A Dry Spell Ends

December 2010

Having decided to do this blog, I ought really to start at the beginning, which is about 6 months ago.  My diary entry for Saturday 18th December 2011 reads as follows:  "terrible hangover.  Work Xmas do last night. "

My last words to MusicMan before I left were "don't worry, I won't be late, I'm not planning to shag anyone this time...".  In fact, I was so NOT going to shag anyone, that I left the house with hairy legs and a bush that would do Alan Titchmarsh proud.  Having told everyone I know that I've gone off sex for the past few months, I have no intention, absolutely none, of shagging anyone.  Least of all The Plumber. 

The trouble is, the works Xmas do is the source of a vast amount of whisky, and normally in the company of the type of man I like best, namely, blokes who are good with their hands - and it has been a Very Dry Spell....  No sex with anyone other than the MusicMan for 3 years.  At 1.00am, I am in Casablanca (the club, not the city) with the Plumber, the GasMan, a couple of girls from the office and a debonair/sleazy letting agent who is buying the drinks.  I am dancing.  I am drunk and happy.  So, when the Plumber taps me on the shoulder and says he is going home, I am gutted.  So gutted that I stare drunkenly into his sexy blue eyes (which are probably red in reality, I only know they are blue normally because I have admired them in daylight) and say, in that playhardtoget style I have when drunk, "I'm coming with you".  Like a true gentleman, he refrains from recoiling in horror and says "OK, I'll wait outside for you".  When I'd collected my coat I was quite surprised to find him actually out there waiting.  There is an awkward moment when I kiss the GasMan goodbye, who had been on a sort of long-term promise, and lurch drunkenly down the road with The Plumber.  When we get back to his 'Iamabatchelorandintendtostaythatway pad' he makes me tea. I kiss him, he kisses me back.  We then have a discussion about whether it's a good idea to go to bed together.  I think it's an excellent idea.  He's not so sure - in fact, he tries to put me off. Still, he's a gentleman and a 5'9" determined female is pretty hard to turn down when she's drunk, so we end up in bed together. 

Unsurprisingly, due to the mutual intake of alcohol, it isn't a resounding success in purely technical terms.  In other words, he can't get it up for long and I can't come.  But he holds me tight all night long, snores in my ear and talks in his sleep about England winning 5-0.  I don't get a wink of sleep but have a strangely happy feeling.  I seem to like sex again.  The dry spell has ended and I definitely want more wet weather.  I only get a nasty dose of reality when I suddenly remember that I'd more or less forced this man into bed with me and hadn't even had the decency to make sure I'd shaved my bush first.  Hopefully he was too drunk to notice.  The second dose of reality I get is when I creep home at 6am and realise that I've got home just after my 20 year old son, who is rather shocked that his mother has stayed out even later than him... I feel a little like I did aged 17 being caught creeping in at some ungodly hour by my mother, I feel I have some explaining to do, but how do you explain to your offspring that you have just got outrageously drunk and gone home with the plumber?

When I tell the MusicMan, he rolls his eyes and said "I knew you'd end up in bed with someone, couldn't you have made a bit of effort and shaved your bits first?"