Shaft from the past……

“I’m still trying to work out how my cock ended up in your mouth”, he texted me this evening.  Me too, me too.  I’m considering setting up a support group due to the frequency at which this happens….

Yesterday evening, after waxing my legs in the bosses office and colouring in the portrait of my dear samson, I embarked on an escapade to london town.

Planned costume: high-class escort – foul new wardrobe composed of leopard, giraffe, tiger and zebra print. 

I intended to pull on shocking stockings, squeeze into a skintight black lycra minidress, and top it all off with a mohair jumper, but by the time I dragged myself from my postwork-deathbed at 6.30pm, I had ten minutes to get ready.  The carriage waits not for godiva.

Fuck it, I pulled on my ebay jeans, complete with beef gravy stains from a roast dinner fight with samson a week before, a slinky camisole and the leopard mohair number to attempt a persona.  Extra small.  Result.  Only it’s some sort of fashion style that means it stops above my midriff, and the shoulders are ruffled up like tense rejects from dynasty.  The persona is unconvincing, and my date goes back thirteen years to university, and it appears I have nothing to hide beneath…..

When I met ‘quantum jump’, he searched the whole town for a white rose to show me his love.  And this is why I am here.  I need some ‘love’.  “I am ready for love”, I text him in my new year’s crisis.  “Only took you thirteen years”, he quips.

- Will we, won’t we? -

I remember from our yonder years that he is prolifically late, and as I wait for the number 11 at victoria station I instruct him to get moving, shivering in my scanties.

We are both late.  We are shown to our table. 

“I like your jumper”, he says.  “I’m still trying to get used to the shoulders.”

“dynasty?” I enquire, hopefully.

“I was thinking more edwardian”, he rebutts.

- but will he rebutt me, WILL HE? -

Sandwiched between dysfunctional sloany drunks and sensible americans eating giant green olives, I go with edwardian escort for now.

The restaurant we are in is my favourite chelsea establishment.  Definite mafia connections, overpriced food chosen off a music stand, baby squids that induce tears, bresaola and pears, fucked-up poshos looking for a food-excuse to get rat-arsed.

The fruity house white is flowing, and soon enough so is the conversation.

The hours disappear, and suddenly the buck-toothed south american waiter is speaking fluent italian at me and rubbing various body parts of mine, as quantum jump relieves himself downstairs.

“I’m paying you”, I shout at the sinister waiter who has scrawled my name in the diary as ‘dori’, (one away from doris),

“I’m paying you”, I say, “not to touch me up!”

The doors are now locked, and we are the last men sitting.  A young mobster stares at me quizzically across the room.  A look that says ‘why are you here’, with no question mark.

The oldest waiter opens his mouth only to sing “it’s just another glass” each time the south american pours another shot of limoncello down my willing throat.

I can’t see anymore.  It must be time to go.  White roses adorn all tables.

I grab a rose.  We wobble off into the night, walking to kensington via victorian townhouses.  Me shoving my wilted rose under noses of unsuspecting toffs. 

Punching bushes, stumbling over, spanking some girl, which I am told she liked.  This all recounted to me the next morn - my memory now locked away in the wine vault of my liver. 

We reach the hotel and I ask quantum why it is that we are going into a hospital.  Has this whole night been a devious ploy to finally get me sectioned, categorised, labelled and put on a shelf forever?

No.  It is a hotel, I am told.  In the room we drink tea and watch a terrible shopping channel where the ladies wear animal attire too hideous even for lady g.  And then it’s the very late time.  The time for bed time.  Yes.

Well…….not really as it turns out.  I’m sure he omitted to tell me he was seeing someone.  He said I was babbling too much for him to slip it in edgewise.  I brush this information aside – ‘seeing’ is not the same as ‘being’ with someone surely?  And I’ve waited all these years for the grand reveal of what I remember to be quite a conspicuous member….

“I’m going out with her.  There’s two single beds here.”  He points.

“THAT one is yours”.

Not happy.  NOT HAPPY. Feeling like a rapist tortorti physically removed from the subject of my affections, I put myself in the bed.  It’s like a hospital.  Okay, I can smile when saying ‘single’ on buses.  Not so when saying ‘single bed’. 

Knowing there is a feeding creature beneath the sheets lurking but a metre from my thirsty loins feels like torture.  I’m sure it’s twitching at me.

I do the undoable.  The shouldn’t-doable.  The “oh god NO, get out of my face-able”. 

I tell him I am getting in his bed. 

I get in.  Its singledom ensures close proximity.  He tells me to be ‘good’.  Okay, I’ll be ‘good’ alright….

We snuggle, him rubbing up significant pile on my fluffy tank top to make it unreturnable.

Then it’s massage.  Back massage.

Suddenly we take a quantum leap.  Suddenly I have worked my way down his erect nipples, to his smooth torso, to his……whoop, there it is!

I hold a psychic conversation with ‘little mystery’, as I call it.  I am transmitting to my new friend that the chocolates and biscotti weren’t enough.  I want my just dessert….

Staring at my lost love from thirteen long years ago, it is time to be reacquainted, and I realise with drunken delight that never before has this mystery entered godiva’s wanton face-orifice.

The waiting is over.  I stop just short of the money shot.  Dagnamit, I need this gig.  And then I wait….anticipate…..for

“STOP!”

OH NO!

“We have to be good.”

WHAT?  How much restraint has this man got?  Having a girlfriend never stopped him before, as I recall.  But he is no spring chicken.  And I shall never be his hen.

He goes to spoon me gently, and I erupt. 

I eject myself into the hospital stretcher and don’t bother to disguise my utter contempt at this no-show.  Don’t get me wrong, one in the mouth is great, but it isn’t two in the bush.

I burst into angry tears.  Having escaped my entry, he is probably familiarising himself with the emergency exit. 

‘I’m going to kill myself’, I think.  Or maybe I say it.  Through my angry, hospitalisationable tears.

All consumed by fired-up reptilian desire, I want to quench this fire.  Which would mean rape, at this stage.  Or masturbation?  Angry masturbation.  Doesn’t work.  Luckily for both of us, plans for my suicide are interrupted with the wine kicking in, and me passing out.

It’s the morning.

I am still drunk.  I can see the funny side of it all in the blinding light of day, thank god. 

Good on him for stopping where we did.  I don’t want another man’s homewreck etched upon my epitaph.  And he knew that I was only wanting what I shouldn’t have, as always.  Which is all I ever want.  Which is usually all I ever get……

The curtains are drawn, time has disappeared altogether.  We have passed through the twilight zone, and I have to get back to the squirrel’s nest for a gig, and I have no idea where I am.

My favourite.

Stumbling through the hospital-like reception I make it into the street.  And suddenly I’m on high street ken, staring at beige smocks in the m & s window, with a vague memory of admiring them the night before, though completely unaware of what city, let alone time zone I was in.

I have shades on.   I haven’t fallen over yet.  I join a similar casualty at a bus stop.  He is cute.  I start up a conversation  -which way to victoria?  But he is not amused, and in a plummy voice banishes me to the tube.

Not bloody likely;- though underground is probably the best place for godiva right now, she can’t bear the thought of a crammed black hole, and staggers on.

Not sure whether drunk, hungover or about to lose her bowels completely, she walks. 

Past the irish embassy where she performed an impromptu gig for some midgets, past the royal albert hall in its splendour.  Giving up at south ken and hopping on the district line.  Overpriced baguette and an engineering-works train.  Two hours finding remarkable comparisons with a marketing student who attends the same university we did passes quickly and strangely.

And home.  To feel wretched.  To feel guilty at not blogging.  To feel hungover and frustrated.

£100 quid for cock-breath, and no cigar. 

There’s only one thing for it - I’m taking back the fluffy-piled jumper, (£24.99), and replacing it with a one-month subscription to sugardaddie.com, (£21.99), to sustainably farm some hungry fish.