I’m froze by desire.
Sadly myself and the girlfriend have had to part. We both knew it was for the best. She’s leaving for uni on Friday; I’m running away to France as soon as I possibly can.
I can’t say it was an easy break-up. It started out well, we went for a meal and did the grown-up, talking about our feelings thing. All good yes, and we decided to settle for an open relationship until we part officially.
You can’t be best friends with your ex.
We were naive to even think that was possible.
And now, a meaningless fumble in a car with some guy and I am well and truly in the doghouse, our friends have had to take sides and I am hated by my second family, who welcomed me into their lives and took me to the wedding of the year in Thailand, one of the best weeks of my life.
In theory, I have done nothing to give her an reason to cut me off. That she knows about.
As a final farewell to our childhoods and a hello to the big wide world, a fair few of us decided to get wrecked one night this week. Started off fine, 5 shots in under a minute but I was fine. Just fine.
She looked beautiful. She was wearing the new dress she’d bought that day. Navy blue, wispy and clung to her body in the right places. Her trademark boots, a statement that says “no matter what I wear, I am attracted to women and I fuck like a goddess”.
We avoided each other until we were moderately drunk, and then the floodgates opened. I’ve never cried so much in a public place in the entire life. Never, ever again.
From hereforth, fuck my feelings.
The fucked up boss situation?
The fucked up boss situation?
Just got a whole lot more fucked up.
So he told me he’s falling love with me. I didn’t say it back. I refuse to. Because if I say it out loud then I will be acknowledging my feelings for him and therefore will have to accept the fact that I am falling head over fucking heels for my boss. Who is a man.
The whole situation is…sordid, sleazy, borderline disgusting. It makes me think of a front cover story on one of those cheap magazines for unemployed, yellow-fingered, greasy-haired women with 6 kids running around and jumping on the flea-riddled, cigarette-burned sofa. I am the fucking story that they pay 50p for, the story they ‘mmm’ and ‘ahhh’ over whilst cracking open their first Stella of the day at 10am.
Yes, I have an overactive imagination. Sue me.
But fuck man, how did this happen? There are so many things about him that should technically repel me, for example:
1. He’s 20 years older than me.
2. He has a partner of over 15 years.
3. He has a daughter who is closer to my age than he is.
4. He smokes rollies without filters and is constantly picking baccy out of his teeth.
5. He has a dirty laugh.
6. He objectifies women.
7. He called me a skank once. Never, ever, ever call me that word.
You get the idea. Fuck.
I went to the Rocky Horror Show the other night.
1 Minibus + Copious amounts of alcohol + Onstage fucking hot fumblings = 1 fucking horny me!
If you’ve been to the Rocky Horror Show before, good on you, if you haven’t, fucking go! It’ll be a sexual awakening and a half, I promise.
But it was easily one of the hardest nights of my life, in terms of being a horny bitch. There I was, happily smoking a fag after getting chatted up by a 90-year-old man. I only asked for his lighter! But he used that as an invitation to ballroom dance with me and sing Frank Sinatra in my ear. What a sight.
So there I was, recovering, smoking away. When into my peripheral vision, comes the hottest dyke I have seen in a long time! I can’t even begin to tell you how perfect she was, how so my type she was!
Tanned skin, face full of freckles, deep brown eyes, perfect white smile, low-ride jeans, short spiky brown hair. Oh man she was incredible. Oh man, she was mine.
And another thing? Her name was Roux. Yeah that’s right, Roux, as in ‘making a roux’, the tres difficile cooking technique that I have yet to master.
I’d like to say that I fucked this girl. I’d like to say that we spent the whole night in the bar getting very drunk, flirting shamelessly, ignoring the entire world around us, with her hand on my knee and my lips on her neck, until finally we went back to hers and fucked like rabbits coked up on china-laced carrots.
Sadly no. I was wearing only a bra and a petticoat, I had a show to see and I was standing next to my very straight, very frightened, rabbit-in-headlights-looking friend. The world was against me.
That said munchers, I was wearing the sexiest pants known to man…Or woman as it were.
So the moral of the story lads and ladettes, Always Be Prepared!!!
Oh, and don’t ask 90-year-old men if you can borrow their lighters. They reply by putting their toothless gums too close to your ears. Trust me, I know.
Calling all Muff Muchers!
Who’s been chatted up by a straight guy? Raise thy hand.
Who’s been chatted up by a straight guy whilst sitting next to your girlfriend? Raise thy hand.
Who’s been chatted up by a straight guy whilst sitting next to your girlfriend, then promptly got up and left with the stranger, telling your girlfriend you might see her at the hotel later. Raise thy hand.
I’m kidding, that last one didn’t happen. I’m a headfuck but I’m not a complete wanker.
I’m a femme. A real femme. So I guess it’s easier for guys to mistake me. Ever happened to you?
Me and the girlfriend were sitting outside an arts centre in Gay Paree, having a spiffing time, watching a little short dude hang from a lamp post in the name of art, when up comes this mildly attractive guy who plonked himself next to me, asked for a fag and welcomed himself into our conversation.
Through an increasingly difficult language barrier, I found out these important facts about him:
C’est la vie!
What’re you gonna do? Well I’ll tell you. I put my hands gently on my girlfriend’s face and slowly guided her towards me. Our lips touched and gradually it became more and more intense. I forgot where I was. I forgot about the huge group of dykes who’d sat behind us. I forgot about the homophobe basically sitting on my lap. I wanted to fuck, there and then. I ran my hands over her breasts; she was bra-less, one of my weaknesses. I opened my legs and welcomed her probing hand moving up my thigh. Oh fuck, I wanted it right there.
I heard a cough. Mr Homophobe was obviously uncomfortable. Before I even had time to recover the girlfriend had replaced her hand into her own lap and was smirking fucking sexily at the speechless, wide-eyed homophobe. He left. Twat.
I went to Paris for the weekend. To celebrate the three-year anniversaire of myself and the girlfriend. It went well. I had a good time. There was however one small glitch in the weekend. The lack of sex. Well there was some sex; a disasterous single attempt resulting in me sitting outside some bar, chain-smoking, sobbing into my 15 Euro rum and coke, drawing the undesired attentions of hot dykes coming up from the metro, accusing the girlfriend of fucking up the whole trip with her “I think we need a break” line.
Well. The sex wasn’t disasterous.
Fuck it. It was awful.
Reluctant kissing, followed by a half-hearted top attempt by me, followed by a very frustrated girlfriend, followed by a quick, yet angry, yet awkward finger fucking, followed by a practically silent strap-on screw. Fucking brilliant.
Oh and the fucking cherry on the cake? The maid decides to wander on in half-way through. Ever had a dildo pulled from your cunt at the speed of sound? It fucking hurts.
I ain’t no bucket fanny.
Alors, relationship-re-building is a-go-go.
This happened not long ago.