I remember next to nothing about the boy who fingered me on the streets of Schöneberg the week before, I was more than happy to be sober enough to make this choice.

Am I growing up?

Oops!…I Did It Again

First off, can I just say – two song title titles in a row? I should be writing for Grey’s Anatomy.

So, if you remember, I was supposedly using this ginger kid I met on Tinder. I say supposedly because I really don’t think I was, but let me lay all this drama llama out there and you can decide for yourself..

I know I said I had no interest in seeing him again, but, as was inevitable, he did ask if I wanted to do something on Friday night – the ‘something’ obviously being sexy time. As I am incapable of making [good] decisions, I asked a selection of friends what I should do. Basically, they all said ‘NO’. Consequently, I said ‘yes’. I messaged TG back to finalise plans and to casually let him know that I wouldn’t be staying over. I don’t think he was overly happy with that as he asked, ‘oh, was it the cuddling?’ but he accepted it regardless.

The evening rolled around, I threw on a jumper and leggings (classic combo) and headed over to his. We drank some wine, had some sex, and he walked me to the bus stop.

What a freaking lovely evening. I didn’t feel like I had used him at all. Everyone else had been wrong. I was right, like always. Fuck the haterz etc.

So, after going to bed feeling satisfied, I woke up the next morning in agony. Literally, is there anything worse than a bruised vagina? It hurt to put pants on. It hurt to walk around. It hurt to pee. It hurt to just fucking sit down. Prince Harry had well and truly fucked me.

Obviously I then complained about it to everyone, basically to announce that I got laid again – like The Lonely Island but just a touch more subtle

Needless to say, not one soul offered me any sympathy. So, after being called a slut and getting told that I used the poor ginger again, I, like the trooper I am, used my banged up fanny as an excuse to lay on the sofa and watch reruns of Sex and the City all day.

Naturally, five hours passed by and I was late to start getting ready for my friend’s birthday shindig. I cried to my best friend over whatsapp about how none of my clothes felt comfortable and then eventually settled on leggings and a blouse – classic me.

Drinks and dancing was super fun, but once I realised that I would miss the last rail replacement bus and decided that I was completely against taking the night bus home, I messaged Ben and asked what he was doing. Not unto my surprise, he had all the time in the world for me and after a quick ‘but you’ll have to stay over’ caveat, I was on my way.

Look, I know how this sounds, but I really wasn’t just using his place as a means to avoid the nightbus (but if you knew how rapey my walk home is, you’d totally understand). The night went as you’d expect it to go, though I’m not sure that was wise considering the state of my vagina at the time. I did disclose the situation at hand when he collected me from the station – he seemed far too overjoyed at the thought of me opting to stay over just for cuddles –  so he was fairly careful with me, but it was still pretty rough going.

Sex aside, he’s nice to talk to and we do get on. But, alas, the kid, at some point during the night, administered what I like to call ‘the kiss of death’. HE KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. THE FOREHEAD, GUYS. So, obviously that meant he had to go.

I’ve yet to meet someone who truly understands my hatred for this ungodly act. They get that it’s weird when boys you’ve just met in da club do it (trust me, it happens), and that it is a very affectionate thing to do, but, overall, most people think it’s actually really nice.

They are wrong.

It’s actually just really inappropriate. Forehead kisses are for real love. Forehead kisses are what I give my little cousins when I’m standing behind them and brushing their hair away from their little faces. Forehead kisses are what my grandparents give me. Forehead kisses are what I imagine my future husband will give me when I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in our kitchen and he’s just stolen my mug of coffee. Forehead kisses are not for booty calls. It’s just too much.

Couple this with the incessant need to cuddle, and it was game over for Tinder Ginger. We obviously just needed and wanted different things. Maybe it’s harsh, but I think it’s fair. And, because I’m a bitch, I obviously didn’t say this to him and  just ignored his subsequent messages instead. Whoops.

Although I still think that I didn’t use him, some of you may have re-evaluated your opinions! What do you think – did I use the kid?

You know that I could use somebody..

So, last night, after watching the new Made In Chelsea (yes, I watch it; no, I’m not ashamed of that) I was telling a friend how the show essentially leaves me with no faith in men. This quickly turned into a bit of a ‘men are shit’ moan as I started watching John Tucker Must Die afterwards. Though he was technically not wrong to counter with positing that women can also be pretty shit, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear and our conversation went something like this:

Me – True, except I don’t know any shady girls. But 90% of boys I know are shit to girls

W – True. 90% of girls I know use men

Me – I don’t use men

W – Tinder Ginger?

I matched Tinder Ginger (TG) a couple of weeks ago, and, after a few days of talking, he decided to strike whilst the iron was hot and ask to meet up. So, we pencilled in plans for the following week. However, whilst I was slightly tipsy and out with my friends that Friday, I messaged him and asked what he was up to. Long story short – we met up, went for a drink, and went back to his.

I don’t think I need to tell you what occurred back at his, but I will; SEX. Sex occurred. Sex occurred after four months of not occurring.

I didn’t need to clarify that for you, did I? Who wouldn’t understand that that was essentially the plan from the get go? What boy doesn’t take a drunk girl asking ‘wanna do something?’ on a Friday night to mean ‘wanna fuck?’

With that in mind, here’s the rest of the conversation with W:

Me – I don’t think I used him. He knew what that was

W – So? Knowing doesn’t stop it being using

Me – Not if it’s mutual

W – You Tindered him for just sex. That’s by definition using. You used him. You knew it was just sex. He clearly didn’t as he’s still talking to you

Me – No one meets on Tinder and has sex straight away and thinks it’s more than just sex

W – He does

Me – Nah, it’s friendly

W – Is this how you get all your friends?

I maintain that I didn’t use the boy because there’s no way he didn’t know what that whole dalliance was about, and I think that knowing does stop it from being using. I didn’t lie to him or deceive him in any way. He understood what I wanted and complied accordingly. Also, he had a fucking great time. A better time than me, even. I know because I kept count.

TG was actually a really nice guy – a 26 year old graphic designer who not only somehow found the patience to listen to his crazy one night stand talk about her love of penguins in children’s books, but also knew the books, and their authors and illustrators. We got along really well, minus his incessant need to cuddle, and I ended up staying ’til half past one the next day. But it was what it was, and I didn’t really expect to hear from him again.

After I left his house, I went to meet W for lunch (in my same clothes – so classy, I know), and in the twenty minutes it took me to get to Carnaby Street, I knew that I didn’t really have any intention of seeing him again. I’d gotten what I set out to get and so I was over it.

Okay, so I suppose if you want to be a pedantic little bitch about it, I may have used him. If you’re not a cunt, however, you’ll see that the negative connotations of ‘using someone’ don’t really apply here and no gingers were harmed in the quenching of my thirst.

What do you think? Did I use the kid? Or is it just part of the nature of adult sexual relationships?

That time a boy smacked me

The year is 2011 and I am off my face at the shots bar – oh, look at that, another story that starts with me being drunk in da club at university. Anyway, there I am, bopping along to whatever Rihanna song was big that year, waiting to order a shot of tequila and a shot of Sours, when this boy, Sean, appears behind me.


I had been getting with Romanian Boy on and off since the beginning of first year. He was a nice boy with a complicated girlfriend issue and I’d kiss him every time they broke up. Don’t say anything; I already know. A year and a half of this later and a couple of weeks before aforementioned shots bar night, we were making out in da club when I told him, ‘No, I don’t want to go back to your grimey house and have sex in your hot tub‘. Fair enough, right? After trying to convince me I was making the wrong decision, he so tactfully said, ‘Fine; I’m seeing someone else anyway‘.

literally my expression

I yelled at him, turned around, and walked away. I thought I handled the situation fairly well. Nothing I said was unwarranted; he had most definitely been a massive bellend. I searched all three floors of the club for my friends so I could vent to them. They were not happy with Romanian Boy’s behaviour.

Steph and Sarah decided that they needed to have words with him. Despite my many objections, my overly protective friends hunted down the slimey boy and waded through his group of friends to give him a good ol’ bollocking whilst I stood on the sidelines feeling awkward as fuck. From what she says, Steph’s chat with the kid was relatively calm and non-confrontational. He even apologised to me. Somehow, though, his housemates, Sean and James, had managed to get themselves involved. Sean had been fairly pally with me, but he was sleazy and I was having none of it. After the third, ‘don’t touch me‘, things escalated all over the place. I can’t really tell you exactly what happened, or how, or why, because I’m not entirely sure what did happen, or how, or why. But, boy, did things escalate. Everyone was yelling at each other, there was pushing and shoving and copious amounts of name calling, and Romanian Boy standing there in the midst of it all, with the meekest ‘what the fuck have I done’ look painted across his face.

So, back to the shots bar. Sean is behind me and behaving like a child. He makes not so subtle jokes about Romanian Boy and pulls my hair like we’re seven years old. Then he pulls my skirt up. All  the way up over my bum and fanny. Control pants on show and everything. WHAT. THE. FUCK. I lose my shit. We’re not friends. It’s not banter; it’s harassment. I try to smack him in my rage but there’s so little space to turn around and lift my arms I end up clumsily hitting his nose instead. He sneezes about 6 times and we laugh, order our drinks and go our separate ways.

Two minutes later, I suddenly feel liquid streaming down my forehead and through my hair. Again, I lose my shit. I walk over to Sean, James and Romanian Boy and confront them on the matter. Sarah sees that shit is going down and tries to help me. James throws drinks at both of us. Things escalate. Sean and James shove me. James smacks me across the face. Sean grabs hold of both my arms and backs me up against the wall, telling me to calm down. I glare at Romanian Boy who is standing there like the most spineless little bitch I have ever seen. I am not strong compared to these boys. A random girl sees what is happening and tells them to leave me alone and asks if I am okay. She then goes to get a bouncer. James gets kicked out and barred for 12 months.

Sometimes boys hit girls. I’m not talking about domestic violence or spousal abuse (which goes both ways), but these random and unnecessary fights that tend to happen when you’re out. This story would look completely different if everyone involved was female. When I tell the story, all the emphasis is on the fact that a boy hit me. If it was a girl, it would be less of a story and more, ‘this psycho bitch slapped me for no reason; what a cunt’. If it was a girl who had hit a boy, it would probably be the same kind of ‘pyscho bitch’ sentiment and even less of a story. Why is that?

I don’t have a soapbox to stand on, just a question – why is it still so socially and culturally taboo for a boy to hit a girl? Maybe my understanding of equality is different, or maybe I didn’t pay enough attention during my Anthropology of Gender module, but, isn’t it a bit hypocritical? Feminism is about equality, right? We fight for equal rights when it comes to education, jobs, money and our sexuality; we argue that our biology and physiology isn’t a hindrance to us. So, why is it that we can smack a boy, but he’s not allowed to react to it physically?

Because this is the internet, I feel like I need to add a disclaimer – obviously, violence is never the answer and I am not in any way condoning it. I don’t think that boys should be allowed to hit girls, because, generally, they are stronger. Is that ‘sexist’ to say? In my experience, it’s just the truth. It’s likely I’ve just spouted a load of shit, and now all the militant fourth wave feminists are coming to tie my tubes, but I thought it was an interesting thought, at least. What do you think?

This is purposely provocative and controversial, but, are you still a feminist if you’re outraged that a boy has hit you, and your outrage is at the fact that he is a boy?

Breaking Patterns – no advice given

The other night, in typical single girl fashion, I was sprawled out across the sofa watching Sex And The City. The episode was centred on the idea of dating ‘patterns’, how we all have them, and how hard they are to break. Obviously this prompted a ‘thought provoking’ question from Carrie:

Are we all, in fact, just dating the same person over and over again?

I don’t think the writers dug too deep with this one as it’s fairly obvious. But hey, here I am writing about it, too. Essentially, everyone has a type. In my mind, my type is tall, dark and handsome – like Superman.

could anything make you more weak in the knees?!

In reality, however, my type is cunts; just the most awful people I could possibly find. I’m drawn to them like a hipster to a beanie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking typical cool, bad boy sort of guy here – there is nothing cool about the boys I get involved with. They’re just straight up bad people.

And I know it. I know it’s my pattern. I see it coming every single time. But I never break it. I don’t even try.

And because it’s my pattern, and everybody knows it, it has been analysed during girl chats a fair few times. This has come up more than once…

go see/read ‘The Perks of Being A Wallflower’ if you haven’t already!

Now, I don’t like to think of this as true in regards to myself. Mainly because it makes me look a little bit pathetic and like I don’t think I deserve to be treated nicely. Maybe I don’t. I don’t know. I’m not that in tune with my feelings.

I think it’s more likely that I’m just a glutton for punishment. I put myself in a position to be hurt over and over again by the same type of person, if not the same person themselves. And I make it so easy for them. I line myself up in front of the target board, move it a few feet closer, and become a fucking sitting duck. Just waiting for them to take a shot. My vital organs practically begging to accommodate their bullets.

If you’re a regular reader, you may know that the most recent major antagonist in my life story is W. We still snapchat. We still whatsapp. He’s still a cunt. I still let him be a cunt to me. Every interaction ends in me being upset or angry – predominantly angry, though. There have been a fair few of these incidents recently, though I don’t want to get into them as I like to look the least pathetic and lame I possibly can. Just know that none went well, and that my point is that I knew that they wouldn’t. Every time I reply or instigate a message or a snapchat, I know that it’ll end badly. End badly for me, that is. He couldn’t give a fuck. It leads to a lot of feeling like this…

Sometimes I think I’m breaking the pattern. I’ll go on a date with a nice boy who’s polite and doesn’t make it an aim to try to make me cry. And then I’ll never text him again and text one of the boys who’s rude to me instead.

If you have the answer, please don’t hesitate to enlighten me. In the mean time, though, I don’t see anything changing. I think I’m just waiting for this…

Aren’t we all, though?

Dealing With A Broken Vagina Gracelessly

Disclaimer: this story is not for the faint hearted, squeamish or those easily put off of massive penises 

So, I’ve talked about this kid briefly before, outlining the tragedy that was our ‘thing’, but I’ll give you a little more background info now, too. I’ll call him Sonic as he had tragically ill advised spikey hair.

The first time we met was my 21st birthday party. One of my favourite boys in the whole wide world – though he has since fucked off to Australia and abandoned me and our mojito nights – brought him along to the house party. Thanks, G, I really owe you an aids burger for that one. To be honest, I have very little memory of the night – quelle suprise. But from what I’ve been told, we really hit it off. So much so that we ended up in my room together. I have no memory of this but he later told me that nothing happened. Apparently I talked about all my teddy bears and then showed him my underwear. I know what you’re thinking. But, no. Not the underwear I was wearing. The underwear in my drawer. Which he then rated out of 10. He added me on Facebook the next day.

Some of the gang at a campfire

Fast forward four months to me in da club, fucked off my face. Now, I wasn’t with my usual group this night. I was with people who had no idea who he was and how weird he is. Ie, people who didn’t know they should stop me from getting with him. So I did. A lot. And then we went home together. Sonic was on it. Super giving and surprisingly talented. And then his pants came off.

It was the biggest thing I had ever seen, and still is. But, alas, we had no condoms – what a recurring theme in my life – and he said I was too drunk to have sex with. What a gentleman. Anyway, the news of our tryst spread through our friends like wildfire. Bloody gossips. We didn’t get with each other for another two months.

Skip to the end of term and we are getting with each other and sleeping over every chance we get. I’m set to graduate and he still has another year. He drunkenly brings up that it’s a shame we didn’t have more time together and that he’ll miss me. Err, it’s your fault and I only live two hours away, bellend. But that’s neither here nor there, I’m still unsure of my feelings at this point. And we still haven’t had sex.

It’s the last Wednesday night of the year and my house hosts predrinks for our now merged group of friends. Sonic is there telling everyone I’m so bruised because I ‘said no’. He thinks he’s funny. People were actually starting to wonder if he was beating me, but, really, drinking too much and being the clumsiest person alive just doesn’t mix.

Legitimate results of being a mess. Fuck my hands are fat.

Anyway, we go out, we’re all having a great time, everyone’s fucked off their face. Then things get hazy. The next thing I know, Sonic and I are walking towards his and yelling at each other. I have no idea what about. At his, we’re still yelling. He later told me he threw couscous at me and made me touch his housemate’s penis. Brilliant. I remember more yelling. I remember trying to leave, being stopped and made to sit on the sofa. The next thing I remember is being in bed, spooning, still angry at each other.

I move his hand downwards from my chest and it’s on. Seduction is so easy for a girl. Now, as I previously mentioned, Sonic has a massive cock. Like Fassbender massive. I don’t really want to give away too much about me, but let’s just say our genitals were not compatible. It hurt SO much. Kind of like what I imagine to be reverse childbirth. I was in so much pain and my face and screams said it all. So he stopped, obviously thankfully. Then, he notices that there’s blood on his hands. He moves off of me and we see red everywhere. All over his cock and balls, my thighs, the sheets, the curtains(!), our clothes. And not just faint little smudges like finger prints here and there – it was a fucking blood bath.

Obviously, the next logical step was to get in the actual bath. Nothing has ever been so sobering. We were both so freaked out and unaware of what was going on. I wasn’t on my period. We didn’t know what else it could be. Clearly too drunk to realise that he’d torn the shit out of me. Talk about ruining someone, eh? So we get in the shower and wash off the blood. I’m still so drunk that I fall in the tub. There is nothing more unattractive than a chubby, wet, 5’8″ girl with long, flailing, chubby limbs falling over in a bath tub. If I was a crier, I would have been sobbing at this point. I fell spot on the ever growing bruise pictured above, banged up my legs and head, and to top it all off, my vagina hurt like crazy. I couldn’t get up. I sat there, in the tub, under the running shower – brilliant, I’d have shit hair in the morning, too – looking like the most pathetic and broken person of life.

basically twins

And then he sat down in front of me. We talked about everything and nothing. I have never been so exposed, in every sense, and so comfortable in front of someone. Despite everything, sitting in that tub is my favourite memory of him. We eventually got out, he wrapped me in a towel, dried me, and we got back into the blood soaked bed. Obviously still too drunk to think to change the sheets. He held me, told me it wasn’t my fault, that he wouldn’t tell anyone, and that it was our secret. Which was a fucking lie, by the way.

When we woke up on the bloody bed the next morning, it was weird as fuck. There was still tension from having spent half the night yelling at each other, we were both freaked out by what had happened, and there were still residual effects from being in the tub and realising, for the first time, that we actually cared for one another. So I left.

But, being us, we quickly got to the point where we could joke about it. He ended up being quite pleased at the thought of having ruined me for other men. He had to flip his mattress over because it was so stained. I couldn’t pee for a month without wanting to cry. Pretty even deal, don’t you think?