So, Friday night. I find myself in a Spanish tapas bar on North Street with a short ginger bloke with a beard. I know, right? How did this happen? Have standards slipped that badly?
The thing is, we met on Tinder, and hit it off straight away. We'd met for a quick drink in the Lion and Lobster the week before and stayed talking and laughing for 4.5 hours until I had to run for my bus. (Incidentally, there's nothing like catching the 700 to Littlehampton at 11.30pm to realise you no longer live the rock and roll lifestyle - well, not that I ever did... but it really is full of some very strange people, most of whom get off in Portslade.) And, even though he is undeniably short and ginger, he does have lovely brown eyes (a personal weakness of mine) and looks pretty fit. He's also 5 years younger than me, which seems to be a theme at the moment. So, lots of potential, ladies.
After a week of making each other laugh by text (and a couple of pics of him in the bath with some strategically placed foam - nice pecs, phwoarrr) we arrange to meet for dinner and have a great evening eating tapas and making each other laugh even more. We are getting on so famously that he orders another bottle of fizz and we head off to Bar Valentino for cocktails, then back to his flat in Hove. He introduces me to his gorgeous 16 year old daughter and then starts a DJ set in his living room. I like the music, no idea what it is, but it's good. Apparently, that makes me candidate for Girlfriend of the Year and he says I've got to come and meet his mate next weekend and we can all make jam together. (I think that's what he said, but he didn't look like someone who'd boil up a vat of soft fruits on a Saturday night.)
Eventually, after a home-made Manhattan (like I haven't already had enough alcohol - don't worry, Ginge, I'd sleep with a herd of buffalo at this stage), we head off to bed. Now, I'm not sure whether I am going to be sleeping with him on this date (I know I used to be a slapper but it's only officially Date 2 and I'm a good girl now) but the quantity of alcohol consumed means I definitely won't be getting to my own home without a very expensive taxi so, even if I end up on the sofa, I'm not going anywhere else now. Luckily, I had taken the precaution of a good deforestation session and was wearing some decent underwear. Nicely sexy, but not too "take me now, big boy". I'm not sure he is expecting me to stay the night either (could he really get that lucky?) but he is absolutely lovely, telling me how he really, really likes me, and that he thinks this relationship could really have longevity, and how I am even more attractive in person than I am in my photos. Well, swoon..... how often are men that articulate when it comes to a bit of verbal foreplay? I am in heaven... an alcoholic induced heaven, admittedly, but still, get it where you can, girlfriend. Next he tells me I have nice tits, and starts passionately kissing and sucking them. I'm getting nicely turned on by now, too. He has a really fit body as he plays a lot of rugby and he is beautifully dominant in bed, pinning me down with my hands above my head, before working his way down my body. Fairly soon (or did I just pass out for a bit?), I realise he's going down on me, which I think is really nice, but I really am just too pissed to be aware of all the finer nuances of sensation. Not that it matters, any finer nuances disappear completely when he jams what feels like his whole hand up my cunt and starts thrusting it really hard. Christ Almighty, what is he doing down there? It feels like he's going to end up punching a hole in my uterus! It really hurts and I start pushing him off. I think he thinks me pushing him off means I'd come (idiotic man) - so we both just fall asleep.
The next morning, I feel like hell. Massive headache, dry mouth, detached retinas etc etc. Ginger wakes up and jumps on me for Round 2 and I half-heartedly respond, or as much as I can do with eyelids stuck together and a throbbing head. At least, something's throbbing but it definitely isn't my genitals, or his by the looks of it. Eventually, he sort of loses interest and falls off. Again, I notice he hadn't got a hard on, but then, if he feels anything like I do, I can't really blame him. We chat for a bit about what we're going to do for the rest of the weekend, and feeling a bit bad about my lack of effort in bed, and also thinking that his valiant attempts deserve a calmer, more civilized environment to pay off, I invite him to mine for dinner later and suggest we can go to bed nice and early and play with each other. He accepts, makes me a fantastic breakfast (of mushrooms, tomatoes, chorizo and fried eggs if you must know) and I head home.
Later I get a text from him saying that he is in the bath after his rugby match and has hurt his leg, but would be over as early as possible as he wants to see me again as soon as he can. Rather startled by his desire to see me again so quickly, I rush to the shops to get some food and manage to tidy up, remove any embarrassing items, and prepare as much of dinner as possible before he turns up an hour earlier than planned. I meet him at the station and the poor man is really hobbling due to his leg injury (these rugby types are so rough - I wonder if he'll invite me to watch next time? yummy!). So, instead of a romantic evening in bed exploring each other's bodies at leisure, I spend the next few hours running around after him - going to the chemist for painkillers, massaging his feet, bringing dinner in on a tray, spoon-feeding him dessert, mopping his fevered brow - and then, to cap it all, we have to watch the football highlights!!! For fuck's sake, I mean, I know the man's in pain, but I'm not his bleeding mother! (Mental note: men 5 years younger might start to think I am their mother if I'm too nice to them.) I stupidly think it's all over after the first ten minutes, but no, that's just the first match, there's more to follow. I fall asleep.
Several hours later...well, it feels like it... he wakes me up saying it's all over now and we can go to bed. I show him the way and I head off to clean my teeth. While idly brushing my molars I suddenly remember that, in my rush to clean up before he turned up, I had forgotten a couple of embarrassing objects that were still in my bed from the night before. Whoops.... oh dear! What could they be, I hear you say? Handcuffs? A vibrator? A Black Lace novel? My secret journal of steamy fantasies?
Ha ha ha
This is how uncool I now am...
This is what happens to single middle aged women....
Item 1 - A pair of brushed cotton pyjamas..... and....
Item 2 -
wait for it........
MY TEDDY BEAR!!!!!
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