I think that BlackBerry owners the world over will agree that the standard alarm is the 21st century equivalent of scraping nails across a chalk board, not a sound anyone wants to hear... ever. Let alone after drinking many Jaegermaister Shots, cleaning shit off of a dear friends ass and only receiving one and a half hours sleep compensation. Finding myself alone on the sofa and face covered in red marker I went in search of company, jumping into bed with two friends one of which awoke upon my arrival and greeted with me a kiss, what the hell why not? Moving back to the sofa well... What can I say morning sex is always a great way to start the day. That was guy one of what became the three guy 24 hour challenge...
We spent the afternoon man fishing at a local Rugby game and getting tipsy on a bottle of Pimms n' Lemonade. As an Australian it was my first introduction to the English traditional, lets just say I was impressed and managed to polish off four drinks before the clock to hit 5pm. It was when we got home that I got a text from guy number two asking to meet at a pub down the road. I met guy number two in a nightclub about 3 weeks ago we've been on one date so far and I guess you could say this was the second date. We had some good conversation (I avoided the topic of my mornings activities) and ended kissing for a good portion of the meeting.
Two of of three...
When I got back to the flat the rest of the gang plus one of the rugby players from earlier in the day were drinking away. The new addition to the group was short, ginger and not great looking, however we got chatting and he actually had decent banter. An hour or two later we all jumped onto the tube and headed to a house party in another area of London. We arrived and everyone was boring, not only boring, but whorey too, nothing kills your night like boring whores, at least we're fun whores. So this is when we decided it was time to Mindsweep, Mindsweep hard. After obtaining countless half drunk beers and a bottle of red we all jumped into a taxi back to the flat of shame. We continued drinking in the living and the group slowly started peeling back I found myself alone with the groups unimpressive new addition. Left with only a single mattress we were forced to lay together. I started to drifted off to sleep when I was asked the question "Do I need to do anything or are you going to kiss me?" to which I simply responded "I'm going to sleep" he was particularly persistent and graphic in his following requests, they all received the same simple answer, NO. When I woke up in the morning my first thought was "fuck did someone leave the window open?" I defiantly had a tingly nipple freeze feel, the window was closed, it was not nipple freeze. I opened my eyes to come to the realisation that in fact said dude was caressing my nipples in my sleep, not only that but he was on top of me and defiantly masturbating. VOMIT VOMIT VOMIT!
Unconstitutional or not that was guy three of the 24 hour challenge. Mission accomplished.
Next up a race to 20 with Miss Commitment Issue...
Miss Bambi Eyes.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Sex and the Shitty
Part 1. When Shit goes down...
According to the Bard "Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used." Us Bare Naked Ladies could not agree more, so Friday began in usual fashion for me, with a good helping of Pinot Grigio catching up with old friends. Including one Old Friend who had not eaten all day. An Old Friend who essentially polished of an entire bottle in under 10 minutes. An Old friend who was keen to impress a boy (that I once shagged on a BMW in a back alley of a Mediterranean City - but that's another story). As the wine and Jaegermeister kept flowing more friends joined. Due to one pyromaniac in the group we we're asked to move on. We proceeded to continue in a classy joint in central London. Blurry from the booze it took us some time to realise we were missing the Old Friend. Another friend was busy trying to help some chick in the loo's who'd shat herself. Good one. It took us a surprisingly long time to realise that Old Friend and Shit-my-pants-girl were one and the same person!
What do you do when your friend in white, shit, covered trousers is stuck in some bar toilets in central london? Desperately acquire leggings from bar staff get the wet wipes out of the nanny bag, and dash for the door leaving said trousers in the sink. The poor cleaner.
A better example of the good familiar creature (Wine) not so well used, I can not think of!
Part 2. of the never ending night:
We hopped into the nearest cab with simple instructions. Or so we thought. With SMPgirl vomming out the window, the cab driver went entirely the wrong way, once we informed him of this, he bizarrely flipped, took us hostage in the cab of hell and drove us aaalllll the way back to Central London. Much calling of police and hysterics ensued.
Part 3. you'd think think it would all be over now:
Well, not quite. Upon the return, SMP-girl was promptly escorted to the shower and the Oh God Did that Really Happen drinking commenced. We find that dancing in underwear with a bottle of Baileys in hand is an excellent way to remedy the absolute horror of an evening of poop and angry taxi drivers. The results were spectacular, morning sofa sex and weiner cousins (yeah, BMW guy moved round the circle); and then a hungover casserole of nonsense. SMP girl unsurprisingly made a swift exit in the morning. What can we say; shit happens.
Miss. Rubenesque
According to the Bard "Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used." Us Bare Naked Ladies could not agree more, so Friday began in usual fashion for me, with a good helping of Pinot Grigio catching up with old friends. Including one Old Friend who had not eaten all day. An Old Friend who essentially polished of an entire bottle in under 10 minutes. An Old friend who was keen to impress a boy (that I once shagged on a BMW in a back alley of a Mediterranean City - but that's another story). As the wine and Jaegermeister kept flowing more friends joined. Due to one pyromaniac in the group we we're asked to move on. We proceeded to continue in a classy joint in central London. Blurry from the booze it took us some time to realise we were missing the Old Friend. Another friend was busy trying to help some chick in the loo's who'd shat herself. Good one. It took us a surprisingly long time to realise that Old Friend and Shit-my-pants-girl were one and the same person!
What do you do when your friend in white, shit, covered trousers is stuck in some bar toilets in central london? Desperately acquire leggings from bar staff get the wet wipes out of the nanny bag, and dash for the door leaving said trousers in the sink. The poor cleaner.
A better example of the good familiar creature (Wine) not so well used, I can not think of!
Part 2. of the never ending night:
We hopped into the nearest cab with simple instructions. Or so we thought. With SMPgirl vomming out the window, the cab driver went entirely the wrong way, once we informed him of this, he bizarrely flipped, took us hostage in the cab of hell and drove us aaalllll the way back to Central London. Much calling of police and hysterics ensued.
Part 3. you'd think think it would all be over now:
Well, not quite. Upon the return, SMP-girl was promptly escorted to the shower and the Oh God Did that Really Happen drinking commenced. We find that dancing in underwear with a bottle of Baileys in hand is an excellent way to remedy the absolute horror of an evening of poop and angry taxi drivers. The results were spectacular, morning sofa sex and weiner cousins (yeah, BMW guy moved round the circle); and then a hungover casserole of nonsense. SMP girl unsurprisingly made a swift exit in the morning. What can we say; shit happens.
Miss. Rubenesque
No, I don't have a going rate...
It's a well-known fact that you will never have a bad night in a gaybar. Especially when it's £1.60 drinks? Sold!
Drinking to the point of complete intoxication, you think that everyone is your best friend. It's human nature to converse and socialise among other humans after all. When I realised that my friend left me on the bus while I was chatting away to some random stranger (story of my life), I decided to get off while I can to hail a taxi home. My taxi driver was something between 55 to 60 years old... he reminded me of Jerry Adler... warm, smiling and inviting. He was telling me about his wife and two children and I rambled on (incoherently I assume) about my life. He asked me whether I liked Greek food to which I replied 'Greek food? I fucking LOVE Greek Food!' 'Me and my wife own a Greek restaurant in Greenwich if you want to come along?' During my drunken beer haze I foresaw no flaws in this plan so my immediate response was 'Yeah, I'll go to Greenwich!' Now, one can say that this might not be such a bad idea if I lived close to Greenwich- (I can't believe I am actually trying to justify/rationalise my actions right now). The alcohol must have been evaporating from my skin because I finally copped on to what I was doing i.e going back to a taxi-driver's (whom I first became acquainted with around 10 minutes ago) Greek restaurant at 4am in London. I started thinking: Shit... maybe this isn't such a good idea. But like the doormat pussy that I am I cannot say 'No' - like a serious inability to say 'No'. When we arrived, Jerry unlocked the door to what can be described as a very homey establishment - there were the typical blue gingham tablecloths, wooden chairs and general crap that you would find in a Greek restaurant. We were talking away for a minute or two then he said:' Let's get down to business...' Oh. Dear. God. What did I get myself into?! I started to panic and shouted:' I WANT TO GO HOME!' In a chivalrous manner, he stood up, unlocked the door and essentially set me free. I couldn't have run faster if I tried.
When I climbed into the second taxi (clearly distressed) the driver asked me whether I was OK. This triggered everything. I BURSTED out crying and sobbing and the self-pitying began. His facial expression was like Why the fuck do I always get the crazy ones?! Of course when I tried to take out money from an ATM my pin was blocked (stupid gaybar) so I had to wake my flatmate up to borrow £20 from him. When I managed to pay the driver I spent the next hour crying on my flatmates lap and him reassuring me that I do NOT look like a hooker. I never made it into college the next day.
Moral of the story: Do NOT talk to taxi-drivers. To this day I cannot look at feta cheese without cringing.
Drinking to the point of complete intoxication, you think that everyone is your best friend. It's human nature to converse and socialise among other humans after all. When I realised that my friend left me on the bus while I was chatting away to some random stranger (story of my life), I decided to get off while I can to hail a taxi home. My taxi driver was something between 55 to 60 years old... he reminded me of Jerry Adler... warm, smiling and inviting. He was telling me about his wife and two children and I rambled on (incoherently I assume) about my life. He asked me whether I liked Greek food to which I replied 'Greek food? I fucking LOVE Greek Food!' 'Me and my wife own a Greek restaurant in Greenwich if you want to come along?' During my drunken beer haze I foresaw no flaws in this plan so my immediate response was 'Yeah, I'll go to Greenwich!' Now, one can say that this might not be such a bad idea if I lived close to Greenwich- (I can't believe I am actually trying to justify/rationalise my actions right now). The alcohol must have been evaporating from my skin because I finally copped on to what I was doing i.e going back to a taxi-driver's (whom I first became acquainted with around 10 minutes ago) Greek restaurant at 4am in London. I started thinking: Shit... maybe this isn't such a good idea. But like the doormat pussy that I am I cannot say 'No' - like a serious inability to say 'No'. When we arrived, Jerry unlocked the door to what can be described as a very homey establishment - there were the typical blue gingham tablecloths, wooden chairs and general crap that you would find in a Greek restaurant. We were talking away for a minute or two then he said:' Let's get down to business...' Oh. Dear. God. What did I get myself into?! I started to panic and shouted:' I WANT TO GO HOME!' In a chivalrous manner, he stood up, unlocked the door and essentially set me free. I couldn't have run faster if I tried.
When I climbed into the second taxi (clearly distressed) the driver asked me whether I was OK. This triggered everything. I BURSTED out crying and sobbing and the self-pitying began. His facial expression was like Why the fuck do I always get the crazy ones?! Of course when I tried to take out money from an ATM my pin was blocked (stupid gaybar) so I had to wake my flatmate up to borrow £20 from him. When I managed to pay the driver I spent the next hour crying on my flatmates lap and him reassuring me that I do NOT look like a hooker. I never made it into college the next day.
Moral of the story: Do NOT talk to taxi-drivers. To this day I cannot look at feta cheese without cringing.
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