Wednesday, 21 January 2015

Stupid Cupid & Dirty (dirty) Mojitos

Sometimes the Dating Gods decide you deserve a break. More often they decide to fuck with you. And that's fine. I can imagine it must be quite fun toying with our emotions. If I was Cupid I would definitely cause more trouble than good. I'd make people people fall in love with their best friend's husband/wife, make horny teenagers obsess over their maths teacher, and shit on single girls' attempts to find a normal guy to have sex with. It would be hilarious.

Not so much when you're at the receiving end, but I'm learning to see the funny side. I had a date coming up and I'll admit now that I had already written the guy off (9/10 first dates are a complete waste of time). But hallelujah! It turned out to be one of - possibly the best - first date of my life. And I broke all the dating rules...

So a warning now: this post is my naughtiest yet (seriously, I'm blushing as I type... and I haven't even included the dirtiest details).

I'm struggling to come up a pseudonym for this guy. But I'm going to go with Longbottom. Why? Because 1. I will probably never meet anyone whose name is actually Longbottom, which is sad, and 2. He looks like Matthew Lewis (aka Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter - see picture above) after he lost the puppy fat and got seriously hot. But with tattoos, piercings and biceps that pop up on his arms like hard, juicy apples when he tenses... *drool*

Anyway! The date. There's this bar in Clapham that has never let me down - I've taken 4 guys there and ended up sleeping with 3 of them. So that's pretty good odds. But, to be perfectly honest, on this occasion I suggested it because it's close to my house and I was feeling lazy/didn't have high hopes. I now think it's my lucky bar and I'm going to selfishly guard its identity - maybe they put something magical in the booze there?

I found Longbottom outside the tube station and was surprised that I wasn't at all nervous. Probably a combination of not caring and the knowledge that my hair was behaving. First impression of Longbottom: super cute, bit short, shouldn't have worn heels. But oh well, at least my legs looked good. 

In the bar he took his jumper off to reveal those great guns and surprised me with top class manners. We started drinking and got talking about weight-lifting. It makes me chuckle to think that my possessive ex taught me to lift and that is now one of the things other guys find really attractive about me (HAHA), because I know what GVT stands for. He went to the bathroom and I sent a smug Snapchat of my happy face with the caption "When your date shows up and he's really hot..." 

The evening progressed and the mojitos kept coming. Conversation was easy, he showered me with compliments and he had this way of saying my name that made me want to crawl into his lap and purr. 

Come to think of it - this guy was a bit of a pro at the first date. He even told me about the time he was stabbed five times in North London, shocking me to my core (I'd never met a stabbing victim before!) and provoking a great deal of sympathy/my maternal instincts to kick in. Except with those arms and that smile my intentions for him were anything but motherly. 

I wondered if he was a player, but I don't think he is ...yet. A male friend recently explained the "Ugly Duckling" theory to me. He said that a girl who's an ugly teenager but suddenly becomes pretty when she grows into her looks is easier to seduce and better girlfriend material. The reasons being that she is still a little bit plagued by low self-esteem and gives more importance to personality than looks. (This male friend said I was an ugly-duckling-come-swan and I wasn't sure whether or not to be insulted). Longbottom revealed to me that he used to be fat, obese even, but had lost all the weight in the last couple of years. I realised that he was an ugly-duckling too and hadn't quite clocked how ludicrously attractive he was. Hence his making an effort to charm me.

"I'm going to add you on Snapchat," he said.

I smiled and accepted his request, thinking of all the naughty pictures I'd send him later. Then I froze, remembering I had set my last Snap as "My Story" and that he would see it in all its cringey glory as soon as we were connected. I hurried to delete it but I was too late. He just smiled.

"Glad I've made an impression," he said.

Laughing it off, I went to the bar to get the next round and whilst there my phone pinged. Longbottom had sent me a Snapchat. It was a picture of him smiling, with the caption "When your date's stunning and she lifts..."

Oh snap.

So yeah... He ticked all the bloody boxes. Great smile, perfect manners, good conversation, weight-lifting banter, compliments galore, a romantic Snapchat gesture and an inspirational sob-story of how he was a fat kid who got stabbed and lived to tell the tale. I mean, what was I supposed to do?

Not invite him back to mine on the first date, is probably what.

I have a set of self-imposed rules for dating, put in place to stop annoying attachments developing. These are: no bringing guys back to mine (my room is my sanctuary), no staying the night (so no cuddling can happen) and no breakfast the next day (because obviously). If you get even one of these you're in trouble.

The bar was closing and I'd had a fair amount to drink. Thanks is probably owed to the mojitos but I think I handled the Awkward End of Date Question with aplomb. 

"I'm in a bit of a pickle, Longbottom," I said, draining my glass. "I've had too much to drink but I don't want tonight to end yet. And, actually, I really want to take you back to mine. But I also don't want you to think I'm a slut."

"[My name]," he said, "I think my snapchat showed how I think of you. And it's not as a slut."

I picked up my coat and led the way out of the bar. He followed wordlessly. Out on the street I began a determined march to the tube station.

"You have to kiss me," I told him, "it's how I decide on these things."

His hand snatched mine and he pulled me close. Then he slowly, slowly leaned in and kissed me hard. 

With my stilettos I was his height, if not a teeny bit taller, and kissing at that angle was strange so I bent my knees. Nevertheless when we pulled apart my mind was made up. 

At mine the clothes came off almost instantly. Due to his height and an embedded preconception, I wasn't expecting much as I undid his jeans. Girls, it's a lie. Height most certainly does not equate to length. And actually Longbottom was a very good choice of pseudonym (lol) and he turned out to be a huge surprise in the bedroom (accidental pun, he was a surprise in more ways than just that one). 

We were both a little drunk and seemed to have left our inhibitions at the bar. Clothes removed in a frenzy, he suddenly pulled away. He sat down on the bed and looked me up and down as I stood before him, naked and frustrated. The look in his eyes was making my knees weak.

"Turn around," he told me. 

I obeyed unquestioningly and heard him swear softly under his breath. So he was an ass-man.

"Bend over," came his next command. Definitely an ass-man. 

Slowly I bent at the waist, moving my hands down my legs to grip my ankles. I was glad I'd been to yoga that week.

He exhaled and I heard the bed springs release as he stood up. He ran his hands down my back, squeezing my waist on his way to my hips, pressing himself against my ass. Then he pulled me up and pushed me onto the bed. 

We fucked like our lives depended on it.

One minute he was behind me, five minutes later he was under me, in me, down on me, then pinning me to the bed as our fucking slammed it against the wall. His hand stung against my ass. I hit him, hard, across the face. He just knew what I wanted and how I wanted it. All the while his velvety voice was saying the filthiest things and yet still he managed to make it sound polite. He said my name often. The effect was dizzying.

When I was reduced to a trembling, sweaty and incoherent mess he stood up and looked down on me. His eyes glinted and I knew I was in trouble. 

"Touch yourself," he said.  

I began to shake my head --

"Touch yourself," he repeated. 

I obeyed, feeling like I'd pass out, but completely drowning in lust, and as I did so he touched himself too. More extremely dirty, porn-worthy things happened. Finally he came over me and collapsed onto the bed. 

After we caught our breath, our eyes met and we laughed, almost nervously, surprised at how much of ourselves we had revealed.

"I was not expecting that," Longbottom admitted. "You are full of surprises."

Stretching the cramp out of my legs, I told myself to keep quiet. Don't say anything. Sssh. No. Zip it. But I couldn't kick him out now - it was past 3am. He'd have to stay. That was 2 of my rules broken... I had to make sure I didn't break anymore.

"Do you want to get breakfast in the morning?" I asked him.

God dammit.