170808 Let the Games Commence

Every summer, (for the past two summers), I have experienced an epidemic which I have interimly named ‘Zoe’s summer run’.

It comprises of some kind of hideous chemical reaction caused in the universe by a fusion of excessive hormones and the time of year. I think. Or if not, some kind of odd decision that has erupted from the universe’s groin.

It starts with a period of abstinence that I claim as of my own making. What actually causes it is an ungiven, it has been blamed on ‘an intense period of creative fertility’, it has also been blamed on the fact ‘I am too busy to go out and meet people’. It’s okay. At the back of my mind I keep the old spinster’s cliché of ‘it’s when you least expect it to happen that it will’, and even put on my best Bridget Jones’s to go to the pub, but as the Beatles said, what do I see when I turn out the light? That reminds me, I must get the blinds fixed, I can see bloody everything.

So this year so far, let’s take stock. After an unfortunate but intense relationship at the end of last year with a Scottish manic, that ended up in fleeing Tunbridge wells at six in the morning after returning a giant hammer and chisel, I was left a little bit raw around my bones. So I put a hold on men.

But I went to India on a mini travel holiday. As we rickshawed our way to our windswept hut in Arambol I saw an advert for a restaurant called double Dutch. Don’t mind if I do, I commented to my petite yet dangerous partner in crime. And that we did. The two Dutch boys were ineffectual but fun. Mine had what only can be described as an unnatural obsession with a pink sari that he carried everywhere, adorning himself with it whenever possible. That’s what we like, a closet gay with an overactive gland. So after a mantra-singing stoned date we had our wicked way with each other. No harm done.

Returning to the UK I made do with scraps found at parties. The banker who left his shoes by the door even though we have slate tiling, the bouncer I took refuge in when another schizoid friend ransacked the bar, and then Mark.

Poor Mark. Just another example of how the theory that sex with friends doesn’t work. In this case, friends of friends. Also an example of why you shouldn’t listen to said friends.
At a drunken and dishevelled thirtieth birthday, T, whilst groping me with one hand and not his girlfriend with the other, (Mark texted him under the table to watch his behaviour), piped up with the opinion that me and Mark would have great sex together.

Bone to a dog. Carrot to a donkey. Rabbit to a greyhound. And she’s off…………..

Thought I had the deal sealed when we headed to the same tube station – but alas! He disappeared on another line the fool, so what would have been a good one-night stand became a date. Sigh.

Brilliant times, but when it came to the deed…………….slowness.

Never listen to a friend’s opinion.

As usual, I did a make-or-break weekend and visited the glamorous St Albans. A quarter of weed later, we nearly got the sex right (I had the painters in so had to be persuaded, yum!)

In the morning he offered me a coffee. Now as you may be able to discern from my ramblings, I am a bit fussy and judgmental. So coffee for me has a very large meaning. I don’t mind if it’s a mellow birds, as long as the man presents it as such. Mark kept going through options of how I like my coffee. The answer is never simple, but generally strong with a touch of milk. Off he loped.

Time elapsed. Coffee appeared. Oh and how! A strange froth-like substance bobbed on the top of the mug and I knew it was a pond for me to not submerge in. I took a sip. Strange, possibly hydrogenated in some way, presence of palm oil a definite. So I decided as I was hungover, I’d just leave it there. But no,

“Coffee alright is it?” he quirks

“erm, yeah!”

He looks at me suspiciously.

I get up and get on with playing the guitar. We get hungry. I rummage in the fridge, (one of my most favourite and rude past times). There’s some hummus. That’ll do, (a bit five years ago but y’know). Then I stumble across the horror of all horrors……………..a cupboard bursting with…………..tassimo sachets. So that’s what that toxic substance served to me in a cup was!

I sit down.

“That’s quite a good hummus isn’t it?”

Twice in one day. Food and drink faux pas. Cringing inside, I realise this suburban modern man, (divorcee), just hasn’t got the edge I was looking for. Sorry, and bye, this one should be easy to dispose of by email.

Phew, he’d gone, so let the summer games commence!

Had a dry spell, respectfully, (desperately), and then I went to Sweden.

Oh, the land of processed sausage, cheese and mosquitoes. Ended up on a remote island with cultish people living in scout huts. After a drum lesson, dj-ing and dancing I found myself under a tree with two men and a bottle of vodka. Completely bewildered, everyone disappeared for a naked sauna. Apart from me and a man. All of the men seemed to be called Anders. I am informed that this is also his name. Anders had a mental breakdown after the army. Anders is the equivalent of a Swedish chav. A Shav.

Mental and deviant? A cuddle evolves quickly into a sweaty bonk.

“Slower, slower”. Oh. That was that. I’d broken the seal and paved the way for the highwaymen of the night to see my beauty. Roxanne…………

Next I treated myself to a Spanish model and violinist, that I scooped by silently handing him my calling card (I had lost the power of speech due to vodka, his beauty and the amount of prostitutes in the club).

He came, he saw, he conquered. Only in a different order. Too good to be true………….certainly. You get what you ask for…………..

So to soften the, ahem, blow, I took a beefcake gym instructor from bow and let him pound me until I couldn’t breathe. Fearing for my life I was. Left him in my house and went to work to recover. Housemate locked him in.

I think he bought me a CD of Indian-American music. Yuch.

So, erm, I’m a bit overwhelmed by this excessive spillage. I’d better go and clean my…………………mouth out xx