A brief but still pretty long story of my sex addiction, and hopefully not temporary breakthrough.

Since I was a young teenager, I have been obsessed with sex. OBSESSED. I was always thinking about it and always talking about it. When I wasn’t talking about it, I was consciously holding myself back from talking about it because I didn’t want to bore people. Everywhere I went, I scanned the faces and bodies around me. Wondered who I’d like to fuck. What they’d be like in bed. I fantasized constantly. I masturbated constantly. I wasn’t attractive, so I didn’t have very much opportunity to live out my fantasies.

When I was 18 or 19, I started to come into my own. My confidence came from sex, from the brief high I got from a man’s desire to sleep with me, and from his approval of how passionate I was in bed, how willing to try things I might not really want to do.
I grew more confident. Flimsy confidence that plummeted every time a guy stopped calling, every time a careless remark reminded me I wasn’t really good looking. Sex was on my mind all the time. I slept with everyone who had a glint in their eye. I wasn’t good looking but I wasn’t ugly, and as I grew into a young adult I learnt how to make the most of my looks, and with sex constantly on my mind I exuded sex, and attracted more and more people. I wasn’t good looking but I was sexy.
It felt good, to have found my strength. It felt good, to be sexy, and although I couldn’t compete with the really pretty girls, when it came to sex I was in my element, and I got a certain satisfaction from the pretty girls’ boyfriends hitting on me.

But no one wanted to go out with me. Well, some did. Some fell for me, but they were the quiet, shy types. I had no interest in them. I was loud and bubbly, and I wanted the alpha males, not the “nice guys”. I didn’t really meet nice guys anyway. The ones who called themselves nice guys were usually shy, underconfident, geeky, and unattractive. They got drunk sometimes and the bitterness came out about all the assholes getting the girls. And then I’d think, it’s not because they’re assholes. You’re only as nice as you have to be, you’re only as much of an asshole as you can get away with. Woman aren’t prizes to be awarded to the most deserving. They are people who are just as shallow as you. While you’re complaining about the pretty girl going for the asshole, there’s a not so pretty girl like me bemoaning the fact that some other guy prefers a hotter, less nice girl, and when you set your sights on me, it’s as a plan b.
I chased men. I chased sexy, confident men. Fucked up men. Interesting men, I called them, until they tossed me aside or hurt me and then I called them losers and assholes.

I got a nice boyfriend. He loved me and for the first time I was treated well by a man. But he was quieter than me, and I was immature, and I needed someone to call me out on things, to calm me down, and he let me walk all over him. I did the walking, but I think I was far too young and selfish to respect someone who let me. I don’t regret the loss of the nice guy, because we weren’t right for each other, but I do regret being mean to him and not learning from him. We broke up, and I missed him terribly then, because he was for a while my best friend and my biggest supporter. But the sex was never right. He was less experienced than I was. Of course he was. But I didn’t know how to teach. I wasn’t entirely confident in bed, I just followed a male lead well. Because I was used to it. I was afraid to get on top, because I didn’t know what to do, how to move, what would feel good for him. It took me years to figure out just to do what felt good for me, and the rest would follow. I was embarrassed on top, I felt exposed. I didn’t know how to teach him, because all I had was muscle memory and he didn’t move me around the way I was used to. I thought I was great in bed, but I didn’t know how to be great in bed with him. We had sex drunk a lot at the start of our relationship and then less and less and less until we mostly just cuddled. I was sexually frustrated and masturbated whenever he got up earlier than me, whenever he slept earlier. 

I met an alpha male. He was unavailable. He didn’t want me, he just wanted to fuck me. He picked me up and flung me around with little regard for what I might want. And I played a game, for the first time, finally I had learnt to play the game. He fell in love with me, we fell in love, I was wonderfully happy, I had made him love me, a man who didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. But it was under false pretenses. I showed him only my good sides, my agreeable, malleable sides. I didn’t show him anything I showed my previous boyfriend. I didn’t let him see the crazy, the weak, the emotional, the slob, the unhygienic, the bitchy, the lazy, the ugly, the fucked up, the sad, the jealous, the insecure.

When we married and settled down together, I relaxed. We both did. Slowly we got to know each other, too late. 

When we first met, the sex thrilled me. But it didn’t do it for me, really. I didn’t have orgasms. I wanted sex, constantly, and he obliged, and then some. But he didn’t try to make me cum, he just expected me to, from the pounding. I didn’t have many friends around me then, and those I did, weren’t very open about sex. So I didn’t know this was normal, that women don’t orgasm from being pounded. I thought it was my fault, and so did he. No other women had this problem with him, he said. 

It was a long time before I realised how many women women fake orgasms. I learnt I could orgasm if I masturbated while we had sex. But then he’d flip me over and I couldn’t do it from that position, so I faked orgasms. I faked orgasms while fake masturbating while he had sex with me. It was ridiculous. I started to resent him. He never went down on me. Once, on my birthday, extremely drunk, he tried to go down on me but it was so obviously a chore to him, I stopped him. He never tried again.

We gradually stopped having sex. I remembered my last relationship and it started to nag at me, that something was wrong with me, that I faked a sex drive for some reason, because I was starved of love, and when I got affection I didn’t want sex any more. It was me, it wasn’t my uninspired sexual partners. When we stopped having sex we put on weight. The fatter I got the less sexy I felt. The less sexy I felt the less I felt at all like having sex. I couldn’t fantasize about sex because it made me too unhappy to picture myself fat, being fucked, and it made me too unhappy to picture myself skinny, being fucked, because I wasn’t skinny. I masturbated when my husband slept beside me, and whenever he was out of the house. But I didn’t think of myself being fucked. I thought of him cheating on me with someone better looking and skinnier. It made me feel hurt but excited. And the fact that it was weird, and kind of fucked up to think about the man I loved fucking someone else, made it kinky and sexy.

I tried to initiate sex sometimes but my confidence was so low, because I was fat, because he didn’t want to fuck me, because his porn history was always right there when I checked my emails, and it was all big tit latinas, and not fat pasty women with small tits.

I left him. I had an empty apartment and no one to cuddle. I bought diet pills that gave me oily diarrhea. I ate big salads for dinner and bananas for lunch. I lost a stone in two or three months. I looked great. I fit into jeans I bought on sale, stubbornly, years ago, that I’d never managed to sit in. I took photos of myself in underwear, because I couldn’t believe I was slim, and I looked good, and I was happy, and my sex drive came back in force. 

Sex drive, or the desire to be witnessed, to be seen and approved of. And this is around the point where my blog started. If you go back to the very start, there’s a lot of bitching about people who annoy me, and I feel so young, reading it back, like shit, I can’t believe that’s just four years ago, or so. But that’s the point I was at. I had lost weight and I wanted to fuck, and it was all I thought about.

And then I went through a year of loneliness and sexual frustration in Italy, and then I came back to Ireland, and then I went to France, and then I went to Ireland again. And I decided to go back to university. 

And I spent a year partying and not writing, and making more friends than I’ve ever had, more close, real friends. And I’ve looked forward to college, more than I ever imagined I would. And I went through a stream… a torrent… a waterfall of men. 

I dipped my toe into the fetish community, because I was bored. I found the fetish community boring and cliquey. I had some fun, though. Learnt a few things about myself. I tried some interesting things. I met some people who, while annoyingly square about their kinkiness, at least put a lot of time and energy into both sides of the experience. People tried to make me cum. I gave them a few courtesy fake orgasms, because they made a good effort, and of course I can’t really orgasm without some intervention of my own. But then I let go, sometimes, and I found I could have orgasms, after all. I had the best sex of my life, by far. But it didn’t satisfy me. I still wanted sex, constantly, abundantly, until I was exhausted, and then I’d want more when I woke up, and more and more the more I had. 

I had an insane high from sex, even when I didn’t orgasm. And then I crashed, when it was gone. I was tired of fucking just anyone… my standard had been raised. Not for men, but for sex. I wanted the lickouts, the kink, the imagination, the spontaneity, the uninhibited quality of the fetish but without the crappy clichéd aesthetic, and the weirdly prevalent dominance and submission. Why so much bloody power exchange? Why did everyone expect that? I just wanted good, wild, interesting sex. I didn’t want to push my boundaries, I just wanted to keep things interesting. To treat bodies like climbing frames, to treat sex like a smorgasbord. I was too much of an anarchist to delve into anything properly, like bondage, power exchange, fetish, because the people who got there first had made up rules and etiquette and vocabulary that made me cringe, and lose respect for its blind followers. 

But I did have some great sex. But I didn’t WANT to just have sex. It was naturally unavoidable, that I would have lots of sex, all the time, because I had a drive, I needed it, I wanted it all the time. I wanted to meet someone lovely, caring, who would make me laugh and who would appreciate me, who I could have fun with, and cook for, and care about, and support, and then I wanted them to fuck me all night too. But where to meet this guy. I hadn’t met anyone in ages, I had never met anyone who really ticked all the boxes. There was no “one that got away.” All my boyfriends had in retrospect been awful. And all the men I’d overlooked… well, I probably didn’t remember them. But I wanted someone really special, for me. I had so many friends, and so much going on, and so much to look forward to, an actual life goal, too, that my confidence was growing, and not just from sex. But my foray into the kinky world had given me more sexual power, and now I knew I wasn’t sexually defunct, and I wanted more, and no longer could I kid myself that a quick casual fuck would satisfy my craving.

A couple of months ago I got fantastically drunk with a few friends and one of their acquaintances who turned out to be a kinky guy, and when he pulled out a bag of coke, and everyone else went home, we talked more and more about sex, and kink, and we trailed off back to my house, and I dressed up and let him tell me what to do, and I felt like a goddess, because he was so impressed by me, because I was such a strong woman, so clear about what I wanted, and so sure of myself, and yet I’d still go either way in the bedroom. And the next day I woke up and felt fine about it, he spent so much time going down on me, I couldn’t even count the orgasms or where one ended and the next began. I felt fine about it, not regretting drunk sex, as I have occasionally done. But I felt not just fine, I felt like I was too good, for this. Yes, I am a strong woman. Yes I do know what I want. I am sure of myself. Finally. I really am, I know my needs, my wants, I know my worth. Not that sex is a gift to hand to the worthy, but damn, why am I bending over backwards making it easy for people who have done nothing for me? I mean, yes, some of these people put a lot of work in with the orgasms. But mostly, they don’t. And I’m worth more than this. I want more, I don’t want to be this supposedly great woman and then just fucking any man who wants to and has a bit of confidence to ask. What a pity, what a millstone around my neck, this damn sex drive.

I imagined all I might achieve, if I freed up my mind, my energy, my drive, for other things. To work on myself, on my life, on getting me the real lasting things I wanted, not the instant gratification. The instant gratification that left me desolate, lonely, hollow, half the time. And the other half, left me attached to the object of my lust, falling in obsessive love for short bursts, thinking of nothing and no one but them until it burst and I went back to rudderless horniness. I wanted out, but I assumed I’d never be out, because I’d been like this since I was a teenager. It was how my brain had grown. Sex was the fulcrum. Sex was the monastery around which my brain had grown, sex was the old roads that couldn’t be widened any more, because the buildings were built there, sex was the reason everything was laid out as it was. Sex ran through my reasons for everything. I imagined ripping out the thing that had defined me for so long, and what would be left? Sex is who I am. By saying I was tired of meaningless sex… was I forgetting all the beautiful, meaningful sex and moments of passion I’d shared with men who, no, had not loved me, but they had, maybe, for a moment. I resided, just a piece of me, in the memories of so many men. All so different. I didn’t have a type. I had shared intimate, very intimate moments with men of all walks of life, of… well, not all ages, but a wide range anyway. I treasured the experiences. I had taken chances and opened up, and taken things, tiny things, from every man I’d given something to. Was that wrong, or harmful, or the very best part of me? Would I just be dulling myself, skimming the cream off the top because I couldn’t handle the ill effects? Was I just afraid I wouldn’t meet someone perfect, because I was slumming it? Wouldn’t the right person for me be slumming it too, waiting for the real thing? 

Ah. But there was a problem, I was forgetting it, the problem was I spent most of my time depressed from lack of sex, the rest of the time either high on sex or anticipating being high on sex. It was exhausting, draining, and it wasn’t making me happy. 

I googled sex addiction. I found a group in Dublin, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I contacted them. Asked to attend a meeting. A man phoned me the next day, and gave me details of how to meet, because there was a pre-meeting first, to avoid revealing the location of the group to just anyone. I was going to attend. He sent me some pdf documents about the group.

I read a little and realised it was based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. The 12 steps, with the higher power step, where you have to admit there’s a higher power, or a god, and you can call it whatever you like but I’m not just an atheist, I’m totally anti-spiritual. I’m not going to sniff at what works for others, but in my personal opinion there’s not a whole lot of point in calling a psychological issue or condition or habit or addiction a “disease” and admitting you have no control over it. Maybe the point is to go to AA, or SLAA when you’ve tried everything alone, and come to the conclusion you have no control over it. But if you hope to get any help from a support group, which can’t give something up for you, what the hell use is admitting you have no control over it? I bristled at everything I read. I was still planning on going, because as righteous as I considered my opinions, I obviously wasn’t right at all, because I couldn’t stop myself from doing something what was frying me mentally, year after year, man after man.

But then the next day, typically, was a gorgeous day, and my friends were going to the river with a canoe, to drink gin and row and be reckless. So I called the sex addict man and wondered if he was attractive, and wondered if anyone at the meeting would be sexy, and I told him I wouldn’t make it today, and I would reschedule some time.

I never did.

Soon after I was horny and I thought who can I call, and I flicked through my phone book and saw name after name of people I’d slept with, people I could sleep with again, but nobody inspired any excitement, I just thought, yeah, I could… but why bother. Why slum it. Why give someone my time, my body, I felt like fucking, but I couldn’t bear to kiss anyone. I wanted to meet someone lovely, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. I didn’t want to suck a dick, much as I loved doing that, I just wanted someone to look at me and see everything, and I thought for the first time, really for the first time, something I’ve only ever heard or read with a patronising tone. 

I thought maybe I’m not letting anyone see the whole picture, because I keep shoving sex in their faces. I didn’t think “no one will respect me if I have sex with them straight away” or “maybe if I really like someone I should wait so I can see if he’s worthy of me” or “I should give it more value by withholding it”

I didn’t think women are different from men, and I should hide my sexuality. I just thought… I’m just LEAPING down their throats with sex. I’m expecting people to see I’m much more than that, but it’s all I’m really putting out there. I’m chasing men down and making the first move before I’ve given anyone a chance to see what they think. My friends don’t think I’m all about sex. I’m not all about sex. 

And I said, that’s it, I’m going to not have sex for a while. I’m going to take a break. I’m going to just… not give it up, exactly, because there’s nothing good on the horizon anyway, manwise. Just… I’m not going to go out looking for it. I’m not going to scan the party for a suitable penis carrier. I’m not going to fuck someone I don’t really feel like fucking just for the sake of it. I’m bored. I’m out.

That night, typically, I had sex. Very good sex, with a very nice, fun, attentive man, who made the first move because I didn’t give him any come on, and I left the next day thinking, that was great, that was better, and all because I didn’t try, and look how much better it felt. But how lousy I was at being celibate.

But THEN, I felt like everything I thought the day before, started to swirl around my head again. And settle into place. And I meant it, I felt like I wanted… to be free from sex for a while. And even though I had a dick in me a few hours earlier, I felt like I had snapped out of it. Like something clicked, I’d been going around on the same track for years, so long, all the time too bloody stubborn to accept that my own way of doing things that wasn’t making me happy, could possibly be the reason that I was unhappy in love and life and sex. I couldn’t, well, of course I couldn’t listen to anyone else. Their voices made the words sound accusatory. Their reasons for not fucking everything that moved, were kind of anti-feminist, anti-having any faith in men. Whenever I was told to hold off on sex, it was because men couldn’t respect a woman who was easy to bed, and because men wanted a nice girl, and because men had sex drives and women didn’t, and it made me angry, because that was all wrong. I’m not going to pretend I’ve had an epiphany, that I’ve changed my life forever, that I’ve got it all figured out.

The last time I had sex was nearly a month ago. Not that long a stretch, I’ve gone longer before, I swear. 

But the difference is… for the first time since I can remember, I haven’t been obsessing, I haven’t been scanning the people on the bus for faces I’d kiss, and I haven’t been flicking through my phonebook for names I’d revisit. 

And I haven’t felt empty of like I’ve lost my centre. Sex isn’t gone from me, but it’s not fast food, and I’m not looking for it. I got a message from the guy… oh, I don’t know if I ever wrote about him here. But I met a guy nearly a year ago online, and eight months ago we met and had amazing sex, and did some kinky stuff, and he lives in the UK so kept up a long distance thing, that sort of trailed off, but he was going to come back and we were going to meet, and man, that was great sex. And I liked his company, too. He was funny, and interesting. So of all the people to tempt me, someone I could definitely justify sleeping with as he’s not fast food sex and he’s not something bad for me, he’s pretty much as good as it gets. 

And he wrote to me and said he’s coming over this weekend, and I happen to be house sitting for a week and have a house to myself, and he could come over tomorrow and see me and we’d have all the privacy we could want. But I don’t want to. I have no interest. And this is pretty fucking big, for me.

So… I think I’ve made some serious headway towards something. I can’t do anything to hurry up my meeting someone great, but I think if I can fill up my life, with other things, with things that don’t just explode and fade to nothing, and be happy with myself like this, then I won’t need that person to show up so soon. And when I do meet someone wonderful and worthwhile, then I’ll be so much better placed to act and to let them see the things I want them to see. And maybe I’ll fuck them right away. And if they’re the right kind of person, that shouldn’t make any difference. But perhaps I’ll settle down by myself for a while, and see what happens. It’s not like I’m making some huge effort- perhaps I’m just going through a phase- but I really hope I’ve grown out of something that is rarely great for me. Being rampantly sexually active hasn’t all been bad. I’ve had LOTS OF FUN and fallen in love more times than I can count, and had great experiences and met great people in weird and wonderful ways. But the mental thing, more often than not, fucks with me, because I’m not unromantic, and I’m not able to separate sex from emotions. 

I feel pretty good, right now. Really good. So that’s probably more navel gazing than anyone wants to read, but I feel so hugely different lately, I just wanted to record it. Maybe if I go back to my old ways, it’ll serve to remind me how I felt, and put me back in this frame of mine. So for that alone, I’m hitting publish.

I just really hope this no sex thing doesn’t make me fat.

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I said, that’ll fucking do, pig

I clicked publish and my phone rang. My friendly neighbourhood fuck. He was around the corner in his car, on his way back from doing some dodgy dealings or other… I won’t elaborate because when we’re talking dodgy it’s not really cool to be sharing other people’s information, whether or not my blog is anonymous.

I lashed on a quick extra layer of makeup and trotted down to him. He was sitting there listening to dance music and I got in and he said we were going for a spin.I guess his parents spotted me sneaking out the last time. They lecture him on bringing girls back, probably because he brings back a lot of girls.

He drove to an industrial estate nearby and parked in between warehouses in a secluded spot. On the way I felt him through his tracksuit pants and he said I could go down on him but only once we were inside the industrial estate. I did it for a while as he drove slowly around, my head down low, because I find men who can drive very attractive, and situations that are slightly unusual or dity extremely so. Then he parked and I gave him some of that top shelf head I reserve for those times you know are going to stick in the memory. I normally don’t make such an effort but lately I’ve been really going for it, taking advantage of what I see as a chance to hone my skill and get fit. I told him about my foray into gambling and he said just hearing about it made him feel like hitting the casino.

My imagination immediately ran amok throwing me images of myself in my new furry jacket over my shoulders wearing red lipstick and my hair up smoking cigarettes out of long holders while men in suits growl “what’s your favorite number?” and then give me a 1000 chip as a thank you for making them lucky. I said I’d go with him for the laugh and determined not to spend any money…. I toned down my expectations a little. I arrived in the casino and his fingerprint was read. I showed my id and filled out a form and gave my fingerprint too, and then we went downstairs to a very modest and smelly room full of tables of middle aged asians and eastern europeans with big bellies.

The bar gave us free drinks and Tony and I made for the roulette table. It looked just like the one that tormented me online and I was dying to throw down a twenty and put some foolish bets on the table. But I didn’t. I drank my free wine and watched Tony place 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 euro down at a time and triple his stake. I was seething, I wanted money. Money was all around me. People were earning money by guessing numbers and I wanted it too. But I wasn’t prepared to put down the 20. And I knew I’d lose it. I knew what would happen was I’d get 20 euro and feel like I had loads of money to bet and then 5 euro on black would lose, then another five would lose, then I’d be down to 10 and I’d throw that on black and I’d lose and I wouldn’t even get to make more bets because that’s all my money.

So I stood and watched the guy whose dick I’d just sucked triple his money and I wondered whether he’d give me a few chips or not, and if I could somehow obtain something for nothing, by giving him my money to bet? I decided the thing to do would be to go there on a weekend night INSTEAD of going out to a club. Sure, the atmosphere is lousy and it smells like body but if I could get free drinks and just bet the sort of amount I’d normally spend on a night out anyway, it wouldn’t be a loss if I lost, it would be a reasonable use of an evening. And I might win something.

To be continued, probably. The table was quieter than in the movies. A few words in Romanian or Polish, a scramble from everyone to place and move their personal coloured chips around the table, covering what looks like way too many numbers to actually win, ever, a few lame efforts at quips from the stout Englishmen and my partner at the table muttering what’s your birthday, throw me some numbers, but refusing to put any money on 9. I kept saying 9. He said you have to change number or the odds are against you. I don’t get how that makes sense but then he was betting all over the table and winning every couple of spins.

The bets down, the dealer waves his hand over and says no more bets and then the number is up on the sign and the dealer’s arms are all over the table sweeping the losing chips across the table down a hole where they clack clack clack and quickly appear back in neatly ordered coloured stacks. And Englishman throws down 50 euro and wants it in two 25 euro chips, not 1s or 5s like everyone else at the table. He shrugs and throws a chip on black, wins, doubles his investment and then leaves the table saying “I facking hate this game anyway.”

My partner mutters after him “then don’t fucking play, you sap.”

When he’d tripled his money we left and drove to meet someone, again to make infuriatingly quick money, and I pretended to be happy for him while I chewed on the bitterness of someone else having something I wanted. On the drive he wanted another blow job and I said excuse me but this isn’t some selfless act, I want sex now not to be giving back to back blow jobs. We parked in a fairly hidden spot and he sat on the passenger seat and I sat on top of him and gripped the dashboard with my hands to help my embarassingly weak legs. Afterwards, and I guess during, I thought maybe this isn’t an equal opportunities arrangement any more. I can feel my grip on power getting feeble very quick and the self deprecating dirty talk I spewed out indiscrimately two nights ago becoming reality. I’m not getting attached… he’s not my type. But I am getting attached nonetheless. Less attached to him as a person as I am attached to the initial position I held a few days ago. When we first slept together I was calling him at 4am drunk and using him as a place to stay, and I was finding some of what he said very annoying. He was always there and I never felt used, I felt like I was using him. I called him at the end of a night when things didn’t work out with whoever I had my eye on…

Now I’m hoping he’ll call and I’m always available. I find myself leaving nights early because I’d rather go fuck this guy than hang around another hour spending money and listening to drunk people. I don’t want this to get serious and I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in something more serious anyway, and I really… the thought of wanting something else from this guy… no. Absolutely not.

But I’m impressed by him nonetheless. He knows things, he knows secrets, he knows his way around. He knows things that I don’t know, and that’s a huge attraction for me, always has been. I want to soak up the knowledge like a sponge, through my softest tissue.

I find  myself giving him crazy good head because he told me I’m amazing at it and kisses the back of my head when I do it and feels my ass and tells me that’s perfect, that’s great, oh fuck yeah baby…

I get to feel superior to women who are shit at that, and I get to feel confident that I have great skills. I like that.

But I’m being too nice to him, he’s getting too much out of me for too little return. I need to start using him back a little. I can feel myself slipping back into my old man pleasing ways and I am not happy about it. What next, bake him a cake?

Oh god, today in the car I mentioned something about making pies. I was trying to impress him with talk of my pie making. I need to put a stop to this madness before it’s too late. He dropped me home after the brief fuck and I found myself hoping he’d bring me back to his and we could fuck again and maybe I could get something out of it, clamp him between my thighs and then roll over to sleep like I did at the beginning when I had all the power…

But I went home. And I saw my student neighbours’ light on, so I knocked and they were up and I sat in their apartment for a while chatting and listening to their studenty talk. One of them is very sweet but says “like” every second word. It made me extremely conscious of how I use “like” for every fifth word. They had all these plans for painting the walls and putting in shelves and I just sat there thinking aww it must be their first place away from home or dorms. We smoked a joint and I wasn’t sure when was the time to leave so I left when I started wondering that. Friendly guys, probably around 20, but I’ll be glad to have them to knock into sometimes when it gets boring. Also, it’s a lot warmer in their place. I can’t tell if I was maybe a bit drunk to make a good first impression… I was a bit drunk. I told them about the casino but not about the rest of the night.

And I went upstairs to my own place, my nice pretty apartment which is colder than the guys I meet online, and I remembered I’m lonely and I’m only not lonely at weekends and I’m so lonely I’ve grown somewhat attached to this guy who I recently in the throes of passion told he could use me for whatever he wanted etc. I was just saying that for penis enhancement reasons, now I’ve wound up making good on my offer and falling from independent sexually liberated woman to somebody’s sex slave. No no no, this will not do.

Somewhere I was feeling really good about myself and having a mini sexual awakening, exploring the rougher, dirtier hemisphere of me and totally marmalading it. I roleplayed handing over the reins and with that seem to have actually given them over. I’m not sure if the correct course of action here is to cease all shenanigans with this guy (but I wanted to get in shape and also, he’s so HANDY to have around and I do enjoy the activities…) or can I find my way back to that sweet spot I started from, where I was just getting mine and if he happened to get a fuckload of pleasure too then great, but inconsequential. I felt respected and I felt equal, regardless of the demeaning positions I might have found myself in.

Maybe it’s still exactly the same and respectful and equal and but I’ve just discovered that I’m not comfortable roleplaying this close to the bone.

We shall see. But I really wish I knew how to do this stuff better. The only two profiles I seem to adopt with men are clingy and sweet and loving and accomodating OR disparaging and making it very clear I’m not interested in him and pretending to forget their names or something.

 

A rebound guy in the hand is worth two in the bush. (I mean the metaphorical bush, because obviously the physical bush is where you want the rebound guys.)

The weekend was pretty good.

Went to the cinema and brought wine. Laughed ridiculously through what was supposed to be a sad movie. The Imposter.

Jesse and I with our wine, stifling giggles at the Texan family drawling

“When Ah heard they found him (missing 12 year old son) ah felt a lotta e-motions. Happiness…. Excitement… Beee wilderment. Nervousness…”

We felt really bad about laughing but then halway through the movie we realise that the brown haired, brown eyes 23 year old FRENCH MAN pretending- BARELY pretending- to be a missing now 15 year old blonde haired blue eyes American boy… had fooled the mother, sister, his childhood friends, neighbours, the FBI, child services…

Everyone laughed.

The whole cinema laughed like the clucking fools at an Adam Sandler movie.

We relaxed and laughed as much as we liked for the rest of the film. It was so ridiculous really.

After that we hit a bar and met some of Jesse’s friends. Jesse felt sick so she went home. I had already begun the process of getting drunk and having a good night so I stayed. Around the end of the night one of the girls tells me she and I will find hot guys.

We look around. I tell her “only tall ones for me”. There are like, five tall ones. She points at one. He’s not bad.

Nah. Glasses. Not doing it for me.

I dismiss him and then everyone else. Nah. Nah. Eww.

I give up.

Dance some more.

And then glasses tall guy approaches us and begins asking me something, I think about what i thought of the music. I fix him with a look of pure hatred. What a stupid question. Why must I tolerate this kind of conversation? Just tell me I look better than any woman you have ever encountered and that I have some special and unique properties, and I will be delighted to smile and giggle for you. But ask me about the music? Like you saw me from across the room and thought, ooh! I really must have her opinion about something.

So I said something frosty to him, like asked him if he was conducting a survey or something, and for some reason he was intrigued and began telling me I’m very interesting and witty.

I told him yes, I know… and THAT should have been his opener, not the music line.

He looked a little frightened. Like maybe I was too interesting and witty for him to handle.

So I felt bad about being a dick to some random guy merely because he was wearing glasses which actually isn’t even something that would put me off, they just made him look hipstery. He was actually probably quite good looking, or maybe he was just tall. I don’t remember, and I really couldn’t tell at the time.

So I offered to allow him to join me for a smoke outside. He didn’t smoke but would be delighted to join me. OH ok.

We went outside and I ranted about things. Then we went inside and I couldn’t find my friends. (I referred to them as my friends but I don’t know them very well or have their numbers)

The club was apparently over so we went outside. Where are my friends? Come back with us, we are having a party. I snorted derision. Yeah… I want to find my friends. I can’t find my friends and what’s more they aren’t MY friends so I can’t call them and they probably weren’t going to go looking or waiting for me. I wandered around thinking about just going home or going to this party but really I didn’t want to go to a party brought by some guy I couldn’t decide if he was attractive or not and go as the girl he brought so I couldn’t even ditch him for one of his friends.

Eventually my cheapness won out.

He said come on, it’s on Something street. Are you getting a cab, I asked.

Yes.

Well, something street is on the way to my place. That would save me some taxi fare… I leapt into a cab and talked about myself for a few more minutes before realising it was just me and glasses tall guy in the back. What about your friends? Oh they will arrive in a bit. Right…

Right…

Well he can’t be about to rape me, he’s too shy, and too attractive. He MIGHT murder me… but no. I doubt it. Come on now I wasn’t that much of a dick to him.

We went inside his house. Kind of shitty for a 29 year old. He lives with people. That’s kind of shitty for a 29 year old too.

We drank rum and coke. I don’t drink rum and coke but fuck it. We talked about music, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to share my many interesting and clever opinions that I had just come up with that moment. Drammatic opinions I didn’t think much about. He was intrigued. Eventually one friend arrived back, joined the debate for a while then fell asleep. We went into the kitchen and I had a boring, unsatisfying cigarette out the back. He came with me but I needed the smoker’s solidarity. It’s not the same when one person is smoking and one is watching them and thinking why are they doing that, what a pointless, expensive and desperate habit. I bet her breath stinks too.

Eventually in the kitchen he started to yawn. I was wondering, is he ever going to make a move or is he actually just interested in the conversation?

He told me he was tired. Well, that’s odd. That is either a cue for me to leave or say “let’s go to bed together now”. He hadn’t even tried to stroke my leg or kiss me or anything so it obviously wasn’t the latter. I vaguely shifted in my seat and looked out the window. I might… eh… yeah… eh…

Then he said “This is awkward, because I’ve been wanting to kiss you for two hours.”

I’m like, what the fuck? What am I supposed to say? Oh cringe. I don’t like being asked for kisses. So I just said well you better make your move as a surprise because if you do it now it’s going to be really awkward. So then I thought fuck it the big pussy, and I leaned over and grabbed his face and we kissed and it was terrible but I thought, well… fuck it. I couldn’t be bothered leaving now, it’s cold. Anyway maybe the sex will be good? (You may recall me making this very same and stupid judgement call before, in Italy…) He is older… but very shy… Hmm.

We went upstairs and he had a good comfy bed but it made weird noises. We had sex and I found that yes, he was good in bed. He was pretty damn good. Everything was very, very enjoyable. He had the knowledge that I still haven’t got used to- the knowledge of what and where a clitoris is. This knowledge seems to have been acquired by men sometime while I was married because it just appeared everywhere* when I became single. Brilliant.

*(Except for one guy, who massaged my labia for a few minutes, mystifying me completely, until he huskily asked “IS THIS YOUR CLIT, YEAH?)

We fell asleep and that was fine but I woke up and the house smelt like damp and it wasn’t my bed and I haven’t slept in  another man’s bed in so long, apart from Antoine’s but we were sort of together so it wasn’t like this… I haven’t slept in a strange man’s bed in years actually. It was awful. I wanted to put on my clothes and run away.

God this is awful. I looked around and beside me was this man, this man and I still couldn’t tell if he was attractive or not. I think I rely so much on confidence to attract me to a man, that when he doesn’t have it, his natural looks just don’t cut it. I think he was an attractive guy… just… I need the confidence, man.

I lay there and thought of my exit. Leaving while he slept was what I WANTED to do, but I knew it would be really rude. He didn’t have my number and I didn’t have his. He’d wake up and think I ran away because I regretted it… really I just wanted my own bed to be hung over in, and to get away from the smell of damp and the cold. I lay there for ages and then decided I couldn’t leave like that. So I did the only other thing that would make me happier with my lot.

I reached over like a sleeping person might reach, slowly and clumsily, and allowed my hand to fall on his penis. He snuggled into my hand and suddenly he was hard, and he rolled over and took me in his arms with a decisiveness that I have to say, really worked for me. We fucked again and this time was REALLY GOOD.

We had morning breath so we did the morning breath kissing, the closed mouth mwah-ing interspersed with pretending to be really, really into open mouth kissing shoulders and arms where there’s no sense of smell.

It was really good. Afterwards he said wow that was intense. Then he made me orgasm with his hand… or, he nearly did but I got sort of stage fright, but it was really good anyway, so I rewarded him with a very good fake orgasm. It was a thing of beauty, but I made it ugly enough to be convincing. Then we talked. Then he made all kinds of suggestions of things he’d like to do with the day. I could tell this was an invitation to stick around but I still… despite the great sex… wanted to RUN AWAY.

I stayed for a few hours anyway, just talking shit, and we got dressed and had coffee and eventually I said I was leaving and he kissed me again and took my number and said he’d call me.

I went home and wanted a nap and a shower and food but Jesse invited me for drinks, half priced drinks all Sunday…

And so I just had a shower and put on makeup and went out again.

We drank a shitload of beer and laughed at everything.

then I get a text from my shy guy from the night before, and also… that morning.

He said he hoped I had a better hangover day than he did, he’s finally in bed now… bliss!

So me being drunk and an idiot, and also not really caring about this guy’s feelings as much as I care about my own amusement… I write back

“Grandma?”

To which HE responds

“Nope. Todd”

Which is like, OH YEAH that was his name. So instead of just letting my joke go and being all “ha ha Todd I know I’m just buzzin off ya, I’m in the pub now so I guess I won’t be getting rid of the hangover just yet, well sleep well talk soon goodnight”

No.. instead I reply “Oh sorry, I thought it was my grandma Bliss.”

So then he doesn’t reply because I am a big weirdo and so I write sorry, I was just drunk and amusing myelf by being obnoxious.. had a good day, made some potato gratin and hit the pub.

Well I haven’t heard back from him since. I don’t care about ruining the potential for more sex there, because really he was too shy for me. And too into talking… and I’m moving away too soon for that kind of arrangement. But I do feel bad for like, taking the piss out of this guy who obviously isn’t so cocky or confident. I feel inclined to write again to apologize for my drunken idiocy but it also feels like, is it actually even that bad, what I wrote, or his he just a humourless tool?

I don’t know but I don’t like to leave something frosty, especially not when he has seen my O face (even if it was synthesized)

He has also seen my vagina. That makes me want him to think I’m nice.

In other news, my previous rebound guy… ahhh this is why I should have updated more frequently. Too much backstory now.

Well, we had a night of very dirty messaging. Stayed up til 4am writing lewd things. He said we would have to get some porn and try stuff out… I said maybe. He said he loved giving head ESPECIALLY to me. I said I would like that very much. Obviously I said dirty things too but there’s no need to like, recount them here. This is a classy establishment. So eventually I cut the convo off because I had work in the morning and I NEED SOME SLEEP.

But first I had asked, any plans for the weekend?

Oh now I remember why I didn’t write this sooner, because the next night was the night my friend had the seizure-overdose thing. Perspective I guess…

So over the weekend I was obviously distracted, but he didn’t know that, and he never got in touch. The next day (before going out and my friend having the seizure) I had written to him something casual like ahhh can’t wait for the weekend, and he said something back and I replied and then he said ok talk later going to the off licence (this is where we buy alcohol in Ireland.)

That was the last time he wrote to me.

So that’s two weeks ago, it’s a bit weird. I wrote to him yesterday because I am a glutton for punishment and can’t stop my damn idle hands from sending the devil’s messages. We had a conversation that consisted of such gems as

“SUP”

“WORD”

“RAD”

“FAR OUT”

(those are the entire messages)

and then I added, “how’s it hanging?” but he didn’t answer that one.

I am a little baffled. I’m not going to write to him again now because he obviously isn’t into me any more, he’s always online on facebook and never initiates the conversation and he left me hanging the last two times so that is IT.

But I really wanted him to give me head again before I go away! I just want ONE orgasm from oral sex. JUST ONE. I have never had one. I feel like maybe if I explained this to him… no. Not a good idea.

Maybe he started seeing someone, someone who was actually nice to him.

But like……. the dirty messages were GOOD. I was so sure he’d ask me… well, not out. In. Ask me over, or something.

Anyway I have other things to write about that aren’t sexual but I am too tired now so I’ll write those tomorrow.

I am the queen of jobs. Blow, and the other kind…

For once I actually have good, proud-making, achievement news to impart!

I found a job. Pretty quickly, if I do say so myself. I’d pat myself on the back but really, it’s easy to go out and achieve things when you don’t have very many friends or a tv. And it’s not a very good job. It’s a call centre job. But it’s a job, it will allow me to live here in my hotel room-esque skank pad and buy brand-name chickpeas.

I was really desperate for a job, Ireland is not a good place right now for finding employment. It’s not the sandbox yuppie paradise of my youth. That’s all over… this time I had to pull out all the stops and dust off my lady suit. Unfortunately, when I bought my lady pants suit 6 years ago, I spent a lot of weekends shaking my money maker in dark rooms, quaffing substances whose side effects included a loss of appetite. The lady suit no longer hangs off my body like men on my every word, and it has a bit of a problem in the camel toe department. A frantic rummage through my wardrobe revealed just how lucky I was in my last job- I have NO skirts of an appropriate length for dropping a pencil on the ground. And the interview lady seemed to place quite a high value on dressing professionally… maybe she just meant “neat dress essential” but I wasn’t taking any chances. Also, have I mentioned how great my legs are? I need to cover those puppies if I want to avoid initial she-hatred from my woman superiors.

So, though I was already broke as a back mountain, and had no guarantees I’d even get the job- I hit the shops and blew my last monetary load all over Zara and New Look and all the purveyors of pencil skirts and little jackets. My first outfit was a black skirt whose hem was so barely above the knee, I could have bent down in front of that interviewer and touched my toes without exposing anything more than my chronic unfittness.

I nailed that interview like it was a man who complimented my appearance.

I laid it on so thick with the bullshit, it started to bother my gag reflex.

I got the job, baby! And I was told again, make sure you keep attire professional. Nothing too formal but… keep it classy.

I emptied my bank accounts and made a small dent in my mother’s.

I tried on skirts and jackets and felt like the world’s most professional legitimate businesswoman. I forced myself to NOT buy a white suit with massive gold buttons. I looked fantastic in it, but really… it’s too much. I need a slightly better job first…

Now it’s the weekend, and it’s Jesus week so I have a long four days to recoup and refresh and iron my skirts before work recomences.

Or just to bang a whole load of dudes…

Last weekend one of my greatest friends came to visit. We had a wonderful meal in her family’s house, with 27 bottles of wine between I think 9 people… The craic was, I believe, mighty, and towards the end of the night I found myself wearing a piece of coloured foil wrapping paper on my head and singing spongebob squarepants songs with a lungfull of helium balloon. What I mean to say is, it was quite literally OFF THE HOOK.

The next night I had pre-drinks drinks in my apartment with my friend and her cousin. We hit the mean streets of Dublin town pretty late, like midnight, and met up with an old chumaroo from school. Actually the same one I was out with recently, when I met Ross… The girls wanted to smoke a fat one around the corner so we tottered down a side street and sat on some steps. I’m surprised this has never happened to me before, but as soon as my bum hit the step, I realised what else people use side street doorways for other than smoking joints.

My bottom was marinating in a drunk man’s piss.

I stood up quickly and tried to make it not have happened with my mind. I pretended I had not sat in pee. Eventually, as I failed repeatedly to understand the watery conversation occuring around me… my hand found its way to my ass and touched and I brought it up to my face for a sniff. Hoping for a whiff of beer or vodka, but no… it was as I knew, it was pee. It was stinky, stinky pee. The kind of pee some charlatan like Gillian McKeith would probably tell you implied a very sick and dehydrated individual.

I stood for a few moments trying to force it to not be the reality, that I had sat in my nice navy coat in my nice gold dress with my nice black spandex bridget jones pants (for modesty, that’s a short dress..) in a puddle of piss.

I couldn’t make myself ignore it. I had pee on my bum. I was soaked. Around me my friends laughed and smoked… they were totally irrelevant to my situation. All I knew was the pee, the pee, the junkie pee on my bum. I told them about the pee and when they failed to provide any miraculous solutions or tell me that it didn’t matter, I gave up and went inside to the bathroom. The bathroom was full of cackling knackers with caked on makeup and shiny legs. I took off my coat and washed its lower half with copious hand soap. I smelled it- ok. Pee smell gone. But what about the spandex shorts and my gold dress? There was nothing for it but to hoist myself up onto the counter and SIT my whole bum in the sink. I took the shorts off and washed my ass while girls emerging from toilets stared at me in fear and shock. I mumbled at each emerging lassie, “I’m not… I sat in pee.. it’s not my pee, I sat on a step..” but I don’t think anyone believed me. I wouldn’t have believed me.

I washed my ass until you could have eaten off it if you so wished.

I washed the shorts but they were too wet to put back on.

The dress was made of a metallic fabric that dried instantly under the hand driers. I wringed out my coat as much as possible, and rejoined my friends, feeling like I had a dirty little secret and anyone who came too near would either smell pee on me or feel my wet coat and think I was a filthy bitch.

My friend whose fake-blog name I can’t remember, I’ll call her Georgia… maybe she had another name two weeks ago… whatevs. Anyway Georgia has recently discovered ecstasy. She is in the honeymoon period of pill abuse where the whole city feels like a massive playground populated entirely with people who are cool enough to know about the secret drug culture and must know how amazing it is, and people who just don’t get it.

I know it’s a lot of fun but really I draw the line…. she brought me down to the toilets again where I took advantage of the hand dryers and she ground up a pill and snorted it. I   refused the proferred nose candy because eww, no thanks.. My pill snorting days are over * *well, actually…

We rejoined the others, I with a sinking feeling that most of the people I know in Dublin are serious party creatures. My other friend and her cousin and I decided to ditch this scene anyway,  because it had a sickly feel to it, full of eternal teenagers…. people who haven’t changed physically in 6 years… people who look exactly the same as they did when we were in school… Weird.

Then we hit some very exclusive bar where I couldn’t get the barman’s attention over the middle aged men’s orders of champagne cocktails. Money trumped my soggy ass that night. I was invisible to the bar staff with my wrinkled 20 euro note whimpering for a neat whiskey…. We met up with some guys the girls knew, one of them having been at the meal the night before. He was sat beside me presumably because we were the single ones, and we had some banter and I for some reason fell into my old habit of acting all bitchy and aggressive in a flirtatious manner. I didn’t mean it really, I guess I just had my period so I was being a bit aggro.

He drove me home the next morning, actually.. I mean, the morning that later turned into the night we were out on… I mean, I had gone home before my friends joined me in my apartment. Wanted to tidy up a bit and shower before they came over… so he drove me in and we had a slightly sexual conversation because OH MY GAWD I am incapable of talking about anything else. He called me a nymphomaniac and I said hey, everyone’s got their hobbies…

His eyes flicked over to my knees in the passenger seat. He mentioned jokingly that I should give him a blow job, as the lift wasn’t free… I didn’t have anything witty to say back to that so I just laughed. I wasn’t attracted to him.

But we were out in this bar later that night, and soon the bar was closing and we hit a chipper and he bought me garlic chips and we all piled into a taxi back to my friend’s cousin’s house. I wanted to go back to mine but I just don’t have the bed space for everyone… we stayed up all night drinking…

The girls hit the hay some time in the morning. Myself and this guy drank until daylight and kept going. Around 9am I gave up and lay on the couch and grabbed the duvet that had been supplied for me. There was a bed upstairs for him, apparently, but he chose that moment to make his move. Admittedly he had taken advantage of my drunken condition to ask me lots of questions about my sexual self. I obliged with the number of people I have slept with, the story about my lesbian antics at the festival, my threesome… there was no stopping me. I babbled incessantly. I lay down on the couch probably fully intending to get some sleep, but he leapt on top and we writhed around for a bit, kissing…

I grew bored and got up after a while. I lay in the garden under the midday sun… it was beautiful. The girls got up and laughed at me because it was obvious he hadn’t gone to his own bed. But I was a bit indignant and embarassed… I had my period, I had no plans for sex. It felt stupid to have been “caught” for something so lame as a bit of kissin’.

He found me alone in the garden and lay down beside me but I got up like a shot…

He asked me if he could park his car at my house, he didn’t want to drive home yet… And was that ok? I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t decide if I should or not. As usual I let “going with the flow” decide for me. The path of least resistance, that’s how I roll.

We were picked up soon and dropped to my house. My friend had to fly home later so she left and I was there in my apartment with this guy. By this stage my full blown horniness had kicked in. It’s really irrelevant who the guy is, I just get horny and that’s the end of it.

He pounced again, full of ridiculous energy… I realised I must have been teasing him inadvertently for hours. Look, stop ,I have my period, fuck that… it’s like, really heavy too… I’m sorry if I led you on….

He didn’t care about my period. We had ferocious, filthy sex for 5 hours. It was great. I had a terrible heavy period… I’m really not the kind of girl to have period sex normally but like… I Was so hung over, and I had a horny man in my bed…

He actually went to the effort of making me orgasm, too. That is pretty fucking unusual for me. You see I don’t just have orgasms from sex. I’m not one of those people who can’t… I CAN. I have orgasms all the time. By myself.

I have had them with other people too, but only when I have a sexual partner who is willing to fuck me while I kind of just lie there and pleasure myself. It’s difficul to cum with someone else… for me.

But this is a guy who has probably, albeit surprisingly, had more action than me. You have no idea.. or maybe you have a lot of idea… how rare that is…

I NEVER come across men who have more experience than I do. I rarely come across women who have. I’m not saying I’m like the world’s greatest slut or anything but I do have a lot of sex and I just don’t encounter many of my own kind in the real world.

When I was almost pass-out drunk, he told me he had fucked over 60 women. Now whether or not I believe that.. and I know men are supposed to lie about that shit… but if I have had sex with the amount of people I have… ok I’ll tell you because I don’t know why I’m withholding that information, you know everything else anyway… it’s around 40.

So if I have fucked 40 people (give or take) and I spent 3 years in a mostly monogamous relationship, and another previous year in another, again mostly being faithful… then someone who is ridiculously capable in the sack could easily have fucked 20 more than me. Easily. I have had huge dry spells too. I mean if I have sex now with a different person or people, ha ha, every two weeks… then in 4 more years (the age difference) I will have hit that magic number. A century of cock.

The number thing actually doesn’t bother me at all.

I realised lately, that the only thing making me feel slutty or dirty about sex is when I have bad sex. There are many things in life to regret, and a jolly good rogering is not one of them. I feel bad about myself when I have bad sex or when I show someone a wonderful time with my mouth and they don’t even have the decency to leave a tip or call  me two days later.

I had a great time, last weekend. I may have been no-inhibitions fucked by some guy who I will definitely see again in awkward family friend type environments, and yeah we even talked dirty and yeah it was fun, and yeah it’s kind of a case of shitting where you eat because my friend’s family meals are wonderful and he’s gonna be there at a lot of them…

But fuck it, I had a good time and it worked wonders on those period pains.

So that was last weekend.

One night last weekend, Ross actually drunk dialed me at 3.30 am and when I drunkenly accused him of calling on my booty, he said ” I respect you too much to do that, I just want to talk!” I acted all indignant because I was actually not in Dublin so I couldn’t go meet him anyway… but I told him, look if you really like me, call me when you’re sober. That would show you have respect for me.

But I got tired waiting..

So on Wednesday I texted him hi how are ya what’s up…

and he asked me to meet him for a coffee yesterday.

I met him in a pub after work, and admittedly it was a bit awkward.

We kissed on the cheek but it sort of paused mid kiss and became a weird little face hug.

We had beers. I was fresh from a day of work, wearing a lady suit, and the pub was full of alternative, young types.

I felt old and businesspersonlike…

We had some beers and the conversation was good.

I know it was supposed to be coffee but I don’t think either of us really had that intention.

We wound up walking around town, entering pubs at random, having a couple of drinks and then moving on. We had whiskeys, he drank his with coke and I felt like a badass, Don Draper type, in my suit, drinking mine neat.

The conversation flowed wonderfully. I dropped the n-bomb. I mean, nerd. I dropped the nerd bomb. And we had that in common. We talked about Skyrim and Fallout and science fiction and porn and the internet. We pretended to be nazis, we pretended to be jesus freaks and had these bizzare and inappropriate conversations.

It was nice. Then we left and went back to mine, at last orders… a good 6 hours after we started our pub crawl.

In my apartment he noticed my black satin slut sheets. I pretended like I had just accidentally put them on the bed and they just happened to be the only clean sheets.

He looked through my music folder and I was embarassed and he teased me about my Bryan Ferry. Hey, Bryan Ferry is the bawm. But yeah I really don’t have a great collection of music.

We had sex a number of times. It was pretty fucking good… he has a massive penis. Like, too big for my mouth massive. I know because I tried to fit it in there and started to feel like I was going to get lockjaw. I gave him as good head as I could manage considering, and I got the job done, and he seemed pretty impressed. I do take pride in a blow job well done…

The sex was great. Invigorating… he saw my condom collection and asked about it. Why do you have so many? I didn’t know what to say so I told him “I collect condoms”.

He’s like, no, really, how come you have so many?

I’m like… “uhhh I talk about sex a lot, so people… give me condoms?”

Yeah you’re not fooling anyone. He had a packet with him. He tore off the plastic and I didn’t think about it, that he had clearly invited me for coffee and bought condoms for the occassion. Fuck it, I’m happy… but yeah, it probably means he’s a little bit full of shit about having sooo much respect for me. It was a booty call after all, but at least he bought me a lot of drinks before getting me into bed.

The only complaint I have… and I don’t really care about it too much..

is that he didn’t really pay much attention to ME.

Now, he didn’t do much vaginal research the last time, either… but maybe I didn’t notice that time because I’m kind of used to these great lummoxes who fuck with their dicks and don’t do a whole lot else.

And then last weekend, the guy actually MADE ME ORGASM WITH HIS HAND. That might not seem like a big deal but like… it takes a long time. I can do it myself in less than a minute but I get all nervous with a guy and it’s harder. It took ages, and at one point I was like, look if your hand is cramping up don’t worry about it, and he was like, no it’s fine… and continued… and it was excellent, I’ve so rarely come across a man who is good to go, no need for guidance…

So I did like that… and there was a lot more “ME worship” last weekend, just in general… like he was all not caring about my period, in fact he tried to go down on me and I was like, dude, I’m not saying it isn’t massively arousing that you are willing to do that, but I am not… entirely comfortable… so he just kissed around my thighs and stuff. He told me I had a crackin’ body… Even though I had eaten more than a month’s calories in one sitting the night before and was a tad on the bloated side. He also said I was a fantastic kisser… that’s really nice to hear because I zone out when I’m having a nice kiss, there’s no effort or technique it’s just… kissing… It’s a nice thing to hear…

We talked dirty. I never do that.. I’ve always just cringed and thought ahhh how awful, I hope he doesn’t remember what I said…  but it was actually sexy and I didn’t feel like I was bullshitting… I was just talking about what would turn me on. It felt like it added something to the experience….

Then I compare that day of lusty goings on, with Ross, the dude I briefly was very obsessed with… and it’s like, yes he has a big dick but there’s very little… excitement…

At one point I can’t remember what we were talking about but I merely MENTIONED periods in passing and his reaction was something like “EWW”. Then I talked about my not being able to cum easily. And he was like, so what do you do? And I’m like, well I have a vibrator. He was like what? So I showed him my little gold bullet. He wrinkled up his face. “That’s really small!”

I was like, “man, it doesn’t go INSIDE. It’s for the outside…”  and again he was like “ewww” and so with a sigh I put it away in my bedside toiletries bag with my lube and my condoms and thought, oh well, I’ll just have a really good wank once he leaves.

So there’s that…

But I shouldn’t compare men. This one just has a massive cock, maybe that’s made him lazy. I’m sure I could train him… but then I’m not too keen to go around educating men in how to please me, because it’s a total turn off, giving instruction. For me it is, anyway.

But sure… the sex was fun. It was passionate and it was also quite gentle and close… we have a lot in common, but I guess I’m just more of a wild creature in bed. It’s kinda funny and annoying how hard it is to tick ALL the boxes with another person.

Attractive: check.

Likes geeky stuff: check

Taller than me: check.

Has a job, can buy me drinks sometimes: check.

Is nice: check

Has a good sense of humour: check.

Fantastic penis: check.

Is adventurous in bed: hmm not really, no.

So that’s my two latest conquests. I am pretty satisfied with both as I feel like I got some excercise, taped some new footage for my internal big screen…

Heard some compliments and got to feel sexy.

But like.. I would like to tick all those boxes. Also, I need to like… start working out. I have shit stamina. I really… really have shit stamina. Although I do think if I was a little bit more fit I would be pretty fucking awesome in bed. I really have done a 180 here… It was only some months ago that I was whining about how bad I was in the sack. I guess something like 10 more guys passing through my revolving doors (nicee…) must have had some effect on my mad sexy skillz.. I just need some fucking stamina, because it’s embarassing, I get up on some man and there’s a tightening of the balls and I know this is a GOOD position and I am doing excellent things and also, my kegels are paying off.. but then I only last a few minutes and I have to clamber down and assume the lazy person’s role before my thighs snap off.

So that’s pretty much it for me. This weekend ( I started writing this on Friday day I think…) actually took a turn for the messy as I went to a party on Friday night that was quite literally OFF THE HOOK. I had a lot of fun and as the sun rose on my drunkeness, I gave into temptation and hoovered a load of crystals up my right nostril. I know, I know… but I was finding it difficult to dance with everyone else and the booze was nearly finished. I had a huge amount of fun that night. Or morning. Or whatever…

As I grew more and more demented, I began to unleash my deeepest darkest secrets on everyone. I hope nobody remembers. I had a long and deep conversation about Age of Empires with a muscular dude wearing a giant hoop earring. He told me his name so we could become friends and play a game of AOE, but when I woke up and looked in my phone where I apparently made a note of it, it  just said Valhllalla R6ising so I think maybe that’s a book or film or game someone recommended, and not his name at all…

Fun though.

Big fun…

Went home at 6pm in a condition of ultimate destroyedness, having napped for about an hour on the couch and then rejoined the party and had a can of Guinness. My friend proceeded to tell me I look exactly like a puppet which he thought was really funny but it started to plunge me into a spiral of insecurity. A puppet? Is it my fleshy white nose? Oh no… everyone thinks I am a hideous puppet woman. Everyone HATES me.

Went home in a taxi.

Hit my bed like a sack of potatoes and slept in utter despair for hours… Woke up at 7am and realised I need to pee and drink water so I threw myself towards the bathroom but nearly collapsed on the way. Not surprising as I had eaten nothing but a can of guinness in 36 hours. Started googling “how long go without food before dying”.

Forced some water and an oat cake and two mandarins down my gullet, hugged my laptop to my chest and slept some more.

And then I had to go out and get the sunday paper to do the crossword, that was pretty rough… I MAY be going to have some pints tonight. I’m not saying I want to, but I might… I’m just lonely. It is lonely being alone at home… I don’t know why but I didn’t really feel is so much in Italy.

Probably because I had a decent internet conection. Definitely.

The Hunt for Red Cock-something

Hmmm where was I?

Oh yes… FREAKING OUT about some guy.

No, I won’t be continuing in that vein. Sorry about the last post… It’s just my ego is my achilles heel… And it doesn’t even have a small surface area like the heel… my ego is like a top-heavy iceberg, 90% visible. What lies beneath? Self-doubt maybe. I’m not sure. This analogy is boring me.

Let’s move on.

Ok, so although you might never want to read another line about that guy (I called him Ross last week) and his stupid asshole face, he is actually, maybe, probably going to be reappearing here…

A week after his ego-massage hit and run, just when I was back to feeling like a strong independent woman on a lady razor or tampon ad, seizing the motherfucking day and throttling it with my bare hands, when out of the fucking blue, my phone emits an uncharacteristic sound… you’ve got mail, biatch.

Probably my mother, I thought. It’s always my mother. “Hi chicken, just having a walk with the dog. How are you?” ARRRGH Stop calling me chicken. I am a grown-ass woman. And stop fucking texting me all the time for no reason. I keep thinking you are going to be some hot guy I must have forgotten giving my number to or even a friend asking me to join a magical adventure that involves dressing up nice and wearing makeup.

But it wasn’t my mother. It was Ross, the asshole cuntfaced bastard wanker I had just convinced myself I never liked anyway and he was some scrub who can’t get no love from me. (In a side note, I just discovered that in my favorite 90s anthem, No Scrubs, they don’t sing “A scrub is a guy can’t get no love, he’s also known as a bus stop,” which was like my favorite line in a song ever, they are in fact singing “also known as a buster” which was just like finding out there is no santa, or easy way to lose weight, or cure for herpes. (even if you haven’t got herpes, the day you find out it’s for life and not just for Christmas is a harrowing one. You play back all the frivolous snogs of your youth and realise just how easily you could have become infected and how bloody likely it is for one of the next hundred unworthy slimeballs to rummage tongues in your mouth to be carrying the virus) So that sucks. I’m disillusioned, though of course I still love “No Scrubs”.)

So he texted me asking me out that night, he had tickets to see some band… I think I might have actually squealed when I read that yes, maybe I had played it a little too cool… that it wasn’t a case of he didn’t like me, more like… he did like me, but he made a bit of a tit of himself by spilling his guts that night and coming on too strong… and then probably, when I wrote to him the next day with no mention of our weekend love-in plans, he must have thought it meant I wasn’t interested. Anyway I don’t want to wreck your heads with my reverse engineering the whole situation through new, more confident eyes. Suffice it to say, knowing he does actually like me, makes it possible for me to say I do actually like him too. He may have been a bit too keen, but fuck it… somebody has to be more interested, and I’d rather it wasn’t me.

I told him I was busy that night (the truth, actually…) but we could do something some other time.

So there, whether or not this specimen stands up to sober scrutiny, I have no idea. He may turn out to be immature and clingy. But the thing is, I haven’t met someone who I could really stand at all… in so long. You know this… I’ve been writing this thing for over a year now, since January 2011, and not once have I actually come across a man I’d like to go out on a date with.

BUT that’s not what I wanted to talk about here, I swear.

In my last post I talked about the sex with Ross… wherein we ended up fucking with a flavoured condom (strawberry.)

I have since been informed that flavoured condoms are only supposed to be for oral sex. I would never have actually bought the damn things… they came in my STD clinic party pack. So that actually makes sense as to why it got a bit sore and uncomfortable after a while. Anyway. The point is, it was a RED condom.

After he left and I was lying there all hung over and stinky, I wondered where the condom had ended up. It was flung away somewhere without being filled, and maybe it fell down the side of the bed and maybe it was tangled up in the sheets. Or maybe Fabio’s odd habit of taking his condoms with him when he left… wasn’t that odd after all. Maybe Ross took the condom or put it in his jeans pocket or something.

I don’t know, I mean I thought it was fucking weird when Fabio did it, I would be like, dude, I live alone, you can throw it in the normal bin, no one will see it! And he’d just be all, “it’s ok, I can throw it in a bin on the street.” And I didn’t want to insist because maybe then he’d think I was going to get out the turkey baster as soon as he left and try to make a little copy of his admittedly fine DNA. I tell ya, with his looks and my personality and intelligence and everything else, we could have made some kick ass babies. But obviously if I had this guy’s babies the chances are, he would get involved in their upbringing and there’s the risk of my own offspring winding up Italian with boring personalities.

So no.

But I thought, maybe this is normal.. taking the condom home with you… maybe it’s like, the way women don’t put their period crap in with the normal bin because you don’t want some guy coming across your icky evidence of normal bodily functions. So I guessed Ross might have taken the thing with him. It certainly wasn’t under the bed, or behind the bed. And then I forgot all about it.

And a few days passed.

I spent St Patrick’s day in a sober den of Seinfeld and solitude. And masturbation. Lonely, sad, low self esteem masturbation. The only kind I would really approve of calling “self abuse.” Sometime in the evening I ran out of Seinfeld to watch decided it was too pathetic, so I called Steve my sober friend and we went for dinner with another friend of his and then to a trad music session. It was very civillised and enjoyable. I had NOTHING to drink. Go me!

I stayed in my mother’s house that night because it was closer to get back there and I didn’t really relish traipsing through Dublin city alone with so many drunk people roaming the streets. Steve and I walked home, it was like a forty minute walk and it was dark and scary and we talked about stupid sexual things as usual. We joked that he would have to rape me so that no other rapists could get to me, because you can’t get raped twice, everyone knows that… And I’d rather be raped by someone I know. You might think this is my way of flirting, and to be honest… I have no idea if that is right or not. I might have been flirting. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character… I remember talking about having semi-decomposed corpses in my apartment, that night with the army guys. I sometimes wonder with Steve if he takes all my sexual talk personally. I wonder how he sees it… I don’t mean to flirt but I feel like I’m one of those stupid sinks with two taps- the hot is too hot and the cold is too cold.Why two taps, why? I want to wash my hands with hot water but not scalding so I wash for two seconds and then have to blast with the cold. Disappoints me every time.

I might have run a bit too hot but it’s hard to tell because it’s an unspoken thing between male-female friends. How much are we in denial and how much are we really, honestly, deeply friends.

Anyway, having drunk nothing all day, I woke up without a whiff of a hangover, also, alone!

And right there in my mother’s house, on mother’s day. Total brownie points there.

I didn’t have a card or gift, but my stepdad had been sent this “make your own robot” kit by mistake from Amazon, and so I made my mother a robot out of cardboard. It took less than 2 minutes to assemble. She was like, oh a cardboard robot, how… sweet? (Sarcastically)

So I wrote in biro on the head of the robot, “To a very efficient mother. Terrabytes of love from your progeny, Abby”

My mother’s eyes welled up when she read it. That is so… sweet. TERRABYTES OF LOVE!! AWWW and she hugged me…

My stepdad looked at me cynically, as if to say “I know you’re really a total jerk and I don’t know how you get away with this bullshit. I wont say anything because your mother is obviously happy but… I’m not buying it.”

I found it a little difficult to believe I had gotten away with assembling a shitty cardboard robot for my mother and writing some smarmy bullshit on the head in blue biro, but what can I say… my mum is a hopeless romantic, and I’m a chancer…

Anyway we had a lovely meal, I didn’t wash any dishes after or anything although I did consider doing something to help as a special mother’s day treat.. I enjoyed the satisfaction of having thought of something that would really make my mother’s day like that, but then I got distracted by these shoes I had left behind, that I wanted to bring with my to my new place. In the end my mum washed the dishes and then drove me up to Dublin. She came into my apartment for about half an hour. She sat down on my couch and looked around and noticed things.

“Ooh I like that scarf, is that silk?”

“That’s a lovely little tin, is that for your sugar?”

“Oh I see you found your red slippers!”

Basically, she just looked around the room while I made some tea. It’s a small room.

The couch is red.

The armchair is red.

The armchair is directly accross from the couch.

My mother was sitting on the couch.

I don’t know if you get where this is going, but my mother eventually went home, she had to drive in rush hour traffic.

Happy mother’s day indeed!

And as soon as she left my house, I went over to my armchair to pick up my red slippers which were sitting there.

And beside the red slippers, on the red armchair, directly accross from the red couch…

WAS THE MISSING, RED, STRAWBERRY FLAVOURED CONDOM.

Now I don’t know… if my mum saw it or not. I know she saw the slippers… she’s not the kind of person to say something if she did see the used condom lying there. She’s too passive aggressive to actually start something like that.

Suffice it to say I spent the rest of mother’s day with a face that matched my furniture and slippers and condom.

One of my friends, when I told him about the condom thing, was like “ah at least she knows you’re having safe sex.”

Which is like, yeah… but I actually didn’t have safe sex that time, and also… I had been moved into my place for TWO DAYS before having that sex. She knows I only went out that thursday night. She knows that. So if my mum did see the condom, she’s gonna think… she’s gonna KNOW that I found someone new to fuck just two days after landing in Dublin. There’s no way that looks good.

Anyway. That’s all I have to share. I have been out and got drunk since, but it was just fun and I didn’t do anything stupid. OH except that we were in this nightclub and some guys were talking to me and one of them said he was Italian so he was talking to me in Italian. I was pretty pissed so I didn’t think to try and get away from the annoying Italians… I was just proud of how well I speak Italian. I was showing off. but the second or third phrase out of the guy’s mouth was “have you ever had a threesome.”

SO I being drunk, and the proximity to my actual recent foray into group sex…

I blurted out

“HOW DID YOU KNOW?” and looked at this guy, mystified. I presumed, he must have known. Why else would he ask that?

He was of course, like “I didn’t know.. you just told me.”

I’m like, what?

He’s like, yeah you just told me by saying “how did you know.” I didn’t know.

I’m confused. I’m like, oh. He high fived me and I think asked me if I liked it or if I would be interested… I just shook my head and said “oh well I don’t remember anything so I couldn’t tell if I enjoyed it or not. Sorry, I just don’t know if it was any good…”

I don’t remember how that conversation ended but I certainly didn’t have group or even two player sex with anybody. Oh how sad it is that that makes me so very proud. One night out, heavy drinking, jagerbombs and vodka… and I didnt sleep with anybody.

I didnt’ kiss anyone either. One 20 year old boy cornered me in the smoking area (I have now finished the pack of tobacco so that’s the end of the smoking. Will not buy another pack again, that was so fucking stupid) and told me “you complete me!” several times.

Instead of being a jerk I went the other way and tried to give him serious chatting up women advice. That is probably the purpose of using such an awful chat up line. I felt sorry for him. He told me I was amazing… I was like, yeah I know… but seriously, you’re too young for me…

He said I looked 17.

That pissed me off so I told him I was 25 which is not true, I am 24.

Anyway I got bored there and went dancing, which was terrible because I am the worst dancer… you know this. I’m not supposed to dance. I was very drunk…. I bumped into the young guy but I think when I danced in front of him he was put off so he pretended not to recognise me on the dance floor. Anyway, still going to count going home alone as a success.

And that’s all my news. I am currently looking.. scouring the web for a job. I don’t even care any more, I just need some fucking money. I’m so fucking broke… I miscalculated how much money I have in my bank account. Rookie mistake. Anyway I’m poor… I need monies. I need a fucking job.

Can’t even afford to go out…

I’ve just been obsessively cooking and cleaning my apartment.

Yesterday I made pizza, pesto and pasta all from scratch. They all turned out beautifully but I’m worried if I don’t get a job soon I will just get fat. The day before I made banana bread and a huge pot of soup. The soup is amazing. But I made far too much.

Anyway I’m gonna cut this short (ish) now because I have actually nothing left to report.

It’s getting hard to think of titles for my posts when ALL I EVER DO IS GET DRUNK AND HAVE SEX I REGRET. Sorry.

No more drinking, ever, ever, ever, after the last disaster, so I spent a night playing Skyrim with my friend Steve. I am so far ahead of him in the world of Skyrim, it is embarassing. I feel like queen of the nerds.

And we had a good time…  stayed in his room passing the controller back and forth til 3am and would have spent the night and probably wound up doing something regrettable except I knew my parents would see me crawling in the next day and assume the guilty truth. So I left before anything stupid happened. Thank fuck… I felt like kind of a jerk though, realised I was still kind of flirting when I really don’t want to do that with him.

And I mean, we had nothing to drink and I only JUST managed not to sleep with him. Really I can take absolutely no credit for this achievement, if he had made the slightest move in my direction I would have pounced. I was so sure my problem was the booze, it felt so liberating and simple…. all my stupid tramp antics can be linked back to the booze! But even without a single drop, the slut-beast takes over and I start to do my “plump up my boobs and hike up my skirt a bit every time he goes to the bathroom” move. Also I switch my smiling from round faced and guile-free to naughty, playful… insinuating.

If you notice a girl you are hanging out with starting to look increasingly slutty and dishevelled as your sober night wears on, it is probably on purpose. It is a pretty stupid technique and has never yielded good results but I cling to it like my mother clings to rescue remedy.

I didn’t even WANT anything to happen. I just wanted to amuse myself and feel attractive, I guess. Shouldn’t be doing it with friends, though.

Anyway, that was back in my mum’s neighbourhood. Since then, I have moved into my own place as I already told you, so I am at least back in my cuccoon of solitude, masturbation and total control over fridge contents…. And I’m away from the dangers of having a male neighbour who is also bored and trusts me in his bedroom late at night…

Now I can commence the good kind of socialising… the lively array of multicoloured things to do and people to see and civilised busses home because my place is so handy and easily accessible from the big shmoke, Capital City, Dublin baby….

Unfortunately, this all looked like it would be much easier when I was in Italy.

My immediate plans for a bustling social life were my new neighbour and ex housemate, who I have twice made plans with but he has exams coming up and as a mature student actually takes that shit seriously, so he keeps bailing on me. He promises to go out on a mad one at the end of the month but misses the point- I actually don’t want a mad one, I want a cup of tea and to gossip about people neither of us have been friends with in four years….

But I have a reverent respect for studying, it’s so alien to me… I shrug and I guess I’ll see him when his exams are over, I try not to take it personally.. Who knows how easily the delicate student psyche could be tipped out of balance… I certainly don’t. It didn’t take much to distract me, I dropped out in my first year due to scheduling conflicts with my social life (ie. I liked to give the weekend a good three days berth for hangovers, and college demanded I showed up sometimes…)

Then I have a friend from school… we have kept in touch but only seen each other a handful of times in the past 6 years… she’s going through a late-starter’s torrid love affair with drugs and parties. It gives me a heavy heart because I have been there, done that, and hallucinated the t shirt was trying to kill me. I don’t WANT to do any more drugs, but it’s pretty fucking impossible to spend time with people who are doing all the crazy fun stuff and stick to the beers. I always think I can do it, and I am always wrong.

But I wanted to see her. She’s fun, she seemed keenest of all my old cronies to catch up and hang out…. So I said, ok, we will go out. BUT NOT A MAD ONE.

I don’t want to go out on the session. I don’t want to drink anything that will make me drunk. I don’t want to be offered a line a pill or a… anything. NO DRUGS. PLEASE.

Ok ok no drugs.

She picked me up at my place with another old school chum in the back. Hooray! Reunion time!

We had a few beers in her house, a huge-ceilinged Georgian place full of pre-Paddy’s day giddyness and although I insisted, there will be no serious boozing, the spirit of celebration took a hold of me… My light beers were punctuated with realisations like “I live in Ireland now, hooray!” and “I have these nice friends here, hooray!” and “I don’t have to drink much, I can just drink a BIT!”

And so we landed in a taxi, five of us, and I thought I was the sober one so I adopted an educated and elegant voice and engaged the taxi driver in polite conversation about taxi etiquette. The other girls were drinking their remaining beers in the back of the taxi… We took photos of ourselves and whooped and I yelled “spring break, woo!” and “this is gonna be off the hook!” repeatedly. I might not have been the sober one actually. The taxi driver soon gave up on me and turned the radio on.

We hit a bar, had a SMALL beer… my friends were in the toilet and took a while to come back. I steeled myself to reject the inevitable offer of pills. Georgia pursed her hand over mine and I bellowed “NO! THANKS BUT NO!” and so she withdrew and I felt a tremendous chorus sing victory inside my head.

It took me about three minutes and a millilitre of beer to change my mind and sidle up to Georgia and ask her, actually do you have a pill there for me please… she offered me a little half. That’s enough for me, cheers. I haven’t had a pill in a year. Actually that’s a lie, I had one at new year…

Shit. But anyway, I have zero resistance to pills and the like any more, so I guess a half would have some sort of effect on me. My mother likes to tell me these stories about her youth and I KNOW they are totally airbrushed, I just know it… and in her stories she basically cycles five miles from her house, has a half a glass of cider or something, and nibbles an eighth of a pill and dances for 12 hours solid before cycling home without remotely putting herself at risk. She always tells me these stories, like she expects me to come out with my own drug stories to share with her, but I won’t because whether or not she is telling the truth, she probably believes her tales by now… and what I used to get up to would probably give her a heart attack.

Anyway I had just eaten the little bit of pill and was returning to my friends, feeling a bit like my mother, but at least safe in the knowledge that I would not be getting too mangled on a half and my friends were bound to be worse than me, when across the room, a face dawns recognition on me.

WHAT the FUCK?

My ex boyfriend. The one I told you about… maybe… anyway he was the only boyfriend I ever had who was nice to me. Obviously I was incredibly mean to him in return. And there he is, all friendly and handsome, just standing there with some people, including girls I recognise from my facebook stalking sessions.

HEY!

He gives me a hug and looks genuinely happy to see me.

We exchange how are you’s and surprise and bewilderment at bumping into each other here, a pub neither of us frequent, on my first night out in Dublin. I’m so glad I look nice. He looks nice. I don’t mean I’ll go there… he just looks nice, I can introduce him to my friends without being embarassed. Nice to have ONE ex I can do that with…

Then he turns around and presents to me… his extended family… who are visiting him… oh jesus. I just remember I have recently dropped a half a pill and I’m certainly not used to taking drugs any more so I am about to come up properly, and although it’s only a half… urgh. Don’t want to be getting too enthusiastic or chewing my face in front of my ex’s folks… who I stayed with, who know me… who probably think I’m a horrible bitch… argh.

I think I behaved myself. I think so…

We chat for a bit.

I find my friends, try to dance… realise I’m actually not really getting anything off that pill and can’t dance yet.. maybe I’m a little bubblier than usual but it could easily be the beer kicking in. Need to be in a much worse condition before dancing can happen.

Go outside for a smoke. (I have bought a pack of tobacco for the purposes of social smoking when drunk. Bad idea. But I’m not going to smoke any more once it’s finished, I swear…)

Talking to some Swedish men in lepracaun outfits. For some reason. I tell them I am Belgian, from the Italian speaking part of Belgium. They don’t realise this is bullshit and there is no Italian part of Belgium. I realise it’s not a whole lot of fun tricking them, they are too drunk…you need the gullible but sober Italians to get any satisfaction from the sport.

I duck away from the Swedes and rejoin my friends.

Now for the guts of the evening.

So earlier, with Georgia and another old school chum, a name cropped up… talking about people we used to hang out with and who’s doing what, who’s pregnant, who’s fat… who beats up their girlfriend….

A name crops up. Ross. I perk up. I used to like Ross. In fact, I kissed Ross on two occasions back in the day…. I really quite liked Ross. We had English together, and he was pretty much the only boy I knew who was any good at discussing “deep” subjects…. who was also, of course, tall and good looking.

But he always had a girlfriend. We kissed this one time and I wanted to take him home with me, but he slipped into a crisis of guilt and self-flagellation… Arrghh I have a girlfriend… what have I done? ARGHHH!

And so I just acted all blase like I didn’t give a crap, because obviously I wasn’t going to be his beast of burden and have to deal with all this sentimentality shit and eventually just get hurt.

So I shut it off, and fuck it… although I do remember feeling a pang of, damn it, I NEVER meet a guy I actually like… and am attracted to… at the same time. But I shrugged, took some more pills, and danced like a freak until the sun came up and settled into place and we all got taxis home and I never saw any of them again.

And then he popped up on facebook. And I saw he was still with the same girlfriend. And I saw he was still pretty damn hot. But I wasn’t going to waste my time thinking about some dude I shared a classroom with 6… 7? 6 or 7 years ago, who has a long term girlfriend and who I probably don’t even remember properly.

And then his name cropped up in conversation in the car, and Georgia says she saw him a few weeks ago, in bits, all drunk and depressed because he had broken up with the girlfriend. And I felt giddy with the possibilities… like, obviously I’m not just going to bump into him randomly, but….

Interesting….

And then I’m outside this pub, smoking a pointless cigarette, shrugging off these two creepy (ie. not attractive) guys who are trying to put their arms around me and lean on my shoulder, and I look around for anyone I know…

And there he is. Ross. A couple of metres away from me…. looking pretty fucking attractive in a shirt and jacket, looking like a proper man…

And maybe I run over too enthusiastically and he won’t remember me, it has been 6 years after all, and we never spent that much time together… but before I know it his face lights up and he gives me a kiss on the cheek and his arm slips in around my waist and he talks in close to my face and he’s asking me everything, am I back, am I really back, and where am I living, and am I married, oh separated, no way, and it’s so good to see you…

He’s talking with his cheek against mine. He tells me, “you’re younger than me, you’re 24…” and I ask him how he knows that, and he murmers “facebook” and I think of all my creepy facebook stalking of his page, and dare I imagine he has done the same with mine? I find it hard to believe that someone else… would lurk around the net like I do… he must be very drunk to admit that….

It’s geeky and it strikes a chord with me… Obviously, cringe for admitting it… I would never, ever, ever admit to the facebook lurking I do… have done… will do… but it, like so many other minor, offputting, warning sign things a man can do, endears him to me…

Vulnerability! Honesty! HE LIKES ME! It’s music to my ears…

We’re talking, he’s saying… he’s saying he thought about me so much… over the years. I’m taken aback… I really didn’t think of him since school, not until I saw him on facebook and looked through all his photos, just a little bit. Why would I? It’s not like I really thought he was so special, I just liked him… I have liked a lot of guys since, more, he’s just someone interesting that resurfaced.. But it’s nice to hear, so I say I have thought about him too, and it’s not a lie exactly but I definitely don’t mean it like he said it. It’s flattering but I do find it hard to picture this good looking, intelligent guy with a hot girlfriend, thinking about ME all these years.

6 or 7 years…

Anyway. I’m happy basking in the appreciation. He tells me I’m just as hot as he remembers… and I feel a flicker of annoyance because, actually I hoped I had gotten hotter. I guess my figure is neither much better nor worse, but I like to think I have improved since I was 17-18. But hey… I guess his memory paints with an airbrush too.

It’s still a lovely thing to hear.

Seriously, I was only just thinking the other day, how no hot guy will EVER think about me in such an obsessive way as I think about hot barman. But here is a hot guy… a hot, smart, nice guy… and he’s here telling me he liked me so much in school… he thought about me for years…

I am wildly happy to be complimented so much and by someone whose opinion I actually care for… (because he’s hot)

I would be wildly happy with a tenth of the nice things he is telling me. I think joyfully of how I want to take him home, to my nice apartment… my big bed… I have lots of condoms… it’s perfect.

I am going to knock his socks off…. He’ll be like, ooh I had no idea Abby was so hot and good at English and ALSO GIVES AMAZING SEX.

His lips brush my ear when he whispers that he wants to take me out… on a date, a real date… He would like that… it’s good to talk to me… he always liked me..

I’m like, a real date? REALLY? That sounds lovely… My own previous warnings and insistence on don’t get involved, don’t let yourself be tempted… no falling into relationships, please, no nice guys and no giving up your independence… it all flutters away, I’m swept up in the beauty of being wanted… being liked… not just for a quick fuck… ohhh this feels lovely.

But of course I’m not big enough for intimacy.

He tries to kiss me and I stop him. No kissing in public… it’s embarassing… no, no, really… I just bumped into my ex and his family, I don’t want to be spotted by them plus half of Dublin eating face on the footpath…

He has an arm around me. He’s tall and sexy.

I tell him I want to bring him back to my place.

He says he doesn’t just want to sleep with me… well, he does… but he wants to… you know… he wants to… he tries to kiss me again.

I tell him not in public. He asks me to move down a bit, down the street, away from eyes.

We move. We kiss. It’s thrilling… he’s lovely, he’s passionate, he closes his eyes when we kiss and when he opens them he is looking at me with some kind of approval I am not used to seeing. It’s sort of tender. I feel little knots of… what the fuck have i been doing all this time, picking up guys and bringing them home and sleeping with people I don’t like… who don’t like me… what am I doing? Why do I do it? Oh so badly want to fuck him though. His arm around my waist is the single most erotic moment I have had in months. I tuck myself into his arms, daring his body towards mine.

I tell him, I want to bring you home with me…

He says he wants to take me out… would I like that?

I want to bring you home…

He says, do you want to go now?

I say, “why the fuck not?” and for some reason I say it in a knacker accent.

We get a taxi back to mine. In the taxi I send a text message to Georgia so she doesn’t worry about me. “Goin.Home. Getin my hole.x ”

In the taxi we discuss philosophy and religion. I’m drunk and he’s drunk but it’s a good conversation, punctuated by kissing and the foreign taxi driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Disgusting drunken Irish. I feel on the verge of tapping the taxi driver on his shoulder and explaining to him, “you don’t understand, I didn’t just pick him up… this is a slow burner baby. Seven years I have been wanting to tap that ass… He likes me for my intellect!”

We make it in the door. He tries to kiss me on the doorstep. NO I JUST MOVED IN HERE! Argh. You’re a prude…

We’re inside the door and I’m so fucking HAPPY, he’s here in my apartment, my lovely little place, I get to look all grown up and sophisticated to someone hot… someone who likes me…

He likes my place. He grinds up against me and our mouths mingle and do you have anything to drink?

I shouldn’t because I said I wasn’t going to be drinking, but I actually have a naughty bottle of whiskey in the cupboard…

“Oh,” he says, “That’s my drink!” A little charge of irritation runs through me at that. I wouldn’t say something like that… or maybe I would…

I pour us two tall glasses. I fill them to the rim. Whoops… just drink as much as you want, I can’t pour with finesse right now…

A glass is knocked over. Whiskey everywhere, I mop at it with a towel because I am a new tenant and I am a good tenant and then we are on top of each other, on my bed, and yes it’s creaky, but it’s bouncy and comfortable too… He has my dress off and my bra off and with lightning speed he’s naked, and he’s got broad shoulders and a nice body.

He also has a big dick.

It’s actually a lot bigger than usual… the usual fuck me hard as you like deal doesn’t work out so well. I’m a little sore after a while but still want sex. Man, that is going to hurt tomorrow. I have grabbed a random condom from out of my lucky dip. It is strawberry flavoured. Oh well, whatever… I don’t want to open the bag up properly and show him the ridiculous assortment of condoms I have. I can smell artificial strawberry as he fucks me.

After a few drunken “ah fuck” moments where it slips out and I’m getting kind of sore, we stop and kiss and talk and start again. I can barely fit him in my mouth but I attempt some oral anyway….

He asks me, what am I doing for the rest of the weekend?

I say, I don’t know, but I didn’t want to go out and get drunk this weekend, even though it is Paddys weekend.

He asks me, how would I like to just spend the weekend together?

Ordinarily I’d be like RUN AWAYYYY but lying in this man’s arms… sticky with sex I won’t regret, knowing I have only got a little bit more sex in my power before my vagina says that’s too much for tonight, go away now please… it seems like a lovely idea. I would like that… sounds good… I think I mention, I am not looking for a relationship right now, and you’re on the rebound… he claims he is not on the rebound, they broke up months ago. Right. Still on the motherfucking rebound, boy. You’ll see…

I briefly hope he doesn’t rebound all over me. I would like some company… I really would.. and I like him… but I don’t want to be his ex-girlfriend surrogate. I don’t want him to be affectionate to me because he’s used to being that way with his ex. That’s the rebound, it’s nothing personal. I say I’d like to hang out anyway, that would be nice…

He expresses surprise I liked him in school. He says he thinks I am a very cool and intelligent person, and doesn’t know why I’d want to hang out with him at all..

Oh, so we both have terrible self esteem? Probably can thank our exes for that one. It slightly diminishes the compliment of his eagerness… slightly…

Well…

We have more sex. The condom is all gross and dry now. He takes it off… I tell him, I have more condoms… better condoms… he says he fucking hates condoms. If you remember, this very phrase, a few weeks ago, from the English fellow, incurred wrath and spite and hatred, but when Ross says it it is understandable and fine. I don’t normally have sex without condoms. He tells he won’t cum inside. Oh all right then!

Ohhh sex feels so much better without the rubber. So so sooooo much better. I am still sore because boy that’s a thick dick… but it feels good and I would so love him to just cum inside… I imagine how great that would feel, although I probably wouldn’t feel it at all… I tell him come inside, just come inside…

But he pulls out in time (I presume) and empties on my belly and kisses me and tells me I am seriously fucking hot.

We do this soon again… it vaguely occurs to me that I shouldn’t be putting a sperm-covered penis inside me as that is the entire point of pulling out, to keep the sperms out of the vagina, but fuck it, I don’t care, I’m drunk and I’m horny and it feels good.

I’m sure I won’t get pregnant, anyway. I’m probably infertile anyway, I used the withdrawal method with husband and we originally had a lot of sex, so the fact that I have never been pregnant… speaks uncomfortable volumes.

He strokes my hair and says he has to work in the morning. It’s like 3am now. He has to go to work via home. I try to get him to stay but I don’t really push, because he says he’ll be back after work… 5.30pm… ish.

Will I come and meet him after work? Nnnnrghhh… hung over. Maybe? I’ll see how I feel…

I’ll come back here right after work.

I tell him, take my number..

Ah can I not just come straight here after work?

Yeah of course but what if you forget the house, or something? Also I have to meet a friend tomorrow so just to make sure I’m here…

I give him my number, and he calls and hangs up so I have his, or maybe to check it’s a real number.

Goodbye… we kiss in the doorway and mash our bodies against each other. Mmm see you later… He tells me he’s going to fuck me all day tomorrow. I hope my vadge is recovered by then, it feels quite abused and sore. Mmmm I don’t care I’m going to fuck him anyway. I really like that dick… he says I have an amazing pussy… really tight.

YEAH, only because you have a massive cock. But it’s nice to feel tight, I was starting to think all these random penises I have been accepting into my special area, were giving me the stretchy jeans in the dryer treatment.

He leaves and I curl up in bed and picture a weekend with a man, and a nice man I like… and I wonder what we could do? He wants to spend the whole weekend with me… When I mentioned SundayI am committed to a mother’s day lunch back at home, he complained. Boo! I want to hang out with you… You’re so good to talk to… I really like you…

And he wants to take me on a date… no one has ever asked me on a date before. I wonder if I was a bit too forceful about bringing home to fuck… no, it’s ok… I’m sure it’s ok.

Wake up at 10am and wish it was later. I can’t wait for him to come over. I am very hung over but determined to not bloat myself with my usual hangover fare. I make vegetable soup and wonder if he is going to be expecting food, and what could I cook to impress a big man?

I am a good cook but I’ve grown used to cooking solely for my own weight loss… and so am not really familiar with meals a man would enjoy. I remember husband scoffed at my soups for dinner. He was like, soup is not a meal. So I just made carbonara and lasagne and stuff for him, and incidentally became very fat.

I fantasize like crazy about going out and doing stuff with another person… what do people do? WHAT IS a date anyway? I don’t like the cinema. I really don’t like watching movies with all those people around and having to pay cocaine prices for snacks that I’ll only feel guilty about later…

I don’t want to go to a pub because that’s just like… all the romantic socialising I’ve ever done before. And a meal out… I hoover food into my mouth. And when I’m in a restaurant all I want to order is a steak and chips. So that’s what I’ll have, and I’ll order the steak bloody as hell, and maybe that will put a man off? I do eat it with a slightly perturbing amount of gusto. Mmm steak…

Eventually grow so bored and hung over that I text him… I wrestled with the idea of texting him or not… and the cool girl lost, so I wrote something about how was work going?

And immediately regretted saying anything. But I felt like by sending a text, I confirmed with him,that whatever he might think about how we made plans when drunk, and maybe they didn’t count… well, I was still interested… but without having to say anything too obvious or put myself out there at all.

So he replied, oh I feel shit, I wanna go home… or something.

Then I’m like… blah blah blah yeah I’m bored, can’t sleep…

And we carried on this crappy useless conversation for a while. Then I didn’t reply to him and fell asleep.

I woke up at 6pm and wondered… was he going to call or just show up? I texted back to his last message, saying I had fallen asleep and felt a bit better… a pointless message and it didn’t say anything or refer to our plans at all. Stupid waste of the ball being in my court. I had the last- texted priviledge and I threw it away without realising the implications….

I still expected him to call or arrive though, so I hopped in the shower and picked out my sexiest fake pyjamas (hotpants and a string top and satin dressing gown.) to wear just in case he dropped in unannounced.

But he didn’t arrive.

And he didn’t call.

And he didn’t text back…

Nothing.

That was nearly a week ago. I spent all that first evening expecting something, anything, and the next day I woke up and thought he must have just been really hung over, maybe his phone battery died and he got home and just went to sleep, he was of course wrecked… and he will text me the next day, or maybe he was all insecure and thought he should leave it two or three days…

But he didn’t.

I mean, I know we were drunk… so plans aren’t necessarily definite… but he said SO MUCH to me bout how he liked me for so long, and always thought of me… and now I don’t doubt that he meant it, because drunkeness wouldn’t account for all the things he said… there has to be a pretty strong basis in fact… but what is going on now?

Did I scare him off with my cock-hungry behaviour?

Did I say something stupid?

Did my text messages imply that I didn’t want to see him? I mean he did seem extra surprised that I would be into him… so maybe he is just embarassed of all the confessions he made about liking me… maybe he thinks he just said far too much and I was just drunk and went along with it, and now he’s afraid of seeming desperate?

But… in my experience, I am always far too lenient with men in this respect. I always look for the positive. Oh, he doesn’t call me? Yeah he must like me TOO much.

I always cut them too much slack. But still, why would he be so eager to spend time with me, so over the top actually… to be honest the idea of spending a whole weekend together, now that I’m sober, seems a little excessive and weird. But I would have loved a next day call, or a “do you want to do something saturday night?”

Instead, nothing. Some shitty throwaway texts that I instigated, and I was the last one to write back too… so I couldn’t even pull out some casual how are you message a few days later. I wasted the only shot at understanding what happened… because I just presumed he would show up… and now I just have to deal with the rejection.

It’s really upsetting.

I liked this guy….

I don’t even know how much, because we last saw each other years ago… And even then, I mean my finding him attractive probably skewed everything in his favour anyway. He may have been an insufferable smart ass, I don’t know. I do know I cut people A LOT of slack if they are male and good looking and tall and have a nice smile.

He kept telling me I was so good to talk to, and he wished he had just gotten together with me back then and not that girl he was with because he liked me much better anyway.. and how he thought about me so much… how he wished he had just stayed with me at that party… “I should have gone out with a nice girl like you…” he murmured into my neck…

I replied, because I didn’t want to gush right back at him…. although it wouldn’t have felt false to do so, but I’m still cautious… “I don’t even know how I wound up at that party, I didn’t even know anyone there…” and he just murmered “because you were the most beautiful girl… you were… you’re just so hot”… and that’s not really an answer but it made me melt, oh man… I really need compliments. If only I could get compliments and not turn to mush….

When I had to get up for a pee and stroll naked across the room… terribly self conscious but trying like a strong confident woman to pretend not to be… he said it again, over and over… so hot… so sexy… and so glad I was backin Ireland, so glad he bumped into me… he thought about me… all the time…

SO WHERE IS MY MOTHERFUCKING PHONE CALL?

WHERE IS MY TEXT MESSAGE?

Is it honestly ridiculous of me to feel rejected here when he talked at such length about his interest in me? I mean come on, you wouldn’t just make all that up…. because you were drunk… Georgia says “ah he’s on the rebound, he was probably just drunk..” but while those things might make you think you liked someone more in the moment… why would he tell me all this stuff about years ago?

He can’t have lost his phone or my number either… my immediate reaction is to give the man the benefit of the doubt. If he doesn’t call me back I honestly presume he fell in a canal or was mugged for his phone before it occurs to me “maybe this guy doesn’t like you very much”… but I can’t even think that because we are friends on on facebook too….

He’s alive, and whether he was robbed of his phone by a gang of daytime hoodlums or not… he has a very easy and free way of contacting me whenever he wants to.

I feel rejected, and I feel used… in a way I haven’t felt in a long time, because I have been doing this sillyness, casual sex with people I don’t give a crap about. There is no rejection then, because you don’t care. You might feel a pang of “oh I wish he was more into me, it’s a bit insulting…” but it’s always teamed with  “dodged a bullet there anyway”.

So that’s what I’ve been doing… I’ve been avoiding feeling hurt by staying away from intimacy and by keeping it all about the sex. Maybe this was terribly obvious to everyone including myself… but now I finally have a night, and yes, a drunken night, and I get my hopes up about someone… just, not that I want a boyfriend.. but yes it would be nice, to meet someone and like them and hang out sometimes, and curl up and feel appreciated… and go out and feel pretty… and have someone look at me that way, look through the bullshit and like me anyway.

I don’t know what just happened, or what I would have liked to happen.. . Maybe I would have panicked and run a mile, maybe he said a lot of stupid crap the other night that made me cringe and think, oh oh, what have I got myself into? But he’s not interested, or he’s not acting interested… my self worth is in jeopardy. A year of bigging up myself and striving to get my approval from within, to love myself and not give a fuck what anyone else thinks… and here we are, waiting by the phone, making sure my inbox isn’t cluttered with texts from my mother wishing me a happy paddy’s day and asking if I got anything on the crossword and oh my god mother stop texting me it keeps making my heart skip…

And I’m plummetting into self-loathing and paranoia, and my boobs are awful, and my armpits were a little hairy… not VERY hairy but hairy enough… my legs and bikini area are grand, it’s just the pits… I don’t have a razor, see… Need to get some razors…

And today in between hating myself and watching my phone, I heated up the little pot of wax that I have only been brave enough to use on my tache before….

And I tried, oh momma did I try, to de-hair my armpits. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done to myself, and I’ve given myself a hollywood down there… this is harder. But on every yank and the skin too loose under my arm to stay properly taut, every tug and rip and oh fuck that hurts.. I’m saying, this is why you scared him off. He thinks you’re some freaky chick who keeps a pre-pubescent mound of Venus but doesn’t get rid of her pit hairs…

And I sort of enjoy the pain, like it’s paying for my stupidity, or like every pull and tear and satisfying clump of wax with those awful thick hairs and their tadpole-like roots sticking out, every one I endure is bringing me closer to that text message, whatever it says, and it will make everything ok and I’ll think.. oh you fucking idiot, why did you ever worry? You should have hoovered the floor which is covered in long hairs and clumps of fluff… you should have made other plans, you tit…

Remember Fabio, and the grandmother? His fucking GRANDMOTHER died, so he took two days to get back to me… maybe this dude has a dead granny. Maybe this dude has some wonderful reason not to get back to me.

But I just worry that he is freaked out, that it was too much, that maybe he thinks i want something… something big and romantic?

I don’t, I just want… to not feel fucking rejected.

I would honestly LOVE to receive a little text now, saying something like “sorry I didn’t get back to you the other day… I freaked a little bit because I’m just out of a relationship, I do like you a lot as you probably guessed but I’m a bit messed up still over my ex, but I don’t want you to think I just didn’t give a shit… anyway I hope I can give you a call when I have my head straightened out…”

Then I would be like “Fuck him, he had his chance and he blew it! Single ladies, holla!” (Or whatever fierce women with lots of supportive female friends say to each other…)

I mean it’s just the rejection that’s got to me.

I can’t bear this idea, that I was ready and willing to spend the night together, even, and I would have loved to go on a date, whatever that means… that after a year of bristling and being a jerk to all men who weren’t hot barman, I have finally let my guard down… metaphorically and physically (damn I hope I don’t get pregnant, no abortions in Ireland…) and what happens? Nothing. Well fuuuuuck this.

It makes me feel as shitty and insecure as I did 6 years ago, in school, when I pined after immature but pretty boys and occasionaly hooked up with one, and never heard a single note from them after… I grew used to it. It seemed normal, like, of course nothing will come of it, it’s drunken fooling around… it has no consequences. But we are grown ups now. There’s still drunken fooling around and there’s still booty calls and for the most part I am totally on board, I’m flying the fucking flag for casual sex… Hey, I’m a horny person…

But this… was not typical. The THINGS he said to me. It would creep me out a little, but it felt like… it felt, for a little while.. the other night… while he gazed at me, this guy I so so totally fancied… and said all these lovely personal things…

It felt like Cinderella or something, when she finally gets the prince to recognise her, and she just knows there won’t be any more slumming it, and now she’s going to be treated well and there will be no more feeling shitty….

I know it’s totally lame but FUCK I have never really been treated nicely. I had this one boyfriend who was nice to me, really nice, but he just seemed kind of in awe of me… he never SAID anything. He didn’t massage my ego, he didn’t make me feel like a princess. I know… I know… I’m such a fucking hypocrite. A princess? Me? But yeah, I would like someone to at least make the effort… of course I want to be spoiled. At least TRY to spoil me. Fucks sake. Years of telling boyfriends “no I don’t want to do anything special for my birthday/valentines/anniversary”

OF COURSE I FUCKING DO.

Jesus.

People…

How fucking hard is it? I mean, yeah, I do think Valentines day is a load of crap, and cards are lame and flowers suck balls but at the same time, being given a gift that is not a requirement… would make me feel pretty fucking special.

Anyway, sorry about the bitternes… Here I am now, 6 years later, I’ve been married and I’ve never been on a date, and I’ve bought a house with someone but I’ve never been given a valentines gift.

And then I sleep with this guy and I realise I’m ashamed of all the men I’ve fucked. It’s far too many… I wouldn’t ever be able to tell a man how many guys I have had sex with because think of a number and it’s more than that.

I feel like I’ve made myself sleazy, and dirty, and any guy who likes me is going to be either intimidated into staying away, because I seem like a fire breathing dragon woman who doesn’t need no scrub…

(I can’t embed that music video again because I have fuck all internet right now… but just imagine I am playing TLC “no Scrubs” again. And again. Actually, can you just go ahead and hum that in your head or at least imagine you are humming it in your head every time you are on my blog, ever? Thank you. )

…or else, wakes up the next morning thinking I’m not the kind of girl you take out somewhere nice, I’m the kind of girl you have unprotected sex with and then it’s totally cool to not call me again.

ASS

HOOOLEE

Anyway, in retrospect.. because I wrote that a few days ago but wanted to post my threesome adventure first, I have of course dodged a bullet.

I thought about it at length… man, did I think about it..

And it seems like I avoided a potentally hugely awkward romantic weekend in a confined space with some dude on the rebound. Whether or not we had loads in common… is not the issue. I have no tv, I haven’t enough bandwidth to even stream a youtube video let alone a movie… I would have had some pretty fucking great but unsafe sex, then it would have got weird.

And who knows if I even like the guy? He’s pretty hot, but the last time we had a proper convo was years ago, and I was being facetious and talking shit, and if he still thinks we had great conversations back then, well, maybe he’s STILL as full of shit as I was then?

Maybe he just hasn’t grown up at all?

Maybe I really am, despite whatever he may think, miles and miles out of his league?

So whatever.

I mean yes I feel massively and horrifically rejected and if he texted me right now, I would run to his stupid asshole beck and call…. That may be what pisses me off most about the whole thing. That a man, some guy I don’t even know if I like, who hasn’t given me any reason to pine after him or think I’m really missing out… I honestly… have no fucking idea what kind of person he is… he seemed like a nice guy but… actions speak louder than distant, vague and discoloured memories…. Some guy I don’t know or care about, has reduced me to this condition.

I’m going crazy and it’s terrifying, just how easily I could fall right back into the trap again, after all I’ve gone through and all I’ve supposedly learnt from it.

And now I can’t think of sex, really… because while the sex that night was nothing special, we were too drunk really… the next day sex would have been much better…  it was still more passionate, more exciting, more SEXY than anything I’ve had in a long time.

I was very, very attracted to him that night, and he was seemingly very attracted to me. That’s what I want to be doing… whether it goes anywhere else, or not… I just want to feel like that. I don’t care if it’s fumbling and awkward or if it fucking hurts for three days afterwards (yeah) it’s a high I can’t wait to feel again.

And back I go, out to the cold and drunk and the small talk and the prowling, back out to lower my standards or go home alone, and it doesn’t feel as exciting and sexy as it did before, because now I remember what sex was a substitute for….

Anyway. Such is life.

RANT OVER.

Sorry it is so ridiculously long, but I have spent like 5 days obsessing about this and no less than 7745 words would express my misery and floundering self worth. I am a pathetic creature. Look how easy it is to completely floor me… what a fucking jip.

Ps. I came across this while looking for a quote about sex, because I couldn’t think of a title for this rant:

Nymphomaniac:  a woman as obsessed with sex as an average man.  ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic’s Notebook, 1960

A new low: Leaving Italy with a bang, not a whimper.

At the weekend I did a very uncharacteristic, go getter, short hop over to Italy to pack my stuff. Four years in 10 boxes. And a lot of rubbish and poor decisions being left behind… It’s being shipped over now, at a very competitive rate thank fuck. So with the smallest of investments here, just plates and pots and clothes hangers, I am up and running and settled and back in a motherfucking DOUBLE BED, like the pimp ass mac daddy you know me to be. My new place is sweeter than the Candyman’s jizz, it’s the cat’s pyjamas, the snail’s lingerie. It gives the impression of a hotel room, except it has a pretty decent kitchen for making banana bread and impressing male visitors.

Now I don’t know if I ever mentioned this to you before, but living in a hotel room is one of my life’s ambitions. Not, as one might suppose, because of the maid service, I don’t like people rooting around in my stuff and judging the odor I leave hanging in the room after spending 10+ hours ruminating in my bed. No, it’s just the air of hotelishness I like. The tasteful but impersonal decor. The lack of clutter….

Maybe this is a side effect of growing up in a house of hippie style hoarders, full of dust and corners and little things collected and never thrown away and ornaments and drawers full of dead batteries and used sellotape rolls… and the spiders, oh god the spiders, the spiders that are taken to the garden by my mother and tipped out of a pint glass, presumably as a lesson to them, and don’t come back now you hear? Outside the door. Fucks sake if I was a spider I would be coming right back inside to the warmth and the web I had built, and the knowledge nobody would ever kill me no matter how many times I came back.

Anyway, hotel rooms… my dream. It’s a fairly humble dream, it’s not “own your own island” or “live on a beach with a giant tortoise butler” or anything. Aim low to avoid disappointment. Not that that’s my motto. I don’t even tend to aim… I add goals in retrospect, whenver I happen to land somewhere good.

So in my room right now… my apartment… it is quite hotel-like. I have a big bed again to spread out in and hopefully soon… lure some lucky bastard back here with solid, fleshy promises. (cringe… in retrospect… I think I may have been aiming TOO low…)

It’s comfy but a bit creaky, but I have a couch too so if the bed isn’t much good for sexing I think the couch looks pretty good and solid. It’ll be GREAT. I’m sure of it…

But before we got to this almost-sorted state… where all I await is my internet to be hooked up tomorrow and a job to maintain “the dream”… I’m workin’ on it, I swear…

There’s the small matter of last weekend to impart.

Ahh.

Last weekend. Wednesday…..

In the style of a busy and important person who laughs in the face of flight-a-phobia, I boarded a plane bound for Italy via turbulence and terrified introspection, and alighted amid the chatter of a hundred spikey haired, eyebrow-perfect teenagers.

“Che figata!” is their “cool!” and it means something like “what vagina!”

Hearing them predictably ooh and ahh and make fun of each other, I begin to bristle with anti-Italianism.

I survey my ex-patria aloof. The next five days yawn before me, wide, barren, like my vagina in 10 years if I keep going at this rate. WHY didn’t I just get a two day round trip? Five whole days…. I don’t want to be here. Fucking Italians…

Picturing Fabio’s eager face like an NPC in some badly written game. Realise that’s how I see ALL of the Italians. Like NPCs with limited dialogue. Oh my… I think that’s a pretty sure sign of racism. Maybe that’s how Hitler saw Jews… except, he woudln’t have known what an npc was and I’m not the murdering type, if Hitler had been like me he would have just moved to a country where there were less Jews to bother him, and there would have been no nazi party at all, he would have just lived out his years moaning about the Jews and how much they annoyed him.

Anyway…. getting sidetracked. If I’m racist against Italians at least I’m not a dick about it.

To their faces.

Anyway.

I shudder at the thought of a pit stop with Fabio. Remember: no more of that unsexy sex. Only passionate flings where sheets become entangled around sweaty ankles and there is audible panting and gasping afterwards. His face floats before me locked in an eternal grin of non understanding. Like a dog you are not going to take for a walk today, who sees you putting on your coat.

Sorry, boy… It’s not gonna happen.

Bus and train and bus, and am fined on the train because despite trying to buy a ticket on the platform, the machine wouldn’t work, and I was going to miss my train so I boarded anyway and imediately found the ticket guy and informed him what happened, and of course am fined anyway. Only five euros on top of the ticket but still, it grinds my gears and cements Italy in the shrill and cold perspective I already favoured.

Ticket guy won’t let me sit in first class either. Not sure why I decided to take a stand and select first class. I was grouchy and tired, I guess… I know how things work in Italy, you get fined if you don’t have a ticket, that’s how it always works, I was just feeling belligerent and rebellious.

“IT DOESNT WORK THAT WAY!” He repeats to me, incredulous at my audacity as I wave flimsy excuses and appeals to his humanity… Bear in mind, first class is just a slightly less worn fake leather seat than second class, but second class is pretty full and the inhabitants, my fellow plebs, are cackling and roaring and I don’t want to be there with them. Not with my suitcase and Ireland-weather-layers of coat and hat and scarf, all bundled up in my arms… I would just have to sit with everything on top of me for the whole journey.

“You can’t just do whatever you want!” he says, as I try the blase approach, just act as if OBVIOUSLY I have the right to be in first class… It fails, of course.

“WANT? WANT!?” I tell him.

“I didn’t WANT to not be able to use the ticket machine! I didn’t WANT to get up at 5am to catch a flight that would take me an hour in the wrong direction before I had to get three hours of extra buses and trains because no one flies to the local fucking airport! WANT! WANT! Don’t talk to me about WANT!”

He just looks at me in confusion, and slight disgust at my making a spectacle of myself.

“I’m not drinking free champagne here, or listening to classical music! I just want a SEAT. I paid for one! This class business is ridiculous anyway…. ”

He shakes his head and offers to help me find a seat in second class.

NO! THERES NO NEED! I furiously bustle away with my suitcase and winter layers and sit in the bit between carriages opposite the stinky toilet, for two hours, fuming and wishing the ticket man wasn’t still wandering around, so I could go sit down in one of the many available second class seats like a good girl but keep hold of this scrap of something I think resembled my dignity.

I hadn’t slept much, is my defence. There wasn’t a whole lot of sense to my insisting on sitting in first class, but I seized it and ran with the stupid argument as a kind of final nail in the coffin of my Italian existence.

I didn’t want to be in Italy. I imagined Irish bus and train people would have smilingly helped me on my way and there would never even BE a first class because hello? What the fuck is this, the Titanic? Can I get a seat in steerage?

I picture Dublin, a team of kindly green-clad rail employees carrying my cases for me and waving me on and making me glow with the inner light of an appreciated and non flustered woman.

In my fantasy I am wearing tan coloured world war two style dress and neat gloves and a “slick” of lipstick and carrying a hat box. In reality I am layered in jumpers, I didn’t wear makeup because airport… and getting up at 5am… and my hair is unbrushed… and I’m wearing ugly worn out boots because I am going to throw them away before I leave to save suitcase space.

But just… fuck Italy. There’s no humanity. I don’t even know if Ireland is more human but I suspect it is. Italy’s just so damned burocratic. I don’t know… with my perspective, it’s hard to have a good experience in Italy. I just make it too hard for myself…

I realise I have to see Andrea and go out with her… and I cringe and think of how awful it will be to revisit the scene of so many non events and waste money on drinks here. Fuck it, I have to see Andrea.

Anyway. The train journey does not actually, as I begin to fear it will, last forever. I eventually land back with my family. My apartment is already occupied with a friend of my dad’s who needed a place to stay short term. So the good thing is I already have someone paying most of the mortgage, but the bad news is I don’t have a place to stay! I’m on a tiny mattress in my dad’s house. In the room with my little sisters. They are hugely excited. Bouncing up and down on the beds showing me new books and toys and look how far i can jump and see this new dress? And my oldest little sister whispers about a boy who likes her and makes all kinds of secretive eyebrow movements indicating we will talk properly later… And all I think in the midst of their happiness is, this is great but now how am I going to masturbate?

Five days… It aint gonna be pretty.

I spend two days in my old apartment, the new tenant’s stuff in an annoying heap in the bedroom, and I immerse myself in four years of accumulated crud. Sorting things to keep, things to toss…. Ugh.

Clothes I never wore, clothes I love but had forgotten due to the sheer amount of clothes I own… shoes that need repair, boxes and boxes and boxes…

All the old papers I would throw in folders without any thought of organisation.

Photos of my wedding day. Husband looking like Latino Elvis in a hawaiian shirt. Me grinning stupidly at his side, socially awkward on my wedding day, my hair a disaster, my face pink and my legs pasty. I grit my teeth looking at those pictures but can’t throw them away. I had to look shitty on my wedding day…

Those photos are doomed to float forever in the “misc” files, occasionally dredged up and cast back again with ugly memories and lurking pain.

Receipts for electronics long broken and discarded… Oh, you were still in warranty…. Shame.

Drawings my husband drew. Mostly shit, just sketches or cartoons, but all run through with his style… reminding me of the cuter drawings he gave me, of friendly dolphins or monkeys or a little baby deer with my name and an arrow pointing to it. It had long eyelashes.

I had the baby deer in my wallet but then my wallet was stolen.

I threw the drawings out but it tore at me in the chestal region.

I felt husband’s eyes on me, his eyes when he signed the initial separation request… full of tears and a tiny flickering hope that I strangled with an outward display of unfeeling.

He probably thinks I’m a heartless bitch. You’re fucking welcome husband. I only did that so you wouldn’t have false hope and so you would be able to move on quicker and hate me. YOUR FUCKNG WELCOME.

I come across a note I left for husband one day. I drew a little pig with a curly tail, probably to soften the nagging that was to come in the note. I mean that’s what I would have thought it was, nagging, because I was so wrapped up in feeling like I was in the wrong all the time.

The note, however, was as follows:

“Good morning my love! Please please please if you get a chance please fill up that hole in the bathroom where the bidet used to be… this morning I was having a shower and a cockroach came into the shower and was looking at me. It was only a little one but still you know I can’t stand bugs and especially cockroaches so please if you get a chance fill that hole in because I think that’s where it came from. Lots of love and call me later at work… I miss youuuuu… xxxxxxx”

Ok so aside from that I am a ridiculously pathetic sap when I am in love… grrr no more of that now… not for a while… pleeeeaaase brain don’t do it to me again I can’t stand myself all feeble and needy…

ASIDE from that…

I went into the bathroom and guess what? A fucking hole. He never fixed the hole. I drew him a pig and asked really nicely and I just remembered his casual reply a few days later, “the cockroach didn’t come from the hole. It came in because you didn’t clean the kitchen”.

BASTARD!

I root through the bin where I had gingerly placed his old drawings, and I rip them up with religious zeal. MFO ANGRY! MFO SMASH!!!! MWAAHHAHAHAHA I NEVER LOVED YOU, BASTARD!!!!

And then I get pangs again, of those big eyes all sad because I hurt him and cast him out..

Oh well.

I briefly consider keeping the note as evidence of my righteousness for future hate sessions but decide to let go and file it in “rubbish”

Almost done sorting through four years of shared memories when I come across the wedding cards.

Congrats on your wedding day! I shouldn’t read inside but I have a fixation with cards, I ALWAYS open old cards and check for money. Of course there isn’t money inside but what if there is? So I wind up reading a cornucopia of sweet but lately fermented and cloying wedding wishes. Long life and happiness! To many years together! On this wonderful journey in life!… Puhlease.

Fuck off.

A fleeting feeling of accusation to my family. No one thought to risk pissing me off, no one bothered telling it to me straight. My aunt was married and divorced young… she must have known…

Then I remember I am the most headstrong and stubborn person I know and there is NOTHING anyone could have said to talk me out of it. But the cards piss me off anyway…. It’s TOO much sincerity and hope, it’s ugly now….

My mother is the worst culprit. She’s lovely in that she makes cards and collages and writes very sweet things but now, in retrospect, coming across a birthday card with a photo of me and husband where i don’t even look pretty and all sorts of red cut out hearts on it is just sticking in my craw. I don’t want to throw it out because my mother made it for me with love but I don’t want to keep it either because as I said, I don’t even look pretty in the pictures.

I lay them in the misc folder and renew the vow to myself, to stay fucking single and please next time I fall in love let it be with a rational skeptical person who can’t abide sentimentality either and therefore doesn’t tug it out of me….

And I’m done. Two days later, lots of crying and anger and folding clothes and making tough decisions. “BELT, I NEVER WORE YOU BEFORE WHY WOULD I WEAR YOU NOW?”

I finally lay to rest the hideous boxy houndstooth jacket I have been keeping because it is so totally brilliant for an 80s fancy dress party but seriously… I have to stop hoarding things just because they would be good for future theoretical fancy dress parties I will never go to.

And six bin liners later, and many promises to be good with my money, and I’m done.

And, just because the days are still stretching ahead, far too empty… what else will I do? I text Fabio and see if he’s free this afternoon some time.. or later… before i go out with Andrea…

He’s free ANY time I could possibly want. Of course he is.

I hit the city centre… my old commute… buy a quick uneccessary top in H&M, visit a colleague in another shop… my heart begins to race with the impending visit to hot barman’s bar. I wonder will he be there? I wonder will he ask me something…

I pass some time chatting with an old colleague who is my dad’s friend, she’s partly moved into my new apartment so I explain the various quirks of my house. “Don’t use the washing machine and the kettle at once. The key to the post box feels like it’s going to break but it’s just like that, keep pushing harder. If you need anything, the old man upstairs is a cunt but pretty obliging if there’s a problem with the plumbing or whatever…”

Badum badum badum… hot barman.

I saunter down the road, smoothing my hair over… wishing I looked better, always gotta look better… I am pretty well rested and put on careful and low-key makeup so I look ok actually. I realise pathetically that I chose this outfit this morning based solely on the fact that I would be having a quick coffee in hot barman’s bar.

I visit the bar. He’s not there..

Ohhhh… the disappointment. I start to shake myself out of it, tell myself, look, this is stupid, it’s a fucking barman who is nice to you, just chill out, be cool, have a coffee and snap out of this weird little obsession…. But then I realise that if I bring my other colleague, Gabrielle, a coffee too, then I can drop the cups back after, and have a whole other chance to see his hotness. This plan is far superior to actually facing reality and getting over my fixation so I seize it with gusto. Hooray!

I order the coffees, bring them past sexy homeless guy whose eyes I avoid as always, blushing furiously, staring straight at my two very stable coffees like I am afraid they will spill… Into my shop…

Gabrielle delighted to see me. We shoot the shit for a while, I accidentally say something like “I absolutely don’t want to work in a shop again and I reckon I can get better money than just shop work in a call centre anyway… uhh I mean, eh… in Ireland that is… it’s different in Ireland…” But it seems ok, or whatever… Gabrielle doesn’t look offended by my put down of her lifelong profession.. outwardly anyway.

I begin to wander mentally back to the bar… mmm…. hope he’s there now… ok Gabrielle, lovely to see you… must dash.

“I’ll leave those back..That was so sweet of you bringing the coffee… thanks…”

Yes… sweeetttt of me…

“NO! I WILL BRING THEM!”

I carry the cups back and there he is, there he is in his place of work… the epitome of all the men I have ever been attracted to… My ultimate eye candy. Mmmm….

He’s wearing glasses, he looks hotter than ever… Oh my fuck… hot barman… you beautiful creature. He’s so perfectly gorgeous. His hair is fluffy and soft looking. It’s like a child’s hair, he probably doesn’t brush it or put anything in it. I wonder what it smells like. His face… he looks like he’s never woken up with a hangover in his life. I bet if he woke with a hangover he would go for a hike anyway, or eat a sandwich and drink some orange juice. Inside I’m drooling….

He’s so hot..

He sees me coming in all smiles and awkwardness, and leaps forward to take my tray with the cups.

He corners me… in a hazy moment I never want to end, except perhaps for it to escalate.. which it doesn’t… he talks to me about Ireland, how am I doing? Am I back? Sorry to hear that… we miss you here! Your dad told us you moved away… We were sad… Are you around tomorrow? Are you coming back in to the centre before you leave?

I hadn’t planned to but I grin and say maybe, I might… I mentally shift everything around, all my plans are now hot barman-centric. I WILL BE HERE TOMORROW FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT OF ME. I wonder if I come a few minutes before closing time will he ask me out for drinks?

Of course not. But still…. I wish I was staying longer… I wish I had come in sooner, fuck packing my boxes, I should have come here first…

He tells me “if you are around tomorrow we can say goodbye…”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

There’s nothing else to say really so I smile and smile and nod and back out of the shop clumsily and smiling and smiling and as I leave and hit the street again, the street I walked down every day… the sadness hits me, wallop, full in the face.

I haven’t been sad about leaving, not until this point. That’s awful.

I’m leaving my sisters, my dad, my stepmom… my home… a pretty cushy job with like no accountability….

I guess I just ignore those bigger emotions because they make me TOO sad to face.

But the first real pang of awfulness, what I’m leaving behind… it hits me now. Hot barman. I will not be seeing hot barman.

A year… a year of obsessing over his lovely face. Every. Fucking. Day…

A year of getting up in the morning and making an effort, solely based on the possibility that I might see him, and he might see me, and the desire for him to not realise what I really look like, without makeup, in normal clothes….

I mope along… filled with regret and sorrow. Imagining if only I had threatened to leave long ago, hot barman would have implored me don’t leave! Stay with me and make beautiful consensual babies, and if anyone says you aren’t pretty enough to be with me and my gorgeous face… well fuck them. I don’t care! I won’t pull an Ashton Kutcher on you in twenty years when I realise how much better I can do…

Oh and I just realised, hot barman wears glasses. SO maybe he either A) doesn’t know how hot he is or B) can’t see how awful my nose looks?

But there’s no hope now.

STOP fucking OBSESSING ABOUT HOT BARMAN!

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

It’s gone now, It’s just… old habits baby.

Then I remember, I arranged to meet Fabio later at some time that suits ME.

Really don’t want to see him any more. Decide I will probably make an excuse, fuck it.

I don’t want to straddle his eager, horny body, held in Italian place by a purple sweatervest… and make mechanical motions that feel just… nice… No… I want to run my fingers along skin that excites me, I want to be unsure of how far I can go… I want the tickling fear that maybe I’m misreading… I want hot barman’s eyes to widen as he guesses where I’m going next… I want to excite someone new… I want to taste hot barman’s mouth… all soft and warm and sweet…

But stop, because I really, in truth, don’t want to teach. I want to absorb… I wanna be the sexual padwan… Not bloody likely, but I imagine someone with a French-style arrogance and tremendous comfort in his naked body. Striding around like he owns the place… showing me his trophies… for bowling? No, for lovemaking… Oooh!

Sorry, the Simpsons has poisoned the groundwater… Apparently that guy Marge nearly has an affair with, is my posterboy for “more experienced man”.

Hmph. Well, anyway…

Hot barman is an anomaly. It would be exciting to feel the soft, unworn, the smooth face… the hands that juggle cups and I asked him one time, I plucked up courage and said “don’t you ever break them?” and he melted me with that smile and said “yeah, all the time…” and I thought OH FUCKKKK hot barman you are TOO GOOD LOOKING IT ISN’T FAIR. I will never be looked at by anyone remotely attractive, in the way that I look at hot barman. Anyone who will ever feel that way about me, I probably wouldn’t like. Such is life.

But.

Still… hopeless case or no,

I don’t want Fabio and his easy agreeability.

Hot barman has ruined other men for me…. at least for tonight.

I go home with a heavy heart, have a lovely dinner with my family..

and then pile on the makeup. My littlest sister watches me in awe and approval. She loves makeup and is still young enough that no one disapproves of her smearing glittery purple around her eye area. I feel under scrutiny so I don’t go too crazy with the dark eyes or anything but I think I look pretty fucking good.

On a whim… because I look sexy and hot barman is out of sight and I want,nay, need someone to approve of me…. I text Fabio. Be there in twenty.

Along the way I yo-yo from certainty that I do and certainty that I don’t want to fuck Fabio.

I’m 50-50. I put on red lipstick, Chanel, and feel a little nudge in Fabio’s favour. I MUST seduce somebody now that I’ve bothered doing red lips. It’s tricky to get right….

Then I find myself at Fabio’s door and I’m climbing those bastard five flights of stairs and there he is at the door to the apartment, peering down as I climb undignified and breathless, my makeup resisting poorly to the physical exertion…

I find I’m happy to see him. He hugs me and kisses me vaguely on the side of the mouth. He’s warm and familiar and his presence is soothing. He smells good. It’s not making the sadness worse, it’s a comfort actually. I’m glad I came. He’s a nice guy…

I sit down and he offers me wine, beer, water, coffee…

I take some water. I don’t want to drink too much this evening, I’m just going to see Andrea.. tomorrow I want to be in good condition to play with my sisters and be a decent person around them before disappearing off again.

We talk..I find my tone veering towards lamentations, and sadness.

He’s comforting me.

“No! I’m not explaining myself properly.. I’m HAPPY. I can’t WAIT to move to Ireland… I’m just… you know, I didn’t think how sad I’d be to leave….. eh,my family…”

He reassures me I’ll see them soon again..

I become so bored of this conversation because obviously I’m not thinking of family right now but hot barman and his fluffy head of hair and 3 or 4 years younger than me, innocent looks. And those glasses and how they suited him…. and his smile…

So I begin to stroke Fabio’s leg because I’m bored of my own whining, and I feel in the vicinity, and he’s rock hard, and that endears him to me. Ah Fabio… you know, he’s actually a very good looking guy. I was whining about him and my friend asked to see a photo, so I showed her his facebook. “Abby, he’s HOT!” she said. I pooh-poohed it. No, that’s just a flattering picture. Look at this one…

“He’s hot! You’re being ridiculous! He sounds nice.. I don’t know why you’re so hard on him..”

Mmmh… whatever. He’s just annoying.

It’s only beecause he’s nice to me, probably. I’m a sucker for feeling insecure and unwanted. Rejection baby! I’m all about the rejection…

But I like that he’s so hard now. It’s like.. he’s sitting here with a massive erection and yet he’s got an arm around me and he’s trying to be nice and listen and he hasn’t made a single move… he’s being respectful… he’s a nice guy, and I’m feeling a bit low… so it works for me. It’s not like I’m not horny… I’m ALWAYS ready to go…

I pounce.

It’s surprisingly enjoyable. He’s a good fuck, really. It doesn’t last very long, but I don’t have very long before I have to meet Andrea. He murmers in my ear “did you miss this?”

And I don’t know does he mean his dick, or sex, or what, I say yeah of course but inside I giggle, and think…

Oh FABIO, we haven’t had sex in 2 months… I’ve fucked like 3 other guys in that time.

And that’s a sobering thought. At this rate, I will… no it doesn’t bear thinking about.

I get dressed and we hug and kiss goodbye. See you next time…

Well, that’s a nice arrangement to have. A man in every port…

I meet Andrea and I’m all beaming with after-sex and slutty pride. She’s with a friend I don’t know, and we hit a nice bar and have some beers. I repeat, it’s an early night for me, got to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. Plus I’ve already got laid, no motivation for me to stay out and get wasted…

But two beers later and I accept a jagerbomb. And another. Then Andrea is tired and wants to call it a night. We say our goodbyes. I would have liked to stay a little longer but I’m glad, I’ll be in bed tucked up by 3am… tomorrow is another day, and one I will be able to use and take advantage of and… carpe fucking diem!

Goodbye! Andrea has moved house so we are no longer on a taxi route together. Her friend lives in a third, other direction. We hug. Goodbye! Goodbye! Come visit me in Ireland! BOTH OF YOU! YAAAYYY!

I’m a little drunk, but not too much. I’m walking up to the taxi rank. I’m about two blocks away when I hear my name. ABBY! ABBY!

Odd. I turn to find Bumchum and a friend of his I know vaguely.

Shit. I never told him I was leaving the country. What a jerk… I’ve actually been avoiding him online, I have him blocked on facebook so he can’t see if I’m online to chat to me. Otherwise he would always chat and invite me out. I realise it looks bad, I left the country without telling anyone….

He invites me for a beer..

I feel like if I say no, it’s just admitting I don’t like him because I have made excuses every time he asked me to come out for the past four months…. And if we are no longer friends, what’s to stop him from telling everyone about the night he gave me a drunken prostate exam?

I agree to ONE BEER!

One fucking beer…

We hit some underground bar I’ve never seen before with loud music and dancing.

While his friend is talking to someone else, he tells me, “look, I know I haven’t see you much since that other night… all I wanted to say is it’s no big deal, don’t be weirded out by it, I don’t think it was a big deal, obviously for me it was great because you’re really hot, but I’m not going to try anything else…”

I blush and thank him for calling me hot.

“NO it’s not a compliment, you just are. You’re very sexy. I’m not coming onto you, I’m not trying… you know? Just wanted to say that because it’s a pity, I would have liked you to come out more, you’re good fun, like…”

I tell him, to be perfectly honest (I always say this when I am about to lie particularly emphatically) the only reason I didn’t hang out with him after that was that I was trying to avoid husband and I was afraid of bumping into him as we have a lot of friends in common and being with the same friends just reminded me of that part of my life…

Makes sense, makes sense… I understand. Ok great…

Fun party party!

I forget all about my vow to go home early. I hit the bar and decide the barman here is insanely hot. I begin swaying at him, fixing him with my drunken gaze, convinced of my atractivity because of bumchum’s compliments. Grrrrr barman… I must have a hot barman tonight! I am staring at barman, smiling. I catch his eye a few times and he smiles back warmly.

But then I think I overdo it.

I think I may just be STARING at him with an insane leering grin. He stops smiling back and moves to a different part of the bar. A female bartender moves into place in front of me. Oh. Oh well. Shit.

Well fuck it.

I am in prowl mode. I have some more jagerbombs.

I am dancing now.

I am having a great time.

I rock this party.

…………………………………………………………………..

It’s daylight. I’m in a car, in the backseat with a guy. There is a guy in front driving. They are telling me they are dropping me at the bus stop. What? There are no busses. Taxi. Needs a taxi me.

No, it’s daytime. It’s 7.30am.

No it can’t be, it’s NIGHT TIME.

The car stops. Why aren’t you bringing me home? Where are we?

The guy in the back shakes his head. I’m not getting out, he says.

The driver gets out and helps me lurch out of the car.

He tells me what bus to get, and waits with me in an awkward silence while I try to figure out, was I kissing one of these guys? Was it not the guy in the backseat? I think I kissed him… oh wow I must have been drunk, I can’t remember which guy I kissed. I wonder.. it’s odd I can’t tell from the smell. I mean, I smell like another person, but I can’t tell which person it is.

I have foreign saliva mixing with my morning breath, but whose saliva? I wonder have I misjudged and is it the driver I was kissing, maybe I made a big faus pas here… they seem to look really alike but then I’m awfully drunk still.

I am too hung over to think about it now, I have to get a bus…. I’m sure I’ll remember later.

He explains about the bus and I KNOW of course I know how to get the bus. He offers bus fare. Ugh no, I have a ticket. It feels incredibly patronising, being offered bus fare… I’m not sure why… there’s a hint of the sordid but I can’t put my finger on it…

Bye now…

But he waits til the bus comes, pretty much imediately. I board the bus full of morning daytime people and feel pasty and drawn and ashamed and smelly.

I make it in the door of my dad’s house with a good deal of key fumbling.

I lie down on the mattress which thankfully has been moved to the downstairs study for the occasion of my going out at the weekend, so I don’t have to wake anyone up.

I sleep.

And wake at midday. Hung.. over… to… shit.

I feel so bad and worse because it’s my last day and I need to be nice and hang out with my neglected sisters. I’m sorry… I have coffee. My sisters make me coffee and bring me fizzy water and biscuits and I croak out my thanks and apologies. I smell awful.

I am hung over for hours…

Eventually I muster the mental fortitude to have a shower, which helps considerably.

I spend some time forcing every malignant fibre of my being to be a good sister, I play cards while my brain screams NOOOOOO STOP THIS INSANITY MUST BE ALONE IN A DARK ROOM. I plough through the day pretending to be ok, but doing a terrible job of it.

And I draw pictures with my sister and listen to her little gurgling voice grate in my head and nod and say silly things and all the while there is a battle raging, a rebellion doomed to die… a fight for last night’s memories.

My sisters are finally leaving, going to a birthday party and a friend’s house.

I am alone in the house. I hit the internet and facebook while the silence wails at me like tinitis for beginners

I can’t go to say goodbye to hot barman. I’m feeling too rough to leave the house today, also I look like a hobo’s arsehole.

Bumchum is online. I wonder… I wonder if I just ASK bumchum, he’ll tell me what happened. I wonder did I kiss bumchum? Is that why I smell different?

Maybe he knows those guys.. Maybe he’ll say, “oh you went off with the taller one of the guys” or “oh you went back to a party with my friends and you kissed the slightly shorter one”

I am sure he will just tell me I was good and nothing bad happened, and I am just being drunk and hungover and maybe I was a bit pissed but it’s all ok. This is what happens normally, I work it up to a big deal when really I was just a bit drunk and lairy. I remember staring at the barman… that’s pretty embarassing.

So I ask bumchum.

Hey, what happened last night, did we go back to a party or something?

And he tells me two of his friends were bringing me back to my place, I got a lift.

Yeah but what did we do before that?

He says we were at a club, don’t you remember?

Yeah but that ended at 4 or 5… what happened next?

You got a lift home…

YEAH at 7.30 am…

I’m confused. I think I remember being at a party or soemthig. I don’t remember who was there, but I think those guys were, yeah.

He offers to ask them.

No… too embarassing! My friend wants to know… argh no don’t ask that!

But actually… could you maybe just ask, “what happened last night with my friend” or something. So they don’t know it’s me asking, like.

Sure, he says. One of them is online now…

And I wait.

I wait patiently, a little nervous, for the reassurance that everything was ok and nothing was as bad as it seemed and it was just a hangover making me paranoid.

But the reply was not reassuring.

The reply was not going to make it better.

The reply said that I didn’t know which guy I had kissed because I had kissed both of them, and that I hadn’t just kissed both of them but I had slept with both of them… together… that’s right, I had a freaking threesome and I have no idea whose idea it was but as I read the paragraph over and over on facebook, little flashes of confirmation appeared in my memory. Pictures, images, proof… nothing concrete, but memories… the memories of a very drunk person. Me naked, me saying “sure why not? I’m up for anything…”

Sitting in the back of the car, with the two guys up front and feeling the backs of both of their necks… maybe I started it. Maybe it was all my idea, and I started it…

But I had a threesome.

I had a threesome with two guys, and I can’t remember it properly, and I can’t tell if I liked it, and I can’t even FEEL it because I had already had quite a fierce fuck with Fabio so I was bound to be a bit tender, and as to.. other aspects of a threesome… well, I can neither confirm nor deny that something… happened there. I don’t fucking KNOW.

And I had that knowledge to contend with, me, hung over, red eyed, swollen faced, and I sat with a brain like a rotten sponge, wishing for sleep but too traumatised to even lie down.

And I typed one reply to bumchum, one… one last gamble, one last attempt to make things ok, as my mind raced to try to come to terms with something I could barely comprehend… that I had sex and don’t remember it. That is, seriously, a low I have never hit before…….

So I ask, and I don’t really want to know…

Was I at least… any good? Did they say?

Bumchum didn’t judge me. Bumchum has been friend-zoned and bumchum seems ok with it. Anyway, he got a blow job from a chick on the bus home while her friend kissed his neck. It puts us on a par, except I’m a girl… and I can do better…

But Ahhh, the night bus.

Funny how Italy just got crazy and gang-bang-happy as I’m leaving.

But he said, yes, I was good… They said I gave quite a performance… I was a star…

And the sad thing is, after all that…

The pride in a job well done, almost entirely eclipses the shame of a job I have no recollection of doing..

But… I AM ashamed. I am ashamed not because I had a threesome, but because I had one without remembering it. I can’t TELL if I was the instigator. If I was… then fair enough. I could laugh and think, well, there you go, I’m a sex-crazed son of a gun, it was bound to happen sooner or later. In fairness I am obsessed with sex and have never come across a man who could keep up with me. Briefly, husband gave me a run for my money… but it was of course short-term.

Two guys is not a bad idea, in that sense…

But I don’t know if that was my idea. I don’t know if I was so drunk I didn’t even know what was going on, I don’t know if, say, I only thought I had been with one but was so pissed I couldn’t tell the next one was a different dude.

THAT is what bothers me, That is what scares me.

I could have been raped, and I have no idea… Well, I mean… I remember lying on a bed and being quite into it, whatever was going on, but still… I was too drunk. I shouldn’t have been that drunk. I might even have been spiked, but that seems like an excuse… I could easily have been that drunk…

But it’s dangerous and it’s bad. Obviously no harm done, because I don’t have any horrendous memories and I am missing two condoms from my handbag selection so I guess it’s ok…

But I really, honestly, don’t want to get like that again.

I’m a little bit stunned after that night…

In a sense, I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom. With my drinking. Not exactly with my sex… behaviour… because I will always be doing more slutty things than is generally accepted, because I’m always fucking horny. I spend so much time thinking about sex, watching men and thinking about fucking them.

On the flight over, I mentally undressed and straddled the pilot, a male air steward, three passengers, a guy in a luminous jacket who waved the plane in (the plane we were going to board, before it had pulled into the terminal) and the guy who checked my passport and the barman selling expensive coffee in the duty free area. That’s not even mentioning the man who sat accross from me on the aircoach on the way to the airport… and then even the asshole ticket inspector on the train, I was wishing I had worn makeup and brushed my hair because he was kind of hot in an arrogant asshole kind of way. I imagined growling at him “are you sure I can’t change your mind about letting me sit in first class?” while prying my legs open a little…. and him pulling out his dick and saying “I’m going to have to write you out a fine… with my cock” or something…

Hmm… it’s a work in progress…. rage got in the way of a proper script… but this is  how my mind deals with all the men I come across in every day life. It’s constantly running 1970s porn dialogues while outwardly I smile as coyly as my slutty demeanour can manage.

I am always horny, I’m always watching men, they arouse me easily, with tiny non-erotic actions…

I watch them doing their jobs, menial or unchallenging they may be, but they suggest the tip of an iceberg of a world totally alien to me. Airline employees… with security clearance… able to open doors with a swipe card, doors I will never see behind. Secret codes and signals, unknown worlds on walkie talkies… engineers… oh my god engineers… reading data from the airplane…. anything… any thing a man does, his casual behaviour, when he doesn’t know he’s being watched… the stance, full of manly muscular power, a body capable of slamming me up against walls and pulling my head back just a little roughly… at ease while he works, but it’s all just under his clothes, his uniform, waiting to be called to action.

I fucking LOVE men.

I love them.

Mmmm men.

But the drinking… the drinking seems to be a problem.

I’m not so quick to say I’m an alcoholic as I have been to say I’m a sexaholic. I honestly don’t think about drink as much as sex, or with as much gusto… the thought of a drink right now, for instance, doesn’t excite me or interest me. It’s the fun of drinking with people. It’s the overcoming my terrible awkwardness… it’s finding a reason to get people to hang out together for extended periods, all dressed up…

I’d honestly be happy hanging out with people with no drink, so of course I’m not an “addict”.

But I definitely, certainly, have a drink problem. Be it addiction or just, I can’t handle my drink.

I have a problem.

And I want to deal with that.

And I’ve just… moved… back… to Ireland.

Right.

Good luck with that…

And Saturday is ST PATRICKS DAY.

Wonderful.

Oh baby..

I’ll let you know how I get on.

(Of course this is about a week old now, but I will leave it a bit before thrusting my latest misadventure down your gullets… otherwise my whole “ahh never drink again so much shame” thing just seems melodramatic and like I never meant it at all… I did mean it, I’m just… a terrible, incorrigible woman.)