6 reasons not to fuck him on the first date

#1   You actually quite like him. 3/5 times he will not message you because you fucked him on the first date. 2/5 times he will message you, but only to fuck again. And 1/5 times, he’ll message you because he actually quite likes you, too. That’s real maths.

#2   You’re sad and/or mad because of another boy, and tend to make rash choices instead of confronting your feelings. Lashing out your fanny is not the answer; you will feel bad about it the next day.

#3   You’re worried about other people calling you a ‘slut’. If you’re a grown ass woman and you are potentially not doing something because you’re scared of what other people are going to brand you, you are not grown enough to be doing it.

#4   You think you’re a ‘slut’. Just don’t do it. You won’t feel good about it.

#5   You’re doing it for validation. We’ve all been there. Done it because we can. Because our skinny jeans took 3 minutes to get over our thighs that morning. Because he wanted to fuck us anyway. Having sex with a man because he calls you ‘hot’ and ‘sexy’ will not make you feel hot and sexy the next morning. You need to be a confident woman who loves and owns herself and her body first.

#6   You’re shit-faced. Almost irrelevant because you won’t really remember at the time, will you? But if you are intoxicated to the point at which you won’t remember what decision you made or why you made it, you should probably refrain from allowing strangers to enter you. If he’s a good guy, he won’t have sex with you in such a state anyway.

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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.

Anyway.. 

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?

Getting It On Gracelessly

Sex scenes in movies are always so perfect. Their clothes come off perfectly. They fit together perfectly. They change positions perfectly. Even the sounds to come out of their perfectly agape mouths are perfect.

Fucking bullshit.

Sex never happens like that. Everyone knows that leggings and skinny jeans are a bitch to get off. Someone always gets kicked in the head when switching positions, and someone’s always making a face  or saying something stupid that makes you want to smother them with a pillow.

Sometimes things just go wrong during sex. Sometimes it’s horrendous, sometimes it’s awkward, sometimes it’s kind of hilarious, and sometimes it’s just a sweaty amalgamation of the three. We’re only human, after all.

Here are some situations you just have to laugh through..

When a guy notices that your boobs are different sizes. So, I’m aware that most women have slightly different breast sizes, and that that’s completely normal, but I feel like mine are noticeably asymmetrical. As you always tend to be your own worst critic, I thought – even though the gap in my bra was real – maybe I was overplaying the difference in my mind, and just left it. It was never really something I thought about when getting naked with someone else, either, as no one ever mentioned it. Until they did. One night in my final year of university, I went home with this fucking moronic ginger boy who had had a thing for me for, like, a year. Things happened as they usually do. I later found out he may have been a virgin; this didn’t surprise me. The kid acted like I was the pot of gold at the end of his fucking rainbow. In reality, I’m more like a plastic cup full of pennies, so ginger virgin definitely made sense. Anyway, as I just lay there letting him do what he wanted until an appropriate amount of time had passed so that I could kick him out, he cupped both my boobs in his hands and said, ‘They’re different sizes. This one’s bigger; this one’s my favourite.‘ WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?! There was nothing to do but laugh and agree and try to change the conversation. It didn’t happen again until a month or so ago when the Tinder Ginger did basically the exact same thing. I have come to the conclusion that gingers see boobs so rarely that they really fucking pay attention.

When you vom on a guy’s dick. This is mortifying, but fucking hilarious in retrospect. It’s my favourite story that I just never tell because I was so drunk it’s like it happened in a dream, and so I never remember it. Now listen, when I say ‘so drunk’, I don’t mean ‘can’t walk in my heels and offering blowjobs for McDonald’s’ kind of drunk. I mean it was definitely taking advantage of my state to go home with me. However, because we knew each other well, no one really thought anything of it even though they knew we shouldn’t have been shagging. Long story short, I think I passed out in the middle of proceedings, and when I came to, he was sitting on my torso, moving his cock towards my mouth. What a fucking gentleman. My memory fades out here, but from what I can gather, being the drunk slut I was, I gladly opened my big mouth and welcomed him in. Big mistake. The next thing I know, he’s wiping me down with a towel and I’m standing there saying, ‘Well that’s never happened before.‘ I wish I remembered actually being sick because it’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever done – if you don’t agree, by the way, you really have no business being here – but I think my brain at the time classified it as traumatic and instantly blocked it out. In reality, it must have been a combination of the angle and the fact that I was too drunk to even have a raisin pass down my throat, but I like to think that my body just knew that the whole situation was wrong and decided to violently reject him.

When a guy refuses to go down on you. I have never had to ask for head before in my life. That’s not to say that it’s happened during every sexual encounter, but I’ve never felt like it definitely needed to be added to the roster enough to warrant asking for it. Additionally, I’m not much of a talker. You’re not going to get any verbal feedback from me no matter how much you ask for it. So, when this boy had his head between my thighs one night and JUST WASN’T DOING IT, I was so frustrated that when he asked, ‘What can I do?‘ I so meekly replied, ‘Can you put your mouth on it?‘ I die a little inside just thinking about it. So, when he looked up at me and said no, I just didn’t know what to do. I felt so awkward and exposed that my automatic response was to close my legs, forgetting that his head was still there. I think he thought I was trying to force feed him. Awkward. When I text Emily about it the next day, she told me that her friend yelled at a bloke who had refused to do it until he felt so bad that he just did it anyway – I like to think I handled it better than that, at least.

When a guy refuses to let you go down on him. I don’t tend to wait to be asked; I just do it. I’m kind like that. And I just so happen to be excellent at it so why not show off the skill set?  So, when this kid stopped me RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE, and said he ‘wasn’t feeling it‘, I was devastated. That may seem melodramatic, but it hit my confidence so hard that the first thing I did the next morning was text my friend saying, ‘Want a blozza? I got stopped mid-suck and feel inadequate‘. Obviously he did, and we ended up shagging later that night. I, however, did not feel the slightest bit better about myself even though I got the reaction that I wanted. The next time I saw the initial guy, though, he asked for head and loved it. And all was right with the world.

When you laugh in someone’s mouth. The first time I got with W, we were lying on his bed watching movies. They were my choices, so I think I was significantly more into them than he was; he talked the whole way through The Big Lebowski, and decided that Megamind was the perfect time to keep trying to get it on. I’ve seen both a shit tonne of times so basically know exactly what’s going on at any given moment and can anticipate what’s to come. So, there we were making out during this delightful children’s movie when my favourite line comes up – ‘Ollo‘. Because Megamind can’t say ‘hello‘. I burst out laughing in his mouth. Yes, I’m about 5 years old. He literally jumped away from me to the other side of the bed, whilst I carried on laughing. This was the second time we’d met. I think I semi-apologised, but more just explained that it was a fucking hilarious line. He edged towards me and said, ‘Don’t do that again. That was so awkward.’ 11 months later and it’s still my favourite memory with him.

Have you experienced any of these situations? What awkward things have you encountered during sexy times?

The Men That May Have Been

As I’ve said before, I’m definitely one to jump on the bandwagon. After seeing posts by The Shit Show That Is My Life and Emily over at Incurably Curious on the ones that got away, I got to thinking about any fellas that I may have let slip through my fingers.

At first I drew a total blank, because, let’s face it – if the opportunity’s there, I’m probably gonna take it. However, after thinking about it for two weeks, I came to the conclusion that men generally get away because I never know if I actually want them or not. So, this is more the men that I was unsure about or too much of a pussy to go for..

The Dimpled Aryan

There was a boy in my year at primary school who all the girls fancied; he was blonde with blue eyes and looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. We were the only two kids in our class with dimples, so we were obviously soulmates – except for the fact that I couldn’t stand him. In a class of 30, it’s hard not to know who everyone is, but everyone knew who this boy was. He was incredibly athletic and it was obvious that he would grow to be a good looking man – he just wasn’t that bright. I, on the other hand, was awkwardly tall for my age, kind of a lone wolf, and in all the ‘advanced’ sets that got to go out to the hut to be taught by the Headmistress. We were very different, but we used to hang out because he lived next door to my sister’s best friend and I wanted to hang out with his big sister. I was in awe of her. She was a ridiculously pretty ballerina with long blonde hair – basically like a human Barbie to me – and I just wanted to be her. The blue eyed boy was my in.

When we were in Year One, I was at his house and we were playing in the garden whilst my sister was next door with her friend. One thing lead to another and.. Just kidding. He did show me his willy, though. It was supposed to be an ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ type situation, but obviously I pussied out/was mortified by the whole idea. Then, before I knew it, our whole year was talking about how he and I were naked on the trampoline together. Six year olds love a good sex scandal.

Although the kid never flashed me again, this general kind of fuckery carried on for the next five years. When my Year 6 teacher decided that we’d no longer be seated according to our ability, guess who I ended up next to. This was also the year that I started to fill that elusive ‘tall, chubby Asian’ niche and started to wear glasses, and the year that he started to wear gel in his hair and, I kid you not, developed a six pack. We were very different, yet he still sang Nelly’s Hot In Herre to me every day. As much as I enjoyed being told to take off all my clothes on a daily basis, it just wasn’t happening.

Naturally, he did grow to be a good looking man – but he is also a massive chav now. Oh, and his sister? She looks like an extra from The Only Way Is Essex. No, thank you.

The Jew

I can’t tell you how this gangly 6’4″ man child entered through the peripheries of our friendship group, but I can tell you I was deeply unhappy about it. We clashed like Jay-Z and Solange in a New York elevator. It took over a year of outright hostility from me before we came to realise that it was less a case of us clashing, and more a case of us being ridiculously similar. Somehow, through the sheer fact that we were both massive The Big Lebowski fans and had an unparalleled love of Firefly (were huge geeks, basically), we fell into a really weird friendship that was constantly misread.

Our friendship really took off when I started my first year of University. We would talk every day and when I came home drunk we would either Skype or talk on the phone. In retrospect, I can see why it looked like something may have been going on, but, at the time, I was livid that people would even think it. And not just that they would think it, but that they would think it and openly discuss it. Constantly.

I won’t lie – there were a few incidents that lead people to this conclusion. Like that New Year’s he took off my bra and hung it on a lamppost. Or that time he got in the car with the boys and drove two hours in the middle of the night to see me. Although I was incredibly naive back then, I still think I was right when I would say over and over again that it was just friendly. But, having the emotional awareness of a dildo, I started to get really fucking confused by everything that everyone around me was saying. I didn’t understand my feelings, or anyone else’s – so maybe they were right when they told me what we felt?

Anyway, it all blew up one messy, messy night in Brighton where I was running around the streets with no shoes on and racing head first into glass windows. He wasn’t there, but our mutual bestie was. I remember absolutely nothing from the night, but from what I’m told, he alluded to the fact that The Jew liked me, and I apparently let on that I may have felt similarly.

I call bullshit on the whole thing, though. Our fucking meddling friends fucked with my mind. I’ll admit it, it was kind of a pseudo-sexual relationship, but it was SO innocent. Obviously nothing ever happened. He got a crazy whore girlfriend and we drifted apart. I can’t tell you how glad I am, though, because he is dull as fuck and super weird now. Oh well.

The Seminar Leader

He was my first year ‘Foundations of Human Culture’ seminar leader and, despite the Jesus sandals he would wear, I really fancied him. I loved him from our first class when he asked who had watched Dexter that week and we had a five minute chat about it. I loved him even more when I realised how smart he was and how passionate about anthropology he seemed to be. There’s literally nothing more sexy than listening to a man who really knows what he’s talking about. His intelligence was captivating and he was young and fun – he was so perfect to me.

The upside of this compulsory module that I had no interest in was that we got to go on a trip to a wildlife park so that we could study the non-human primates. Basically, it was a day off to go look at monkeys. As it was fairly near the start of the year, I hadn’t really made any friends on my course – I’m not kidding when I say I’m shy and awkward. So, there I was, wandering around the park by myself, struggling with my worksheet and spilling coffee on my clothes when my knight in Jesus sandals sidled up beside me and asked if I needed any help. It was awesome. He was like my own personal David Attenborough. We walked around for hours and I mainly listened to him talk about intellectual things and it was magical.

There were literally so many private places that we could have snuck off to, but I was not always the brave and daring sexual opportunist I am today, so, nothing happened. I don’t think I even flirted, to be honest. The day came to an end and we got on the coach to take us back to campus. Two months later, he failed me on my first paper. What a cunt.

The Travelling Welshman

I have an uncle who lives in Berlin; the Welshman is one of his best friends. When I first met him, I must have been around 16 or 17 years old and I found him fascinating. He was old, and too short for me, but he was so interesting and kind that I would just hang on his every word. He was a craftsman – so naturally that was just sexy in and of itself – and he would work in Berlin for periods of time to save up some cash, then sub-let his apartment and go travelling for months at a time. I was young and he was the first person I’d met who was so travelled and the inner anthropologist in me found his extensive cultural knowledge to be mesmerising. But, alas, he had a girlfriend.

When I was 19, however, he did not. We (myself, my sister and uncle, the Welshie and a few other Berliners) had decided to hit the bars where they lived in Prenzlauer Berg (my uncle was nowhere near trendy enough to live here), and, as always seems to be the case in Berlin, things escalated and we ended up in a club, drinking and dancing inappropriately. The Welshman and I found ourselves in a separate room, flirting outrageously and grinding up on each other. It got to the point where our faces were millimetres apart before we simultaneously realised that it was an awful idea and just backed away from each other without a word. I think he thought my uncle would kill him if he ever found out, and I just didn’t want to get with an old dude.

A year or so later I lost my virginity on a yoga mat in his apartment, but that’s another story for another time.

How To Avoid The Night Bus

If you are a regular human being, it is fairly likely that you have had to take a night bus home at least once in your life. If you haven’t, it’s exactly like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter, give it a try!

I hate the night bus. I hate that 80% of people on it are drunk (it doesn’t matter that I am, too). I hate that 90% of people on it are just plain fucking weird (it doesn’t matter that I am, too). I hate that if you fall asleep, the person next to you will try to steal your wallet out of your pocket. I hate that 18 year olds think that it’s okay to interact with you. I hate that it smells like McDonald’s (it doesn’t matter that I probably contributed to that). And I hate that it stops a 20 minutes walk away from my house and I have to run the risk of being raped and stuffed inside a suitcase to get back to my bed.

So, here are some handy tips to avoid all that!

#1  Get a taxi. Lol, jk. If you’re anything like me, you’re basically destitute and ‘taxi money’ is actually better utilised as ‘three more drinks and a shot money’. If, by the off chance, you are a fully fledged functioning member of society and you still, for some unknown reason, read my blog, a taxi is undoubtedly your best bet. But you already knew that.

#2  Stay with a friend. I know what I just said, but if there is a group of you, you can forfeit one drink and share a taxi. As there is also safety, and comfort, in numbers, you could also take the dreaded night bus together. They will be there to act as a buffer when weird boys try to get you to go back to theirs and ask if you and your best friend are ‘beating’. They will also (hopefully) make sure that you don’t get raped and suitcased on your way home. Sometimes travelling in packs doesn’t work out, though. Sometimes one of you will get off at the wrong stop whilst the rest of you have fallen asleep, missed the right stop, and ended up at the end of the line where you have neither your shoes nor your phone. Don’t worry, though; this is fairly rare. After all, you don’t turn 23 every day.

#3  Stay out all night. When you are young and excited about the world and your body bounces back like you’re part of the fucking Marvel Universe – this ends, and gets progressively worse, at the tender age of 22, by the way – staying out all night is a great idea. It helps that there are also a number of ways to do this.

  • Late, late, late night clubs. I’m talking like 6am close, here. Just drink like you’re in Mad Men and dance like you’re in Footloose until the sun rises, and then hop on a tube home to bed. You may think that sleeping during the day is a waste of your youth, but, really, what else have you got going on?
  • Food establishments. I’m talking 24 hour Starbucks, Subway, McDonald’s – all great shouts. When we were 18 and thought we were really cool acting like we didn’t have homes to go to, my friends and I used to stay in the 24 hour Starbucks in King’s Cross. I won’t lie though, if I saw people doing that now, I would judge the fuck out of them. Maybe I have grown up a little.
  • Public buildings. Okay, so I don’t really know what public buildings are open all night, but I’m assuming that if you’re out and trying to avoid the night bus, it’s likely you’re a student. So hit up campus! Last summer, after I finished my last exam, casual drinks with my two best boys turned into bar-hopping around Soho and flashing a boob at G-A-Y Late. As my friends don’t live in London, and I couldn’t rock up to my Asian household at 5am with two beautiful boys in tow, we decided to brave the city at night and took to the streets. After eating our Subways sitting on the curb like the hoodrats we are, it dawned on me that the library is open 24 hours and we could find shelter there. So, off we skipped to UCL. However, the feds campus security was on to us and we got turned away from both the Science Library and Foster Court (yes, I’m name dropping buildings you don’t care about, deal with it). According to the ‘Overheard at UCL’ Facebook page, we may have pleaded with security to allow us into the building because we just wanted to have a threesome – but who knows. Eventually, we stumbled our way into the main building and took cover until the trains started running again. My body hated me, but it was so worth it.

#4  Get lucky. Going back to someone else’s and having a lil bit lot of sexy time is the ideal way to avoid the night bus. Why? Because you’re getting laid, duh. So, you have two options here – a) you get your flirt on and find someone in da club to bang, or b) you booty call a big bootied hoe. Be warned, though, both may lead to a bus journey of shame in the morning..

a) to be honest, if you’re a girl, I don’t really recommend going back to some strange boy’s house – you know how I feel about being put in a suitcase. However, this doesn’t mean you can’t use them to buddy up and share a cab or bus with you. If things like stranger danger don’t cross your mind, though, by all means, go back to theirs! I actually really enjoying seeing different boys’ houses and bedrooms – and have more than once been told to stop looking around like I’m judging them. So, just remember, don’t be nosey in a way that may get you stabbed.

b) if you’re out and you already have a slice somewhere more convenient than your house, call them. There’s literally no shame in it; I did it a couple of weeks ago. It’s a win-win situation, you avoid shitty travel and you get laid – what more could you want?! If you’re really lucky, they’re also out somewhere nearby and can go back to their’s with you, because, let’s face it, it’s never particularly classy to turn up at someone’s off your face when they’re completely sober. On the other hand, if you’re worried about being classy, you’re reading the wrong blog.

So, there you have it! Some super simple ways to avoid the night bus! Do you ever partake in any of these? What kind of travel do you hate?

23 in slightly more depth, but not much

23 was nice and simple. Woke up to a big Disney princesses balloon because I’m such a grown up
image

Came down, had breakfast and opened some presents.

Went for lunch and saw the new Thor movie. Chris Hemsworth is a babe.

Had dinner with the fam. Nodded politely at requests to get my life together. Shook my head violently when told I should start husband hunting. Asians. Pah.

Ate cake. Oreo cake. It was amazing. I could have jizzed my pants.

Drank too much wine. Ended up having this conversation:

Me – I thought you would have said happy birthday

W – Didn’t know it was your birthday

Happy birthday

Me – [balloon emoji]

That was lame

I didn’t know what to say

W – Cunt is what  you usually say

And then I sent a picture of my birthday cake. What is wrong with me?

Drank some more wine. Fell asleep on the sofa. I’ve a pretty good idea what 23’s gonna look like

Sneaking Out Of A Boy’s House Gracelessly

I have for you, dear readers, a story that epitomises the one night stand. It is both tragic and shameless, and was, of course, a complete accident.

Last December I went to visit my friends who were still studying at our undergrad university. It was set to be a pretty standard weekend involving copious amounts of drinking, clubbing and hangover food. I was beyond excited.

Club Cant Even Handle Us Right Now

how cool I tend to look ‘in da club’

I was staying with my old housemate, one of my best friends, Lexi. Our day went swimmingly, and come night time we met with the rest of our friends and had a pretty good night out. At least I think it was good. I could’t really tell you. I was fucked. Before I knew it the night was over and I had met no boys (as far as I remember). So off Lexi and I set on the cold walk home. The walk home, like all walks home with me, looked something like this

funny giraffe picture

apt as we are both tall girls with a thing for giraffes

Something to note and keep in mind – girls wear very little clothes when going out. This doesn’t mesh well with December in London so we take a big bag with more clothes, coats and flat shoes to pile on at the end of the night. I was carrying this bag with both of our smaller clutch bags – containing money, keys, phones – inside it on the way home. 

So, there we are stumbling down the footpath when a boy asks us for a lighter. I immediately dive into my ‘smoking kills’ spiel, yell at him, and fall over a couple of times. Obviously he can’t help but be smitten. Lexi walks ahead to leave us to get with each other. As we approach the bottom of the hill where the road forks, I inform him that I am staying with my friend and have to go. Somehow I end up at his. Like I said, I was very drunk, and my memory of the events are very hazy. I’m not even sure I knew how I ended up there at the time. I take my clutch, leaving the big bag downstairs and he leads me to his bedroom. I’m still insisting that I’m going back to my friend’s house. I keep calling her but she doesn’t answer. I insist some more. He’s having none of it. He pushes me back onto the bed and clothes start coming off. My phone starts ringing, and thinking its Lexi, I run to get it. I am confused when I see that it is our other friend, Steph. I pick up. When I hear Lexi’s voice I am even more confused. Then, as she starts explaining, it all comes together. I am a terrible friend.

As you may have pieced together, I had the big bag. I had her house keys, her phone, and all of her money. She thought I was following her home. I honestly thought I was too. But, instead, I left her stranded. Bad friend. Half naked and batting the boy away from me, I apologise profusely and offer to come to Steph’s to meet her. She says there is no point and I might as well bang the boy. Except she doesn’t say ‘bang’ – apparently no one does and I am weird for it?

Anyway, I feel terrible but of course I stay. Things progress with the boy as such things tend to progress. I honestly couldn’t tell you whether it was good or not. I couldn’t tell you what positions we did it in, how many times or if either of us came. I was fucked – in every sense possible. What I do remember extremely vividly, however, is this conversation:

Me – How tall are you?

Boy – 5’11

Me – Cool

Boy – I lied, I’m 5’10

Just what?! It still makes me laugh to this day. Anyway, after other obligatory chat to soften the sluttiness we fell asleep. I even let him spoon me. Only because it was fucking freezing though.

The next day, I woke up far later than appropriate. I checked my phone to see messages asking where I was etc and who this random boy was. I had no fucking clue. I turned to look at him. He was blonde! Anyone who knows me knows that blondes just aren’t my thing. I couldn’t really see his face to see how cute he was. Gutted. I didn’t even know his name. It was definitely time to leave but the boy was dead to the world. I thought for a second I may have been so good it killed him, but quickly laughed it off.

There was nothing left to do but make a run for it. It was my only option. I looked under the covers to confirm that I was indeed butt naked. I looked to the side of me to see if I could see any of my clothes. Negative. I scooted forward and checked the foot of the bed. Not there either. I leaned as far over him as possible and checked his side of the bed, too. Nope.

So I crawl out of the bed, completely naked, and the hunt begins. I can’t find ANYTHING. I text Lexi this. Apparently my situation is hilarious. I can tell you that there is nothing hilarious or attractive about being hunched over and rifling through a strange boy’s mess of a room. He definitely needed to clean. How many dark t shirts and pairs of trousers can one person leave on the floor?! Eventually I found a bra. Then a blouse. So that was my top covered. Lexi told me to steal some trackies but I’d been wearing my favourite shorts and I refused to leave them! After another 5 minute search, I found them. Where the fuck were my knickers? I gave the room another once over, but couldn’t find them. Fortunately for me, unfortunately for him, they weren’t particularly nice ones, so I bit the bullet and decided to leave without them. I shimmied into my shorts, grabbed my earrings off the dresser, picked up my clutch and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. I picked up the big bag and headed for the door. Where were my shoes?!

I wandered around the whole of downstairs, once again on the hunt. The silver lining of this was that as I wandered around, I came across the house FIFA table in the kitchen and this lead me to remember the boy’s name! So that made me feel a little bit better. Anyway, I headed back upstairs to search his room again. Nothing. But then, as I was leaving, I managed to be at just the right angle to spot them in a different boy’s bedroom! What were they doing in there?! Had I been in there? Was my underwear in there too?! I had literally no answers. So I just slipped on my pumps and legged it. I came out of the house to see that I was only three streets away from Lexi’s. What a cock up.

Needless to say, the boy and I have not been in contact since. For all he knows, the whole thing could have been one giant wet dream. Well, if I hadn’t left my pants that is.