It’d been a hot minute since I last woke up striving to hold down vomit while look for my clothes on a stranger’s bedroom floor, and I’d almost forgotten how truly horrific they can be.
Chapter 1 – Where the fuck am I?
I felt my eyelid scrape across my dry corneas as I blinked them open, like windscreen wipers without water, to reveal a hazy snapshot of someone else’s living room. I realise quite quickly that I’m also naked and stuck to the grubby red pleather sofa I’m curled up in a foetal position on. Mouth drier than a scarecrow’s cunt.
As I peeled my ball-bag off the pleather, I debated how I’d cover my modesty; a Tesco employee shirt that was hanging over the dining table chair? Or a bed sheet thrown over the washing line. I opted for making a toga out of the sheet, because who wants to work in retail when you can be a Greek God?
Tip-toeing through the incomprehensibly small kitchen/lounge, so as not awake any potential flatmates, I was suddenly faced with a number of locked doors. Five to be exact. And zero clues as to which one belonged to the lucky guy I’d come home with. It was like the Crystal Maze for sluts.
Oh, and don’t ask me what I was doing on the fucking sofa either, I assume I went to the toilet and then got lost in amidst the labyrinth of doors.
Chapter 2 – Who did I just fuck?
But then the reality hit: that even if a door spontaneously opened itself, that I’d have no idea who it was I were looking for. I mean, who sits on red pleather in 2019? Tragic. I would’ve jumped out the window if it wasn’t on the first floor.
Although, I’m really not sure what was more soul-destroying, the fact that I had no phone, no clothes and no idea which door to head to, or that I’d fornicated with someone that lives in a house share. I was 29 going on 19.
So off I went, banging down every door like a bailiff, on a Sunday morning at 8.30am, no less. And you can imagine the look on my face when nobody opened any of them, (Spoiler: it was like a bulldog chewing shit-flavoured gum).
After half an hour slumped on the landing, hopelessly wilting into whoever’s bedsheet this was, I heard someone faffing about behind door number three. I knocked again. Someone answered!
It was him! Wasn’t it?
Chapter 3 – And should we fuck again?
It was. Just to clarify. And we hadn’t had sex before. Just to clarify. But the morning after there’s always still enough alcohol in your system to render your beer goggles still intact.
My balls had definitely not been emptied, but seen as my memory of the previous night was sketchy – at absolute best – I thought it’d be rude, and not to mention totally frigid, if I didn’t find out if his dick game was worth all this hassle.
It was not.
First of all, his hand was firmly, and permanently, wrapped around his shaft holding his foreskin up, which to be quite fucking frank, made me uneasy about what was underneath. I pictured him pulling out an assortment of items from his shaft, like Mary Poppin’s handbag. He had no lube or saliva in his mouth either, so proceeded to try and pry his dry fingers into my rectum. Girl.
Chapter 4 – Now, how the fuck do I get home?
I grabbed the pile of my clothes off the floor and frantically searched for my phone. I hadn’t lost it, but I had lost battery. Asking to borrow his charger, I was sent into psychological orbit when he replied… “I’m on Android”.
Like, did I just feel the room out for the least eligible guy I could find? Well, to be fair, he was probably the best out of the one’s hanging around the carpark.
He also wasn’t a student; he was 30.
What followed was a tortuous trip to Tesco to get a iPhone charger – which he had to buy because I’d lost my wallet. Naturally, we bump into one of his housemates while we’re there; funny how the cunt could get out bed for a pot noodle and not for a complete stranger whailing outside his bedroom first thing.
Chapter 5 – Why the fuck have I done this again?
When I finally booked my Uber I counted down the minutes until I got back to my rental. I mean, literally counting down the minutes.
“OK, just 18 minutes left. Oooh, now 17!”
I felt as if a Miss Trunchaball were firing shot puts at my temples, while desperately tried to avoid eye contact and meaningless conversation with the overzealous driver. Each minute that had passed was one less I had to sit with my immature decisions and emotionally beat myself up with a baseball bat about them. OK, I guess it wasn’t really that bad. Not cute, but I was a horny 20-something with sexual needs (that had been currently left unfulfilled) and about 90% vodka body mass, what did I expect to happen?
Yet that didn’t change the onset of neediness which ultimately exposes the fact that what you really want is to be lying in bed with someone who loves you, and not someone who’s name you still don’t know.
