I have a fairly uneventful evening’s procedings to relate to you.
It ends like all my stories, without sex.
It begins, like most of my stories, with wine. And resourcefulness. It’s not really a story though. Sorry. I’m hung over to shit…
So we’re in this pizzeria for my super lovely friend’s going away do. I didn’t properly grasp the concept of my friend leaving the country and saying goodbye, because I wasn’t paying attention, so I wasn’t expecting every one of her friends to be there. Including my husband, or ex, or will be ex… whatever. Divorce takes a long fucking time in Italy. (Don’t get married. You’re not that stupid, you say. Well fuck you…I was young. I learnt everything I knew about divorce from romantic comedies.)
My husband was there, and so was Hank Scorpio… (as I will be calling the guy I met the other night who thought the stars aligning meant our genitals should too.) Lots of people were there. I was happily not sitting near either of my potential cock-blockers, but alas the pickings were mighty slim. I was ok with the lack of eye candy, however, because it meant I could order my favorite gorgonzola and onion pizza without caring about looking/smelling repugnant.
We were waiting for one stone oven to produce 40 pizzas… the initial buzz of renewed aquaintance had died down. Conversations trailed off into moody staring at the place our plates should be. Fidgeting hands tore the paper tablecloth into tiny pieces. There was no bread basket. I saw an opportunity to impress and astound, and I took it. Casually slipping the toothpick out of my swiss army knife, I began to navigate the crevices between my teeth. Subtle move. A random guy notices my knife. Shoots me a respectful glance. I take it- the knife has successfully been brought into play….without having to resort to LOOK AT MY MOTHERFUCKING SWISS! and suddenly I am queen. I regale the table with tales of resourcefulness and survival instincts honed to perfection… I cut little shapes out of the paper tablecloth… I talk about myself.
People are of course impressed. Unfortunately, I run out of steam. Maybe it’s my husband a few heads away from me, who knows my stupid variety-show routine with strangers a bit too well… or maybe it’s Hank Scorpio nodding away appreciatively… but I lose my game.
The only stories coming to mind are filthy, untellable stories. I’ve been opening up to you voyeuristic fuckers too much lately. The floodgates are open. I let someone else talk while I rack my brain for something usable. Realise everything I have to say is laced with sex and psychosis. I’ve only just met most of these people. Be cool. Be fucking cool.
Someone is talking about the army festival last week…(only last week? feels like a fucking month since that shit went down) and I decide to share my part in the festivities, carefully edited along the way. You will note this story is boring as fuck and really needs the sluttery to be worth relating to anyone.
I met these random army guys…joined them for a drink….we had some wine….we went to some clubs… .. we moved on to another club. Along the way……I went home. What a night that was!
Silence. Half way through my pathetic story, full of pauses while I remove filth, I realise there is absolutely no reason why I should continue talking. I keep talking. I look around in panic. For some reason I exclaim that the story is crap because I edited all the good bits out, and then of course it looks like I’m editing something seriously interesting or hardcore, like a gangbang with a whole platoon of army guys. I am grateful that no one is really listening to me…. the waiter has arrived and is taking orders. Lucky fucking break.
Right, no more of that. I moved on to my other great party piece, origami.
I began an ambitiously large cube using one of the many paper tablecloths we had been supplied with, but remembered I forget all the steps past “fold in half”. I started making cups. People were fucking enthralled. Well… they were amused. It was received vastly better than my “walking down the street for a while with some army guys” story.
We were drinking wine. The waiter went around the table, asking everyone what they wanted. I ordered a litre of red wine. The waiter made a little joke, implying I would drink it all myself. I said “yes, it’s for me”, deadpan, but that was received with a good-natured chuckle from my neighbours. I didn’t want to seem like a dick so I smiled and let it go. Then the wine arrived. TWO people helped themselves to my wine. I realised they didn’t think I was serious about the wine being for me. I bit my tongue as a girl giggled and made some joke about how she hoped I didn’t mind her joining me in a drink. This grated because they seemed to think it was so fucking preposterous that I would have my own wine, to such an extent that they were comfortable joking about the mere idea of my wanting it all for myself. It ran out, and I didn’t see anyone ordering more. I had to order more. I was bristling with hostility. I kept my cool. This is not a story that ends in my fucking things up with yet another group. I deserve a gold star for my behaviour, at least in relation to most of the people. I began to lose my shit a little towards the end of the night, but think I got away with it all.
We moved to a bar. I stepped up to the heavy drinking. I launched into part two of my drunken routine: making ridiculous, sweeping generalisations about men, women, sex, drink, life, religion… etc that I haven’t thought through and just want to try out. And then if someone disagrees or challenges me on anything….I carelessly abandon my flash philosophy and move onto the next uninformed rant.
Hank Scorpio had tagged along to the bar…(I say tagged along, although he is a member of this group of people and I am a newcomer, so really… but he appeared to be going home until he saw I was staying out) And he was the only smoker apart from myself. Every time I wanted to step outside for a smoke, I was coerced into intimate scorpio alone time. And….. he was actually really fucking cool. I didn’t want to like this guy. He annoyed the hell out of me the other night. The star sign shit reeks of poetic desperation. But talking to him, he was really sound.
Except for the constant flirtation. And here’s where I was a little bold. Having forgiven this man for his terribly erroneous approach the first time we met, I still am not attracted to him. He’s not my type, to put it nicely. But he was obviously interested in my lady lumps. He did the unneccessary touch thing every now and then. He stroked the conversation gently in the direction of sex. He looked at me like he wanted to fuck me. And I couldn’t help but be way too fucking open and honest. It’s not that I went out of my way to talk about sex, it’s that he ensnared me in a web of sex talk, something I have no problem with sharing with people I’ve just met, and it wouldn’t be so bad with a platonic aquaintance but I’m clearly giving him mixed signals. I can hear myself mentioning in passing,”one night stands” and how I hate the overly romantic angle of most Italians…I’m basically allowing him to make all sorts of true assumptions about how best to get me in the sack. I can see him taking notes. But I can’t stop the words coming out. I’m a ridiculous woman. I’m positively blossoming under the attention of a man, even one I don’t want to fuck…. I hate how hypocritical I am sometimes. We discussed the burka, at one point, and I said I surprisingly had no problem with it- although I do have a massive problem with the Muslim religion. I said I think a woman has the right to feel obliged to cover herself, and who is to say what you should cover up? I cover my nipples… (crap, shouldn’t be mentioning nipples to this guy) so who’s to say another woman can’t cover her hair? I only think I should cover my nipples (what the fuck. stop it. stop it now!) because of my upbringing. And who’s to say what’s right? (Oh my god. I’m such a moron. I’ve just left the door wide open for:)
“I don’t think it would be so bad if you didn’t cover your nipples” I grimaced at the obviousness of his leaping into that one. Why did I mention nipples? I can’t do anything about how horny compliments make me. I’m a vain, horrible creature. But I’ve given him hope.
He set a feeble trap for me to “admit” being attracted to him or something. I decided to be clear and straight with him. I address him, matter of fact.
“Look. I’m very sexually aggressive…”
he interrupted me eagerly. “I like that”
“No. You don’t get it. I’m very sexually aggressive, in that………. if I in any way wanted to fuck you, my hand would be down your pants right now.”
He released a strong breath. “Wow.”
I shrugged and took a sip of my drink. I went in for the kill. “And my hand is not…. in your pants. Ergo…”
Man, sometimes I want to punch myself for the shit I come out with.
He looked me over. “I just really want to sleep with you”
I can’t say I wasn’t ferociously turned on by the straightforward approach. Respect. Seriously, respect. Maybe it sounds creepy as hell to someone else. I don’t know what’s normal in this scenario. But to me, it’s the way things should be. It’s hot. It’s real. It’s… a pity I’m still not attracted to this guy. I kind of wish I were, because aside from the astrology bullshit, he’s pushing all my buttons. Or am I just blinded by feelings of heightened self-worth along with the ticklish nature of my lacy underwear? Stupid egotistical susceptibility to compliments. There is nothing that turns me on more than feeling attractive. Actually… maybe one thing.
Atheism. I go wet for atheists. Seriously.
The conversation switched to religion (as it unhappily does when I don’t want to talk about sex any more)
I asked Hank, why the fuck does an apparent atheist believe in star signs? He claimed he didn’t believe in star signs, it was all a ruse to talk to me. Mighty fucking weird ruse, man. I told him he was way off. He turned that around and wondered what way he should have proceeded… I’m like, man it’s not happening. He doesn’t seem deterred. I really hope I don’t end up fucking him some night. I’m just too shallow, he’s not attracting me one bit… but drunk, really drunk… you never know. My soldier from last week was pretty fucking shocking. I wish I had never taken photos. He was sort of hot in my memory. Oh the shame, it’s washing over me again. Block it out. No one else saw… no one saw anything…
I laid into the agnostics at the table. I called them out for pussy atheism. Remembered, I’m not here to argue with people. I’m not here to be right. I’m here to make some new buddies to go drinking with so I can eventually ensnare a hot man and put those little shorts to use. So I chilled the fuck out, agreed with them on things… the conversation flowed nicely, avoiding real confrontation. I’m impressed by this group. They have taken my bullshit with aplomb. A fucking plomb. Now I can calm down and stop doing my stupid first impression routine.
I realised I was quite drunk. Hank bought me another drink as I made up facts and argued about them. I downed the pint and wondered if the sex would be bad because I wasn’t into him, or if his being into me would compensate enough. Managed to halt that line of thought before it got dangerous. Will not fuck people I’m not attracted to. And that’s the end of that. Seriously.
I extracted myself from Hank’s company, having finished his drink. I turned to a friend I hadn’t seen since splitting up with husband. He had sent me a really sweet email being all supportive and offering a friendly ear if I needed to talk. I replied something about feeling like I should take a step back from the group of friends I shared with husband. Because I didn’t want to bump into husband. But I didn’t know if he would end up talking to husband and repeating my words, so instead I said it was because I had my family with me, and husband needed the friends more than I did…. This friend, being a really nice person, believed my lies and told me he was really impressed with how amazing a person I was for doing that- giving up my friends for the sake of husband. I lapped up the appreciation like I always do, feeling a little bit like an asshole….
They were all starting to leave, and it was perfect timing because I was starting to reconsider Hank’s offer…only vaguely remembered I had work in the morning. Luckily Hank took his leave of me after attempting a hand-kiss and being told in no uncertain terms that he was entitled to choose between mace in the face and a knife in the balls. Overkill. Damn it overkill…. anyway he took the abuse and told me to have sweet dreams about him. Sneaky motherfucker, that’s going right in the subconscious. And the worst part is, I will end up fantasizing about him. Consciously. Because I’m turned on by feeling attractive. It’s the greatest aphrodisiac for me… So compliment me up, boys… It’s all going to a worthy cause.
Supremely boring taxi journey. Driver didn’t say a word apart from “where are you going” and “Is it ok if I leave you here at the corner?”. I got in the door, triumphantly plastered, tried to avoid seeing the time but failed. 3.30 am. threw everything everywhere and barely managed to set an alarm. I woke up with a monster headache and a cheesy, feety smell emanating from all my pores. Damn gorgonzola and onion pizza. I spent two weeks eating like a fucking model, and one night out on the cider and pizza and I’m back to my normal miserable size. I hope it’s just a food baby. I hope it’s not fat. I know fat takes longer than that to build up. I can’t have put on two inches of hip fat overnight. Impossible.
Then I went to work, stressed as usual… customers invading my space…. wrecking my head with shoe requirements. Time passed…. left work. HOORAY!
Screw me in the nostrils with a RUSTY COCK, what was I thinking?
Bought a pair of yellow shorts, another pair of shorts I’ll never wear…. for imaginary bike rides that lead to a handsome stranger fixing a puncture for me and then me repaying him by fixing his helmet…. with my mouth.
Also bought a flowy, strapless white dress that looks ridiculously dressy for someone who never goes anywhere decent. It’s pretty though. I very nearly bought a strapless silk red dress but put it back regretfully after I strained to find a situation that would warrant wearing that kind of dress without looking like a tool, and could only think of “Opera”. And who gets cocked at the opera? I don’t know. I’ve never been to the opera, and it doesn’t appeal to me… Also tried on a really slutty denim dress with a zip alllllll the way up the front. Nearly came in my panties just imagining all the unwanted hassle I’d get walking around in that. I wonder if my weird horniness and swollen ego will go away when I finally get laid? Put back the trailer trash dress. TOO SLUTTY.
Why did I go shopping? It just happened. I don’t recall making a conscious decision. I was walking to hot barman’s bar- I had a coffee… he wasn’t there. I was all down in the dumps because he wasn’t there. I saw a billboard advertising a bikini and some Dutch bitch was smiling down all perfect and I was thinking, hot barman would ask HER out, straight away. Or maybe she’s out of his league and he knows it. The thought of him not even bothering with me because he was pining after a slender tanned Dutch woman who was too hot for him… was depressing. I felt shit about my body. I felt shit about the fact that all the flirtation I’m getting is from people I don’t find attractive.
Then I was keying in my pin and the nice lady was removing money from my account.
Stupid, never go shopping hung over and fat. Stupid.