It doesn't matter how good your flirting is, if there's an ex involved, you're fucked.

When it comes to flirting, there’s three simple pointers to help prevent you steering off track:
1) Confidence. Not that it needs explaining, but it shows you’re sure of yourself… insecurities aren’t sexy, men who know what they want, are. It’s a symbol of power.
2) Eyes & Lips. And that’s not as in ‘smoky’ or ‘glossed’, but as in ‘contact’ and ‘smile’. It shows you’re interested, having a good time and smiling is known to release pheromones or endorphins or epidurals or something (?) in your partner.
3) Ask Questions. Not only does it show that you can hold more of a conversation than most of the men in Soho, (and all of the men in The Black Cap) but people like to talk about themselves, especially the gays, so prick up your ears before you prick up your prick.

Needless to say, last week my flirting was absolute par… for a change. My usual techniques include avoiding eye contact at all costs, sweating profusely (palms included) and generally turning redder than a period. Thankfully, as I’m naturally orange, it’s not that much of a jump. In some cases, I tend to have something noticeable caught between my teeth. I obviously don’t eat so it must be what I can only assume is bird-seed? I’ve also projectile vomited… Once. Suffice to say, flirting isn’t a talent I was born with. So luckily when the shaved head version of Heath Ledger winked at me across the urinals, just like Camilla once did to Charles, I was prepared.
“Oh Hey Dewwarr…” – Bon Qui Qui (2:20)

That night, I’d known I was ‘on one‘ before I’d even left the house, having not had a drink in the past four days I was obviously gagging for gallons of vodka and a dirty skank out. And so after partying for the best part of twenty-four hours, I was starting to feel the buzz of half a dozen stimulants. Hence why the only thing projecting when Heath Ledger came along was confidence. I was flirty, funny, feroshe, and he was fascinated. He pretended I was his new boyfriend, I pretended his ‘beard’ didn’t look like strayed pubes. But still I knew he was into me, and I played off it. I had to, considering men usually had to have it plastered on a bumper sticker and run me over with it before I even notice their interested.

Exchanging stories of our day, I confessed how I’d hopped from club to club, inhaling all my nose would allow – while he on the other hand had been jumping from bed to bed and inhaling all his ass would allow. (Ohh, so that was a sex limp?! Thank God, I thought he was trying to bop). It definitely wasn’t a turn-on but I’d had a three-some a couple months before, so who was I to judge? He redeemed himself by surrendering his shirt to me in the minus degrees anyway.

Then BAM! It hit me. Like being crushed by the 194 bus (because you know those drivers are crazy right?) – His ex-boyfriend. He beckoned him over and assured me it wouldn’t take longer than a minute. I can assure you, it did. It took half the night. And what did he expect me to do?! Talk to his back?! Hell-to-the-no. Although I did dance facing it, waiting. Dignified, of course. Seriously though, I believed I showed the right balance of distance (in the toilet drowning my sorrows in several lines) and matureness (smiling at his ex when introduced) to show I was interested, yet frustrated. C’mon, I don’t even wanna know you HAD an ex, let alone meet him! Let alone be told you still love him. BIBLE.
We were guna dual it out Brandy/Monica style – “That boy, is MINE.” – but I’d left my braids at home.
AS IF I get chatted up but the one still in love with his ex. I’m like a magnet for the emotionally disturbed (and often the physically deformed).

I was CASUALLY saying good bye, when he pulled me in close (like the hugs they give you at AA) and made me promise I’d text. So I did. An hour later. And then AGAIN the next day. This sounds totally Debbie, but the first was a light-hearted thanks for the shirt I’d taken off his back and was now wearing in FiRE, while the second was just a general follow-up. Anyway, he waits… EIGHT days to reply. EIGHT! EIGHT DAYS! That’s one week and one day! I’ve had jobs that didn’t last as long. I’ve had holidays abroad that were quicker.
Whatevs – It must’ve taken eight days to truly get his ex out of his system (denial anybody?). Although I can only assume he wasn’t feeling the brunt of his ex during the threesome, which he later proved as he walked around like an incontinent cripple. Anyway, NINE days after the incident, like a TOTAL L-plate, I text back.
And… No reply. Ever. So there, I’d been WELL & TRULY pied, twice, by the same person. I stand by my point of texting him, as I’m not out to play games, and to be fair was on a cocktail of about seven different narcotics.

And they thought 28 Days Later was an epidemic. Try eight, bitches.

The silver lining; a good flirt, will get you a shirt. (But no more).