Just 'cos I'm shallow doesn't mean that I'm heartless
Just 'cos I'm heartless doesn't mean that I'm mean
Sometimes love gives us too many options
Just 'cos you're hungry doesn't mean that you're lean
Drunk Girls- LCD Soundsystem
I met Cara outside the Jolly Butchers pub in Stoke Newington, I’d been drinking for 12 hours, the last of which had been spent seeing off a gram of liberally cut Hackney Bolivian with a guy called Nick that had a tattoo of a Mumford and Sons lyric.
Cara was welcoming of face, round of thigh, and wearing a black scarf which I procured from her and tied round my head. It wasn’t cold. Me and my companion brought her and her companion back to my place where we proceeded to ply ourselves with enough booze to pop the ‘shall we?’ question. Upon the proffering and mutual acceptance of said sexual quandary we quickly made our way to my room, wherein we thumped about in the time honoured manner of two lagered up strangers who knew they would never see each other again.
Obviously, the 7 or so litres of booze and the drugs meant we were going for it for quite some time; I was as numb as the Arctic down there and frankly might as well have been fucking a tin of soup.
I was happily hammering away on top, and after 15 minutes or so I looked down to see that I’d accidentally sodomised the poor girl; obviously noting my surprise at said revelation she said: “Are you going to put it in the other one for a bit or what?”
She left first thing and there was no kiss goodbye.
we quickly made our way to my room, wherein we thumped about in the time honoured manner of two lagered up strangers who knew they would never see each other again
I met Lara in the Coach and Horses in Soho. She had short hair, a sandpapery Northern accent and a chip on her shoulder. At 36 she was 9 years older than me-a definite plus point.
She was clearly extremely nervous, and said she didn’t have many friends in London after moving down on a whim a couple of years ago. She expressed this nervousness by nailing 3 pints of Old Rosie cider (7.3%) in the first hour, after which she was dragging me up Greek Street shouting “can we just go somewhere and go and dance to the worst, cheesiest music on the planet?”
I told her I didn’t fancy G.A.Y. and that seeing as it was only 7 it wouldn’t be open for a few hours.
We ended up in the Blue Post. Turns out she’s a bit of a leftie, works in social housing and three pints later she was shouting something at me about Middlesbrough factory closures, and telling me how she hasn’t made a difference. Around this point I started texting another girl to see what she was doing.
The other girl was busy so I stuck it out with Lara, despite her actually being a less nice person than me, and the fact she endlessly harped on about her sore neck. Three times I heard the story how she started to get pains down her left arm which freaked her out but was as a result of a slipped disc or something.
The elevens approached; she’d hit the diet cokes and I was on my fifth tequila. I really wasn’t bothered if she came back to mine or not, the thought of an episode of Alan Carr and a bottle of red rather appealed. Lara asked what I was doing and I stayed ambivalent, saying that I might be meeting other people (I had texted the other girl again in the interim). She looked a bit hurt and I felt guilty, so told her I’d stick with her (which I fully intended to do, unless the other girls’ date ended up as bad as mine).
Anyway, she suggested coming to mine; when we got back she started with some nonsense about us not fucking. That didn’t last long, and just after I entered her she said: "Can I add a bit of pressure to the situation and say I haven't done this in two years?"
The sex was good, her tits were fantastic; her best quality by some stretch. Plump and pumped like two size 3 footballs. I complimented her on them immediately, if "wow, I really didn't expect that" counts as a compliment.
just after I entered her she said: "Can I add a bit of pressure to the situation and say I haven't done this in two years?"
The piece de resistance: Afterwards we were milling around in bed having a smoke, and having a nice chat. I liked her more then than I had done for the last 9 hours. She started with some nonsense about the sex making things difficult in terms of us being pals, even though this was the first time we’d met. At the time I was betrothed (but not actually in a relationship) with a girl who had been away travelling and was due home soon.
I said, in one way or another, “well, I've got a girl coming back in two weeks so don't worry about anything from my side." She totally flipped out; we woke my flatmate up with our arguing (which doesn’t say a lot for the sex). After a while it transpired she was annoyed that I didn't see anything more in this than sex even though, for once, I really hadn’t been pushing the issue; she referred to herself as 'a bit on the side' even though I made it absolutely clear that I wasn’t in a relationship with the girl at the time, per se. Which was true.
She started putting on her clothes to leave, I told her to stop being silly, and that it was 3am. Despite myself I apologised very nicely, simply to quell the situation. 5 minutes later she said "I can't stay in here with you now" and went to sleep on the couch with some bedding I pulled out of my cupboard for her. To be totally honest I was pleased of the extra space.
10 minutes later she came back moaning about it hurting her neck. I didn’t offer any sympathy, she left and the next day I got an apology on Facebook, asking if we could meet up again.
I was at Camp Bestival with my brother and his two sons. We’d had a brilliant first day, pleasantly unsullied by booze. My youngest nephew started the tantrums about 9pm, so we took them back to the tent, and after listening to them sweetly sing themselves to sleep I decided I ought to balance out the familial fuzziness with a tup around the festival arena.
After a couple of hours spent with some 16 year olds who tolerated my presence because of my ability to get served drinks, I found myself on a bed outside a bar drinking a pretty girls rum.
We hung out, got on well and things were moving into the twos so the time came to show my hand. I waited for her friend to go to the toilet and enquired as to where she planned to be in roughly 40 minutes time, and who she intended to be there with. She said she was going back to hers.
“With me?” I asked, anticipating the arrival of a positive response.
20 minutes later we were to part ways, though we did swap numbers and actually met up in London. I took her on a date to watch Greco-Roman Wrestling at the Olympics, but got the time of our session wrong, and no matter how much I huffed, puffed, begged and bribed at the box office they wouldn’t give me replacement tickets. So we went to Pizza Express instead. It was our only date.
Back at the festival, it was getting on and my window was slowly shutting. I wandered up to one of the main marquees and challenged a hot blonde to a thumb war, which she won. Undeterred I challenged her to a repeat- she won again, easier this time and was clapped by the circle of people that were watching. She was great, loud and Essex-y accent which always appeals to the Kent in me. We were talking/shouting at each other, and I got the vibes again. I’m good at getting vibes.
I wandered up to one of the main marquees and challenged a hot blonde to a thumb war, which she won
Her friend turned up, who was generally less attractive and certainly not as welcome. She introduced herself as Zara. It turned out Zara and the Hot Blonde were at the festival working in a chip-van and lived near each other at home.
“Look,” Zara said, pointing at a chip-van and talking in a voice more Ford plant than Faces, “we work in that chip-van.”
I believed her. When I turned back round Hot Blonde had been pulled away by someone seemingly funnier than me, and I dragged Zara to a tent with a silent disco. By this point I thought I was flying; the DJ dropped Dancing On My Own, which I most certainly was not as I twirled and twisted her into every person within a 10 metre radius.
Towards the end of the (brilliant) Robyn tune she pulled one of her earphones off and gestured to me to do the same. I obliged and leaned in- there may not have been amplified music playing, but the air was heavy with pissed-up Dads failing to harmonise with the Swedish sex-elf.
“You’re gay, right?”
“Erm,” this was a little bit out of the blue but not totally unprecedented (I do look a bit gay), so not an undue concern, “no. Why do you say that?”
“Well, you look it a bit, and definitely act it. I mean, look at your dancing. It’s well gay.”
“Well I’m not,” I imagine I tensed my shoulders here, “I’ll fuck you right there on that floor.”
“I don’t think you will,” she said.
10 minutes later we were outside and I was leading her up to my tent. She stopped.
“I ain’t sure about this.”
“Oh come on, we both know it’s going to happen.”
“Hmm,” she looked at me accusingly then gave a resigned nod, “yeah, fair enough. But can’t we go to mine? I can’t turn up there in the morning, my boss camps next to me and will know I’ve been out fuckin’.”
“Where is your tent?”
“The other side of the festival.”
“I’ll take you back after.”
We got back to my tent and I crawled around trying to find my torch, which I needed to find my condoms. When I told her this she castigated me for wanting to use said protection and suggested we shouldn’t bother, which only hardened (pun stumbled upon) my resolve to make sure we utilised them.
" They’re awful, so uncomfortable; it’s like havin’ a Tesco bag up me snatch.”
We had pretty good sex, I put in a decent shift. Her obsession with the condom I had pretty much tied to my pubes continued. She was merrily bouncing away on top when she pulled off me and went straight for my cock. At first I was pleased then realised she was clawing at the johnny.
“What are you doing?”
“I hate them, they don’t feel nice. ”
“Well we’re fucking keeping it on.”
“Nah, please Jimi. They’re awful, so uncomfortable; it’s like havin’ a Tesco bag up me snatch.”
“Right,” I said, fighting the urge not to weep for the loss of any innocence I had left after that last sentence, “do you not normally use condoms with guys them?”
"I try not to.”
“Well then we’re definitely leaving it on.”
Sex in a tent is impossible to keep quiet with all the rustling of canvas. It being so late I didn’t think the noise level was much of a big deal, until I heard my brother get out of the tent he was sharing with the kids. I would find out the next day that he’d been awake when we got back and suffered through the whole thing with his sleeping bag dragged over his head. To this day, at least once every few months he we will re-tell the part of the pre-coital chat where Zara claimed that I wouldn’t remember her name the next day. Apparently I replied: “How could I forget your name, it is etched on my soul.”
Safe to say, Zara is a pseudonym. At least I think it is.
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This came from the Confessions Of A Shallow Man blog
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