Sunday, 19 July 2009

Every breath you take...

Hello, hello. It's that time of the week again, kids. I've got an hour to myself, am not in the mood for a DVD or anything else so I am taking the time to tell you another hilarious tale about my shambolic love life.

When I left you last time, we were just catching up again. I had had a good couple of months with Tits McGee and since then it has been largely barren. However, today I had my first date in a fair few months, and whilst it was absolutely fine there was nothing there, nothing to report back (save that her dad used to play football for Rochdale. Massive props there), but it has helped with me getting back on the horse and can confirm that there will hopefully be more to come in the coming weeks.

So, in the meantime I will go back a bit and report on some of the things that happened in between March, Tits McGee and the present day and the cautionary tale of Scary McStalker. Scary was a lovely and charming girl, but she freaked the sheer bejesus out of me.

Scary was on a 3 month contract in New York, so the early stages of us getting to know each other were based around emails and, in fairness she seemed rather nice. Her getting back to the UK coincided with me getting the elbow from Tits, so I thought it was a sign. We arranged to meet up and owing to work being ridiculously busy it was a fleeting drink or two in this pub on Upper Street. Now, I normally leave taking a woman up the Steam Passage until the second date, but what can you do, eh?

I'm here all week, don't forget to tip your waitress. Ahem.

She was a lovely girl, in fairness. Very quiet and rather reserved (the anti-me, if you will), but she was intelligent, had the cutest Scottish accent, and very, very attractive. We had a couple of drinks, I walked her to the tube, there was a cheeky wee snog before she left and it all seemed rosy. I would say that her most striking feature was her eyes. The sky bluest eyes I had ever seen. They actually looked as though they were made of crystal and could even have had some kind of tractor-beam effect. You could go swimming in those bad boys. Well, either that or she could hypnotise you with them and you would do whatever the hell she asked you to.

Although weirdly since that night I cannot find my watch. I feel she used her powers to transfix and then rob me. Maybe.

A couple of Sundays later, it was the Whitsun Bank Holiday, and she arranges to come and meet me, Kinky Steve and The Texan in a pub in Hackney for some Bank Holiday Bonus Beers. We end up in a Belgian Pub off the Broadway Market, the drinks flow, mine and Steve's stories from Uni come pouring out and a gay old time is had by all. It gets to about 11pm, time is called and with our wheels well and truly greased we set about leaving for home. We're walking in the general direction back towards civilisation and I offer to put her in a cab or on a night bus when she interrupts me...

“What, so I'm not coming back to yours, then?”

Jurassic Park. Jackpot. Now, despite impressions to the contrary created largely by this blog, this kind of thing doesn't really happen to me and I didn't know how the hell to react. George Clooney in this situation would do that big smile of his, click his fingers and they would arrive back at his in a couple of seconds. However, I am not George Clooney. I am a cross between Chandler from 'Friends', and Hugh Grant in 'Four Weddings & a Funeral', only more foppish and FAR wetter. So my reaction to Scary's proposal was not as smooth as I could, or indeed should have been. I spluttered some half-words, looked confused and said something along the lines of...

“Foo.... huh.. fli... flennghinenng

I loathe myself. Actually loathe myself. However, I was rescued by Scary's eyes. She looked at me with those big baby blues and they shouted at me. They bellowed at the top of their voices, “TAKE ME, LAWYER. TAKE ME AND LITIGATE MY TWINKLE LIKE A REPEAT OFFENDER ON THE STAND. PUNISH MY LADY GARDEN LIKE A GINGER STEP-SON”.

And I do exactly as I am told. We say our goodbyes to Kinky Steve and the Texan and hotfoot it to Mare Street where a cab is coming along at that exact second and we head for Chez Taxloser. Hurrah!

We get back to mine, I sit her on the sofa and proceed to make a couple of cups of tea. I talk shit, she listens, nodding sagely and appreciatively, all the time, her eyes suggesting that the tea-making should be replaced with something else strong, milky and with two lumps.

I sit down on the settee next to her and place the tea on the tables in front of us and before I can say “Would you care to see my etchings?” she has mounted me. Literally turned and jumped on me, straddling me and pinning me to my own sofa, throwing her tongue down my throat and furiously unbuttoning my shirt.

I'll be honest with you – I felt a little violated. And not in a good way. I am a sophisticated and romantic man who needs to be wined, dined and wooed. Do you really think that I am the kind of guy who will let himself be used as a sexual plaything after 4 pints of Schloovel?

Ah. Right. You know me, I forgot. Ok, back to the story.

So, we're on the sofa, she's undressing me, so I make like a gentleman and return the favour. As I am taking her blouse off, though, she recoils. She pushes me back, shuffles backwards along my thighs and informs me that she has to tell me something.

In this situation, I am not expecting good news. I am not expecting her to tell me that she is a 4-Times-a-Night Girl and that she used to represent Scotland at Bonking. I am not expecting her to tell me that insists on receiving anal sex on the second date. Oh no. No, no, no, no, NO. So I look immediately at the three key areas – ring finger, neck, crotch.

Wedding ring? No. Ok, we're good.

Neck? No Adam's Apple. Great.

Crotch? No throbbing hard-on. Cool. The worst fears have been avoided.

So I utter the words I know I have to say. Ask the question I know I have to ask, but which I don't want to hear the answer to...

Ok... what is it?”

She then informs me that when she was 15, she weighed about 16 stone.

I tell you now, there is nothing to this girl. NOTHING. She is 5'1”, weighs about 45 grams and has a gorgeous little arse and great figure, so I am confused by this revelation, or indeed it's relevance here. She goes on to explain that she lost all the weight thanks to a hardcore dieting regime and lots and lots of exercise but at the end of it all, she was left with a lot of sagging skin.

And then the penny dropped. There would be scarring. I didn't know what to expect, I felt myself go white as a sheet, and needless to say my penis retreated inside of me in fear. I KNOW THAT THIS MAKES ME HALF A MAN, BUT TRUST ME WHEN I SAY THAT I REDEEM MYSELF MASSIVELY LATER ON.

But I needn't have panicked. It was fine. She literally had a little nick under each arm, a tiny scar under each boob, and a little scratch along her belly. It was absolutely fine and, in all honesty, a little sexy from a certain point of view. Don't get me wrong, I'm not James Spader in Crash by any stretch of the imagination, but they were cute.

So, we're fooling around on the sofa undressing each other (turning left out of Dry-Humping Boulevard into Tops Off and Fingers Avenue) when she asks me to take her to bed, and I graciously oblige because I am a gentleman. And seriously fucking horny by this point. I pick her up and carry her into the bedroom (I do this because it reaffirms me as an Alpha Male. And she weighs nothing so there is minimal chance of me dropping her).

We get into the bedroom, we get nekkid and I am about to make like Spinal Tap and sink her submarine with my pink torpedo when she screams “STOP!” at the top of her voice and informs me there is something else she needs to tell me.

I'll be honest with you, I'm a pessimist. I'm, a miserable fucking bastard most of the time and if someone is more than 2 minutes late for meeting me it's not because of the tube or their working late or any other reason. It's because they are DEAD. That is the only possible explanation in my head. So when Scary tells me at this moment that there is something she needs to tell me, this moment when we are stark naked and the bed looks like a tent such is the enormity of my boner (it had been a month since I had got any and was feeling rather anxious), this moment when we were literally chomping at each other's bits, there were only two explanations. Either she had AIDS or daddy touched her as a kid. Those were the only two explanations and either way I wasn't getting any tonight, there would be long conversations and lots and LOTS of crying.
I WISH that one of those were the reasons. Nothing prepared me for her actual revelation.

“I've never been with a man before. I'm a virgin”.

I shit a brick. I was stunned. The first thing that went through my mind was whether I had done anything remotely Polanski-esque and whether I was set for 15 years on K Wing with the other nonces. Then I remembered she told me she was 26 and had been in New York working for 3 months, so I calmed down a little. But there would be no sex that night. No sirree Bob. Whatever you may think of me from reading this blog or from knowing me personally, I am not the kind of cunt who would take a girl's virginity on a one-night stand. To quote George Clooney in 'From Dusk Til Dawn', I might be a bastard, but I'm not a fucking bastard. This is my redemption.

So, I tell her that it's fine, how she should actually feel really quite proud of herself and that she shouldn't worry – there is no need for us to have sex tonight.

Nothing prepared me for her response.

She looked at me with those tractor beam blue eyes, staring through mine and deep into my soul and announces “I'm only a virgin because I've been waiting for the right guy and I think that that's you”.

I actually wanted to cut my cock off there and then and throw it out the window before running away so quickly that I left a large David-shaped hole in the door. But it was my flat. So I was trapped. Fuck-sticks. Fucking cunting bollock shitting fuck sticks.

We had swapped maybe 5 or 6 emails over the course of 3 months and met each other twice, for a combined total of 8 hours during which time there were flaming sambucas involved. How the hell this woman had decided that I was the man to whom she wanted to give her most precious gift to, I have no idea. And I didn't know what to say.

I then spent 30 minutes arguing the case for not having sex. My poor knob was staring up at me saying “Dude, there are two of this in this relationship. Tell conscience to take a hike, man the fuck up and bury yourself in this woman's clunge” and this poor girl kept trying to touch me – it was bizarre and hilarious although deeply, deeply tragic as well. However, by using my finely-honed lawyer's skills (and a stick), I eventually convinced Scary that we should snuggle instead and that sex was not appropriate (although at the time it was like throwing petrol on a fire and seemed only to egg her on – totally not my intention). And at 3am we eventually went to sleep.

The night after a few beers too many is never a good thing. The waking up is the worst. You feel yourself wake up behind your eyelids and you pause for a few seconds and assess the feeling in your head before opening your eyes. I took my time and felt ok, but slightly wobbly. I rolled to my right and slowly opened my eyes.

She was staring at me.

She was there, those giant blue eyes staring a thousand miles at me, yet straight through me. I couldn't help myself and yelped like a little girl. I shat myself. She was looking at me like Papa Lazarou in The League of Gentlemen. It was too much.

“What?” she asked.

“Were you watching me sleep?” I countered.

“Only for a half hour or so. Why?” she responded.

A half hour? A HALF HOUR? An episode of 'Eastenders' only lasts 27 minutes and you at least have some plot and bad acting. I'm guessing that I offered nothing but a bit of snoring and maybe some sleep-chewing so God only knows why she found it so entertaining.

Oh that's right, because she's obviously a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.

I wanted her out of my flat there and then, but couldn't do it. It was 6am on a Bank Holiday Monday. Bollocks. So, I go and get us a glass of water each and then roll over away from her and go back to sleep hoping that when I awoke she would be gone and I could resign this to the annals of time.

When I do re-awake, it is because I am experiencing the kind of physical pain reserved for horror football injuries, being on fire, or something else truly catastrophic. Scary is trying to thank me for being a gentleman by performing the manual act of love on me. But as a virgin she doesn't really know the rudiments of a man's body and instead seemed to be under the impression that she was playing “Daley Thompson's Olympic Challenge” on the Commodore C64. I looked down and again those eyes are staring up at me, filling me with terror, only this time I realise they're attached to a woman who has my cock hostage in her hands.

I can't tell her to stop so have to bite down on my bottom lip and try and ride the pain. However, there was more chance of Elvis riding in on Shergar than there was of me cumming so after a good 10 minutes I had to tell her to stop claiming that it is impossible for a man to shoot his wad so early in the morning after a night on the tiles. She seemed to believe that and snuggled up to me, asking when we were going out again in the week. All of a sudden my diary became very, very full and would have to let her know.

She is a lovely girl and I want to make this abundantly clear. But there was no way of rescuing this. Fear is not the basis of a long-term relationship so I thought it best to head this one off at the pass.

And that was that.

Kids – I still have plenty of ammo from March – June, so please stay tuned.

As a complete aside, that guy from the Magner's Pear Cider adverts is a cunt and if I ever see him in public I SWEAR that I will shove 100% pears up his fucking arse.

Loving you all, and here's to more shits and grins!



  1. Great story, but I still think you should've done the deed, crazy women are always the hottest in the sack.

    Oh and the Magner's guy is Mark Watson, who's actually a really nice and funny stand up, but I agree those adverts don't do him any favours (well apart from bulging his bank account I expect).

  2. Tell Mark it's not a personal attack, but they're terribly written and create an undisputable air of cuntishness on the poor guy!