15 July 2013

SLUT RUT

I think I'm in a slut rut.

It all started when I tagged myself on Facebook doing a Walk of Shame in real time. My wall declared "Walk of shame - at London".

I guess admitting you have a problem is the first step.

I didn't really think about the consequences my Facebook declaration would have. People tend to ask questions. So here are the answers.

I was wearing a black t-shirt with the words I THINK ABOUT YOU ALL THE TIME scrawled in red across my chest like I had dipped my finger in blood. A sight, I am sure, the double stroller family I had to share the bus stop with were very happy about.

It was actually the second walk of shame I had in the same weekend.

On Friday night I met mates Andy and Tony for a hundred drinks and dancing. One thing led to another and suddenly I was in Vauxhall with Andy on a bender that was greeting the daylight.

I found myself in the arms of a gent we shall call Chunky Stew because he was chunky and his name was Stewart. He was a shade over 6' 3" inches which was right up my street - at an elegant 6' 2" I rarely find that I am the little one in any sort of liaison. Chunky Stew had big arms and even bigger teeth. He was also in the advanced stages of male pattern baldness. I know, what a catch. Actually, he was. He was so butch. His masculinity added a sexiness to his ugliness. Sexy uglier.

So there was some pashing and heavy petting. In fact I would go so far as to say some profound petting. At one point I felt like I was in a zoo.

Filled with hazy alcoholic plans of introducing him to the family I excused myself and whirled off to the toilet. I love those first few moments when you find yourself alone after picking up. Your search is over for the night, maybe even your life! You can relax and enjoy the ride. Suddenly you become insult proof, 5am mirror reflection proof! Someone has invested their time in you and is willing to sign on for more. Clubbers form a guard of honour and high five you as you make your way to the toilet. You get to cut the line. You get the cubicle that has just been cleaned. You find the last sheets of hand towel.

Everything is coming up YOU! You could even pick up again!

So, I came back from the toilet to find Chunky Stew nowhere to be found. That's odd. I walked to the front of the club. I walked to the back of the club. I walked to the bar. I walked to the smoking area. Nowhere to be found. Then in one of the many dark recesses of the club I found Chunky Stew kissing another guy.

I suppose I did call him sexy uglier. Not exactly to his uglier face, although I was a little drunk and quite possibly could have said it aloud when I thought I was thinking it to myself.

I stormed out of the club leaving my friend Andy on a podium wondering where I had gotten to.

That was the first walk of shame. Although it was only 6am and no one was really greeting the day barring a die hard jogger who was full of sprite as she ran past me. I was full of sprite too. Vodka and Sprite.

The next night I played tour guide to a lezzie friend from Oz called Kelly. We saw some performance art which consisted of a woman of an indiscriminate age (although Kelly said she looked 40) stick a funnel up her vagina and sponge water into it and then spray the water all over the stage. Then she stuck the same funnel up her ass, sponged more water in and then sprayed poohey water all over the audience whilst prolapsing her rectum. Poohey prolapse. My friend Kelly said, "So this is what you do on a Saturday night".

Yessum.

The best part was when she tried to open a bottle of beer with her mouth, then with her vagina to no avail. Then she reached into her butt and pulled out a bottle opener. Now that's fucking talent.

So then we made our way to one of my favourite haunts south of the river. It was packed. And filled with the ghosts of flings past. The Peachy Keen Bean Guy was there. The Rugby Player was there who coincidentally told me he had been sent to Afghanistan and that's why we didn't get to go on our date. 10 points for originality. I did that really awful thing when you're not really listening to what someone is saying and said, "That must have been awesome" with no irony, like he had been sent to Rio instead of Kabul. Anyway he said he would text. Whatevs. I would text, but I'm off to Damascus.

After prolonged eyes, a gentleman danced up and made his presence known. Let's call him The 39 Year Old because he was. He danced up, insulted me and then danced off. His friend who was dancing next to me leant in and said, "He likes you".

"Oh that's good."

"Do you like him?" said his friend (who was called Alex I found out later).

"Erm, I dunno."

Of course I liked him! I was hooked. Who the fuck did he think he was shanking me with his pointy words?

While I played it cool, Oracle Alex kept pulling me close and telling me, "He likes you, you like him, what's the problem?"

Alright Alex, there is a subtlety to my pick up. It's called The Ignore. Anyway, anyone would think it was you who liked me by the way you keep pawing at me.

Finally after me ignoring him ignoring me, The 39 Year Old came over and we danced. Still wasn't sure whether he liked me and he did tell me to stop dancing so gayly. I don't really see that as an insult. I see it more as an impossible challenge.

Then Vogue came on. It was like all my hard work just went out the window. As I struck a pose every which way from Sunday, he stood bewildered. Don't try to box my faggotry. It's like a flamboyant tic I cannot control.

The night ended and although we left together, nothing was set in stone. We both agreed that we should have a pash and then exchange numbers. It was like a paint by numbers pick up. So we did and then he invited me back to his. Natch.

The next day in the harsh reality of a hangover, I realised this was probably not the greatest idea. I know this is going to sound fickle, but he had one of the most unattractive penises I have ever seen. Small and purple. It was hard to style out the pukey sounds I was making whilst blowing him. I wanted to say, "This is not me wanting to puke because your dick is so big it's going to turn me into an accidental bulimic, this is actually me wanting to puke because your dick looks like a baby beet wearing an incredibly tight turtle neck."

But I settled for, "Let's wait."

The problem was, I was in too deep. Figuratively that is. I had already agreed to the next date, the drunken night before, and while I enjoyed his company, I just couldn't see past his baby beet knob. I also needed to be drunk to find him attractive. Not the healthiest way to start a relationship.

So we went on a date. A few drinks and then dinner. Then a few more drinks. True to form, I began finding him more attractive. So I kept on drinking until I found him so attractive I couldn't resist and we pashed in the bar. I'm not sure why I allowed this to happen and I'm not proud of it, because the thought of actually going anywhere near his penis made me want to run into traffic. I just think I can't say no, even if I do know it's wrong for me.

We didn't go home with each other that night, but dragged it out to ANOTHER date (can't say no!). I subconsciously picked a fight with him during dinner, forcing him to break it off with me rather than me breaking it off with him. Then after he left I went to another bar, picked up a guy and went to a sex on premises venue and banged him like a dunny door in a cyclone.

Man I'm fucked up.

Do I actually want a boyfriend?

I think I do. Maybe one that doesn't have a penis resembling a root vegetable, but after these past few weeks and The Henry Cavill before that, I don't seem to be going at it in the right way.

I guess I just haven't found the right root vegetable yet.

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