RYAN GOSLING WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!?

And so continues single life.

 

You think you’re doing reasonably well until you hear from Dark-Haired-Beauty, the girl that wears leather and red lipstick and has a zip all the way down the back of her skirt – (a zip that even you are slightly-worryingly-too-interested- in) – and you find out straight from the mouth of Serious-Slut-Number-One* -

*(Obviously a highly legitimate resource)

 - how this Dark-Haired-Dark-Horse has now moved on from one particular male conquest after fucking the first, broken the heart of a well-known-bad-boy-now-left-crumbling-like-his-empty-beer-bottle-in –the-gutter-crying-for-release-whilst-pitifully- moaning-her-name, and on top of that you have just been informed of various engagements that she has been occupied in, such as:

 

-  ‘Skype sex’ (what is that?! And what if the picture froze on a highly unattractive moment?!)

-  ‘Text sex’ (how could your fingers be doing two things at once?)

-  ‘Phone sex’ (hasn’t she just moved in with a random collection of new housemates, aka STRANGERS, that might find this behaviour slightly disconcerting? I mean… at least wait until you are two weeks into the renting process?)

 

And on top of that, she has a really good job.

                                                What.           The.             Fuck?

                                                                       #Firstworldproblems

 

   I found myself being met with a strange collection of emotions at the news of Dark-Haired-Beauty’s endeavours, and it felt like I was almost going through a break up again.

  First there was the shock: Really? This is happening?

  Then there was the confusion: You did what?! With the phone?!

  Then there were the logistics: So surely you just sent a naked photograph, job done? Oh no, oh no no no. Photos are for amateurs…

   Then there was the defensive: Ok. Yeah. Well to be honest, I don’t want to hear about it anymore…

   Then there was the epic U-Turn: Oh no I do, I really do, I really want to hear about it, tell me more!!

  Following the epic U-Turn inevitably comes the renewed rejection: ‘I could never do that with a phone. And I’d have to use some lube. And how did you make that look attractive? And why haven’t they text me back? And why did I ask for his permission to put his penis in my mouth!?

  And most obviously: Why can’t I just have sex?!

 

Relax and calm. The next part is the nicest part: the acceptance. That’s cool. So yeah. Whatever. Sounds good to me. You want to live like that that’s cool. Yeah, you do want to live like that? Yeah. Nice. Ok. No problem. Ok. So… Glad you’re having a good time. I’m just going to…

       (Eagerly takes a hefty sip of alcohol.)

 

Drink?

 

And then you embark on a bizarre mixture of beer, then cider, then a random glass of rum, then a sambuka, a lovely glass of wine, back to the beer and by this time your limbs have gone all tingly and it’s actually made you feel worse because you are once again

  HORNY.

                                                                         #Firstworldproblems

  

 

Perhaps the reason that you haven’t had the best selection of sex lately, is because every time you have gained access to the male sex, successfully initiated the courting process (in present day terms this means saying hello and then engaging in animalistic kissing) you have simply been too DRUNK.

And – I mean, you’re not counting – but surely at least three of the occasions only count as half of a number, because:

a) They didn’t actually have a resolution, if you know what I mean (insecurities commence – ‘don’t you dare blame the alcohol’)

b) They were over much too fast

c) You don’t actually remember him putting it anywhere near you?

d) You swear to God he pretended to climax. Yes. Things are getting that embarrassing.

 

On one occasion you swear reasons a, c and d actually happened all at once.

 

And as for reason b - by the time you’ve read the first paragraph (yes, all 250 words) my second most recent conquest would have put his penis inside my vagina, given it about ten pumps, and extracted it after seven seconds. Game over. We would then play ‘FIFA’ awkwardly, in an effort to prematurely forget the incidents of the previous seven seconds. Unfortunately the only thing that was premature was the seven seconds – we remember the incident to this day, only too clearly.

 

After ‘FIFA’ I would leave. And laugh all the way home.

 

AND NOW HERE I AM.

 

This is what it’s resulted in. Watching ‘Crazy Stupid Love’   (for the fifth time)

                            ALONE

and pausing it on the moment when Ryan Gosling removes his t-shirt in the conservatory room of his sexy house, revealing his sexy abdominal muscles, and then he plays the sexy song from dirty dancing. And I sit there in bed. With my mouth open.

 

I don’t even want to masturbate. He is too beautiful. It would be sort of too dirty. And I wouldn’t want to ruin him.

  

 

 

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RYAN!!

WHERE ARE YOU?!!!

COME AND FIND ME SOON PLEASE, AND SAVE ME FROM THIS MADNESS!!

A happy vagina is always worth the wait

In which Attempt Number Four leaves your vagina feeling as though it was worth the wait.

 

The morning after the night before you wake up to an immediate snowball of panic thrown full pelt in your face, banging vaguely somewhere in the region of your solar plexis, the exact place your diginity should have rested. And BANG - here starts the protocol you didn’t expect to be undertaking now you are moving swiftly through your twenties.

 

Rule One - check your current location. Is this where you passed out?! ‘Why, how and where?’ spring to mind. So many questions your mind is a myriad of ‘what if’s’ that lead to the next very important port of call –

 

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU NAKED?!?

 

 And my, oh my, what a colourful bruise lacing the top of your thigh.

 

Stop freaking out, don’t freak out, who’s freaking out, who said anything about freaking out, no-one needs to freak out, it’s just a –

 

“Hello monkey!”

 

Uh-oh.

 

Who is this you find yourself next to, and what’s that thing digging into your back?!?

Your vagina stirs happily as it wakes up - it is telling you things you didn’t realise were possible. My oh my! Could it be so! Could it be true! Have you taken the mighty step into Sluthood you’ve been longing for during almost all of your teenage years?

 

You look under the covers to your feet and find to your relief that at least something remained under fabric. Seconds later the relief evaporates and in its place is ludicrous shame. Did your sluttish friends never teach you anything? Everyone – repeat – everyone looks like a massive twat if they are completely undressed save for socks.

 

What the fuck. Have you done. To yourself??

 

And honing in a little closer to the issue at hand, who the fuck do the socks belong to?! For the grey and hairy numbers snugly covering the pride of your shameless toes most certainly don’t belong to you.

Your feet twitch smugly as if to say ‘at least we still have our decency,’ and you laugh in their face whilst praying you haven’t caught varrucas.

 

Apparently that’s not the only thing you could have caught.

 

Ok so… ok… how did you get here? Did someone take you? Were you driven/carried, did you skip here happily? Did you cry? Oh no! Not again! Tell me it isn’t so!

 

Water. Need water. Need – to calm – down -

 

SHIT! WHAT’S THE TIME! I HAVE WORK THIS MORNING!!

 

Not again. Not again not again not again!

 

Shhh. Quiet. Don’t stir the sleeping homosapien.

 

It’s coming back in floods, like a wave you can’t avoid, coupled with a wave of nausea –

 

And you are so. So. Proud.

 

Your loins are tingling. Your heart is racing. Your vagina is swelling with the utter jubilation of its victory, it is cheering you onwards and curing your hangover. “Thank you!” It is saying! “God bless the sunlight! God bless the opening of a firmly locked trapdoor! God bless your steely courage and your wayward ways! We are so, so happy!”

 

Finally. In your twenty-somethings-moving-swiftly-onwards, you have doubled your quota in one night, you have upped your game, you have joined the club of those that can compare penis sizes, finger techniques, and laugh at your disastrous attempt at being sexy –

Disastrous attempt at being sexy…

Disastrous…

 

And you can’t remember it. So it must have been good. Right. Right? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you? Did you?

Oh no.             I expect you laughed, didn’t you.

Cried.

GASP! No… surely you didn’t cry. Surely you weren’t a crier? Asked him to marry you? Begged him to meet your parents, brought up the topic of ‘Alfie,’ your favourite baby name –

 

Oh no. Not the baby name. Tell me there were no baby names.

 

Think think think.

 

And when you see his chest you realise he is sprinkled in bite marks and you have scratches on your neck and you sort of can’t work out whether or not it’s sexy or just vaguely inappropriate and slightly over the top.

 

After a cheeky attempt at round two, in a haze of sort-of-wanting-to, and sort-of-being-rather-confused-about-this-whole-affair, you are struggling to find your clothes for work, it is twenty to nine, you can’t find your friends who apparently have passed out in rooms nearby - where they are you couldn’t say, and how to find them is such a logistical nightmare you can’t even consider it in your lucid state.

                                                           

It. Is time. To leave.

 

Your mouth tastes like sandpaper and you don’t have a hairbrush but you have to drive straight to work because you are now a twenty-something-professional running twenty minutes late.

And you are wearing NO SHOES.

 

Sometimes, in the name of sex, we have to make sacrifices.

 

“It’s always the way,” quotes Sluttish Friend Number One, (aka 'Best Friend on the Floor - see previous post!!) and you nod knowingly now you have finally been initiated into the Slut Club.  

 

 

In which you look in the mirror and you scare yourself

Tales of the rejected...

 

So the last thing you remember is taking a shot of tequila and washing it down with a glass of punch handed to you by a wide-eyed shifty onlooker who has clearly spiked it with rohypnol. The sad thing is… you don’t even care.

 

In your drink-fuelled state you finally (and temporarily) regain consciousness, finding yourself willingly with your mouth locked onto another’s, scratching his back with your fingernails and biting his lip a little over-harshly (“All men are twats. I love all men. Don’t kiss me. Kiss me harder. Look at me. Don’t look at me. Fuck me, use me… love me…gently…??!?”) It is then, and only then, that you realise you have become a woman. Woman, meaning the epitome of indecisiveness. Should you or shouldn’t you? Hate them, or want them? Fuck them… or. Or…? Or fuck them!?

 

Enough with the choices! Let’s just get erratic, irrational and highly (erotic?!) Hit the ground running, plough straight in there with a naked lap of the garden before being denied a taxi home! You are way too screwed to make a good impression.

 

Did the naked lap of the garden ever really happen? And if it did, what does it even matter?!

 

If you don’t remember it… surely it never happened?!

 

“So…  are we going to fuck or are we going to talk? Because if we’re only going to talk, I’m out of here.”

 

That’s what he said…

 

And that’s when you realise (as much as you can realise in the state that you are in) that this is a ball game you really need to learn the rules of. Feeling out of your depth, you bail. And then immediately proceed to regret it.

 

Fuck! What were you thinking?! Go back in, go back in!

 

Uh-oh. It doesn’t look good. People are staring. Abandon the delirium, initiate the parachute!

 

The parachute isn’t opening. You cannot. Find. The emergency. Cord.

 

You are so fucked.

 

You are chatting shit. You are making it worse. Stop talking and walk away. Walk away. You frigid twat. It’s all too late.                  You.             Are clearly.      A pyscho.

 

And when the fuck did you become high maintenance!? You don’t even wear make-up to work! Come on guys!

 

The following day your head is imploding so much so that the drums of your ears are banging in time to your broken heart and your shattered ego. Your pride wants to hide under the covers for the rest of its life, but you are shameless and your new found independence doesn’t give a fuck. You are finding the whole thing, to your surprise, quite hilarious. A mental breakdown was long overdue. And boy, now that it has happened, doesn’t it feel good?!

 

A bit of a bipolar attack never hurt anyone - it’s like waking up the morning after you pass your driving test – giddy and weak and full of a vague shock in which you are like a plant looking for the sunshine with a smile on your face – from here on in, it can only get better. Sigh with contentment. And hug yourself. “To the future.”

 

Two seconds later you are reminded of the time you wrote your car off, crashing it into a bollard that was hidden in your blind spot. Cheeky little bastard popped up out of nowhere.

 

There are many things you shouldn’t have to explain to your mother. Crashing your car is so very similar to trying and failing to embark on a one night stand. No helpful advice can really be offered when the damage has been done. The question is – how are you going to redeem yourself!?

 

Anyway. It’s not about them. It’s about you. And your vibrator has run out of batteries. For fucks sake.

 

Your friend’s mother can’t help but hint that your biological clock is ticking. (Your friend’s mother is currently on her third glass of wine, has applied her red lipstick, and appears eager to join you out on your ‘clubbing date’. Your friend’s mother is currently experiencing a mid-life crisis.) Stay strong, avoid eye contact, don’t let her lure you in. She is only jealous because you can still wear hot pants.

 

On your third night out on the ‘dating scene’ you decide to resort to staying sober in an attempt to clean up the (numerous) mess(es?) you’ve made on previous occasions. You wear trainers with tights (yes, it really has been that long since you’ve integrated in a public place of ritualistic heavy petting.)  Despite the poor choice of footwear you still complain that you don’t get hit on.

 

“Hello?! Who wants to make out with a limping flailing mess that can’t even straighten her knees because she has stilts coming out of her heels?!” Oh. Apparently everyone.

 

You look to your feet, see the trainers, and are surprised to find that you made such a poor judgement. Then you feel relieved – at least you didn’t come out in slippers.

 

Feeling your age, you are tempted to tell these girls ‘to go and put some bloody clothes on,’ because a)it’s starting to snow outside and b) their skirts are so short you can almost see their tampon strings. That’s if they wear tampons. They don’t quite look old enough for periods yet.

Gasp shock horror you are acting older than your mother and you are only twenty two. Twenty two. Maybe your friend’s mother is right after all. Maybe your biological clock is ticking.

 

The morning after your 21^st birthday you woke up with the first hangover you’d ever had. It was as though, upon hitting twenty-one, your liver had decided that overnight it was taking leave. Shortly after that experience your wisdom teeth came through. This paragraph has absolutely no relevance to anything except – now that you are embracing yourself as a newly independent woman - you feel eighteen again. Except your liver doesn’t. Which is a massive shame.

 

So anyway, the more they reject you the more you persist and it doesn’t take a mathematician to work out that in some instances this equation equals a recipe for:

THE STALKER.

 

You know your current stance has escalated to this level when your date (aka pitiful vulnerable victim) hides in a bush and attempts to ring you a taxi home in the hope of escaping a dramatic female battering.

 

RULE ONE to stalking: SAY AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE.

 

RULE TWO: stalking is only acceptable if you know you are never going to see the person again. Otherwise a previously ‘friendly’ stalk can then turn into a harmful stalk which can then potentially snowball into an ‘even more persistent’ stalk which can result in a serious loss of street cred. And the possibility of a criminal record.

 

So you’ve been a bit crazy lately. You’re only saying.

 

Attempt three leaves you in bed with someone vaguely describable as a friend, but he isn’t into sex because he thinks he should date you first.

Hmm. Nice.

Is it a compliment? Or an insult? 

You actually feel slightly relieved. Yet also horny. Once again another conundrum ensues.

What he wasn’t expecting – and neither were you for that matter – was to wake up in the middle of the night next to a female sweating more water than the amount of alcohol she’d consumed during the whole week. Which undoubtedly was a lot.

Yes. Food poisoning. And what better place to suddenly decide to become horrendously ill than in the bed of a sort-of-familiar-face that you were hoping to eventually have sex with and now all you are thinking about is how long you can hold your vomit (and your diarrhoea) in for.

Fuck. My. Life.

I knew that chicken was a bad idea. I’ll remember that for next time.

An 'Early-Twenties' Crisis

Last night I dreamt that I was dating an alligator, that lived inside another alligator, that was preparing to take over the rest of the world. I was swimming through thick black slime to find the man/reptile (complete with reptile face), scantily clad in black leather (me, not him,) while the theme tune to James Bond’s ‘Golden Eye’ played mysteriously in the background.

 

What.The.Fuck.

 

Stage two and I found myself on a beach in a harness about to propel myself on a zip wire towards one of those machines you find chavs using on a night out (the punch bag ones – sorry if you’re guilty) in which I had to whack with my fist upon arrival in my harness. There was a waiting audience who were terribly excited (think ‘cage fighting’ excitement) and gun shots going through the air behind me, reminding me of a highly dangerous Takeshi’s Castle.

 

I wasn’t even scared, nor in the slightest bit even mildly confused. In fact, I woke up feeling faintly aroused.

 

I’m never going to drink a pint of orange juice before bed, ever again.

 

The conclusion (other than the one above concerning orange juice, of course) is relatively simple to decide, but far more complex to correct. You, like many others, have found yourself in an early twenties crisis.

 

The tale-tell signs are as follows:

Ludicrous dreams in which you find yourself with a greater purpose are highly relevant. Anything involving death, survival, group orgies, laser guns, rooms with endless doors, revisiting old locations (like the vending machine with vegetables in it, too many choices) children (gasp - heaven forbid the C word)…

 

You make a plan to make a plan, putting the plan to make the plan in your diary just to help you feel as though you are beginning to come to terms with the everyday process of being alive which is… your life.

 

You then proceed to cross out the plan to make the plan – fuck plans, who needs a plan, why do you need a plan, what good is a plan, you are only young, you only live once, who says you have to have a plan, who wants to plan, a plan isn’t going to solve anything? Is it?

 

Is it? And what were we even planning anyway?

 

You then decide you need to re-think. “I need a plan,” you say. Oh fuck this.

 

Are you old or are you young, are you old or are you young? And then you realise you have forgotten how old you really are, and answer “18” when you get asked for your ID whilst buying alcohol to numb the pain of your ageing heart.

 

At least you got ID’d. Right? Right?!

 

The nature of being indecisive is in itself a symptom. Be warned! 

 

Oh who gives a shit?! Lets just go travelling! Let’s see the world! Your heart lifts with joy at the youthful possibilities raging through your loins, and then you think:

 

Fuck. I need some money. Hmmm. “Let’s make a plan.”

 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Career or travel career or travel career or travel career or travel?! Mundane job just to get buy, save a bit, then leave? Hmmmm. House or car? Literally considering a mortgage. I wish. What do I tell the neighbours my plans are? Everyone needs a witty reply. Just in case they care. Chances are they won’t. You are, after all, highly insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Oh. Bloody brilliant.

 

And we’ve all been bought up to believe ‘we can do anything, we can.’ Well then. Shouldn’t have given us so much bloody choice. Now we’re doing nothing because we don’t want to loose out on something.

 

They should have told us to be grateful.

 

Your Grandmother sounds shocked when you play the travelling card ‘what are you going to do to earn money out there, then?’ You reply ‘I haven’t thought.’ But you have thought. You have thought long and hard. She didn’t slave away at her job bringing up your mother just so that you could become a bar girl. Did she?

 

And so what if she did? What’s wrong with a bar girl job? And hey… they might not even have you anyway? Fuck.

 

You’re still secretly hoping to become an underwear model. Holding out. Dreaming the dream. Just. Got. To loose. Some weight.

 

Gotta do it before you’re twenty five though. Models are like Olympians. Get in their early before they sack you off to the slaughter house.

                                                            

Your grandfather is worse at your travelling plans (still too soon to suggest the model dream) – ‘what the fuck do you want to go there for? Come back in a bloody body bag you will, limbs in a different black bin liner. You should be grateful.’ The grateful comment is now resented. ‘Grandad’, you reply, ‘I’m only going up to London for the day.’

 

Jesus Christ. Thank God you aren’t that old. Yet.

 

So you went to the Doctors the other day and she told you that you’d put on weight. Shaking, you stepped up to those scales. The needle swung, a result of the boulder that had just been dropped unceremoniously onto its little innocent face. “Oh!” replied the Doctor, beaming. “My, you have put on weight.”

 

I have never seen someone so deliriously happy to deliver such uncomfortably bad news. Fat. Bitch.

 

So that was it then. Underwear model plans so rudely scuppered. It was that bloody contraceptive pill wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? It can’t. Have been. Those kebabs.

 

So you come off the pill. Well… something needs to change doesn’t it?

 

To men out there, if you are struggling to understand the difference that this little tiny lump of hormones can make… You know when Ron in Harry Potter has to wear the Horcrux round his neck, and when he does so he turns into a raging little shit demon out to destroy all friendly relationships he has with anything and anyone? Yeah. Well that’s the contraceptive pill. And every time your girlfriend is taking it she is swallowing a little part of Voldermort’s soul. How is that for celibacy?

 

Get a new piercing. Why the fuck not? You only live once?

 

Precisely. You only live once. You can’t fuck it up. But what if?

 

Questions questions questions.

 

And what if I don’t even want to go travelling? Sorry if I’m uncool, and settled, and I’m boring, because like, yar, I don’t want to go travelling, and oh my gosh, I haven’t seen the pyramids, and, oh my God, I’m so poor, I’ve never been to Thailand,

Like… ‘oh my God, please tell me you’ve been to Thailand,’

‘Erm… no I’ve never been to Thailand…’

‘Like, oh my God you’ve never been to Thailand?’

‘Like, no I’ve never been to Thailand,’

‘Like… never?’

‘Like… never.’

‘Like… you don’t want to go?’

‘Like. I’m not fussed.’

‘Like. Seriously. What the fuck are you doing with your life?’

‘Like. Seriously. Fuck off. And say ‘like’ one more time. I will literally punch you. In the mouth.’

 

Whatever you do. Don’t. Get married. In Vegas.

 

When your friend tells you she’s just got engaged everyone is smiling and patting her on the back and hugging and ‘like, seriously, that’s wonderful news, beautiful, wonderful,’ and your friends smiles all look kind of weird, and when you see your face in the mirror you realise that your smile looks equally kind of weird, and the rest of you look uneasily around at one another in turn and you’re smiling and you’re thinking ‘when the fuck do I admit that this has all just got a little bit out of hand?!?!’

 

Seriously?

 

Perhaps its time to make a plan?!