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!!
No comments:
Post a Comment