WORTH A SQUIRT? NOT IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE ANNOYING!
I thought I'd put one-night stands and mindless, meaningless encounters behind me. Not because I'm 30, but because I simply don't enjoy them. I never have. Sure, for half an hour - okay, two minutes - it feels great, I feel alive, desired, fulfilled. But then there's the aftermath which involves one or all of:
a) pretending to want the girl to stay over when all I really want to do is to roll over and get a good night's sleep without having to engage in inane conversation with someone I never had anything in common with in the first place. Will you give me back my bloody duvet!;
b) kicking the poor girl out or, better still, her asking me if I want her to stay, to which I say "it's up to you" or something that makes her think that it's her decision;
If I kick her out - which I would never do pro-actively - I feel guilty. But that's nothing compared with the sullied, cheap and empty feelings that overwhelm me if she stays.
Tonight I shared my bed - briefly - with Mariella, our voluptuous Brazilian (who, when the layers came off, actually wasn't as curvy in the right places as I had been led to believe).
After rebuffing my initial attempts to woo her to my home last week, she came back on the scene on Saturday night. I'd just been out with Lisa and we were back at my place watching Garden State (which is phenomenal) and engaging in intermittent smooching. (which reminds me - just downloaded Tenacious D "F*ck her Gently" on iTunes, which would be quite soothing and romantic if it didn't consist of advice on how best to bone your woman, albeit softly).
My phone bleated into life: a text message from Mariella. "So I'm at this place called Guanabara," it began. "and just saw a guy who looks so much like you. I almost asked if he was looking for on-board service. Wish it had been you! How are you?"
When Lisa went home, I replied. I told her I was fine and that it seemed she needed more entertaining. "I'm ready when you are..." I told her.
"So here's the thing," she said. "I have been ready. But I'm Brazilian, so the way it works is you have to begin entertaining me with drinks in a nice bar (some nice kissing) and we take it from there..."
Who was I to deprive her? So I took her out for two drinks tonight. Total bill, including my G&T and a diet coke: £9.00. Outside the bar - coincidentally-located just two blocks from my flat - the air was so cold that it sucked all the energy out of me. Mariella would be doing likewise within 15 minutes.
We got back to mine and started tearing into each other like bison on heat. But when I went to relieve her of her jeans, she stopped me. Frigid? Pricktease? Her period. Bollocks! "Okay," I thought to myself. "At least I can get a blowjob off her." Two in fact. The pleasure was double, though, not because she came back for second helpings. But because while being fellated by her I gained some respite from her Brazilian/faux-American accent and her incessant whining.
As we lay in bed in the afterglow, all I could think was how I really didn't want to be laying in bed in the afterglow with Mariella. Next to the woman that I love; my wife, one day, couldn't be happier. But being with someone I don't have those feelings for simply reinforces what's missing even more. It's just not worth it. Although I've never taken drugs, I assume that this is what the come-down must be like.
At 10.30pm, Mariella said she had to leave. Shame. I walked her to the station (because although I might not think or write like one I am, at least on the surface, still a gentleman). I don't think I'll ever see her again.
Which brings us back to Lisa. I took her out on Saturday night. We went to a pub. It was a former snog's birthday. Midway through the evening a pretty little, fun-sized girl walked up to me. I recognised her immediately. It was Veronica, my first love.
I hadn't seen Veronica in about 10 years. She still had the attractively-dimpled cheeks; the incongruous-lashing of pink lipstick; and a tom-boyish lariness that I found instantly attractive.
Of course, she was very different now to the Veronica I fell in love with when I was 10 years old. "You broke my heart," I reminded her. Laura, to her credit, didn't seem to mind that Iappearedd more interested in Veronica than her. I had just bumped into a long-lost primary school-friend, after all. I gave Veronica my card. The next day, she texted me to say how nicee it was bumping into me. "Likewise," I replied. I suggested we meet up. She said sure, but nothing confirmed so far.
My only fear now is that any day now another Veronica, one that my friend James is setting me up with, returns from Asia. So on the one hand I want everything to work out with Vernonica1 (there would be an element of poetry if I ended up marrying the girl I was besotted with at primary school). But I also want it to work with Veronica2, a tall, toned, fit blondey who once went out with my friend Samuel.
And Lisa? No complaints so far. At least, she's yet to be eliminated from my enquiries. Further probing definitely required.
I thought I'd put one-night stands and mindless, meaningless encounters behind me. Not because I'm 30, but because I simply don't enjoy them. I never have. Sure, for half an hour - okay, two minutes - it feels great, I feel alive, desired, fulfilled. But then there's the aftermath which involves one or all of:
a) pretending to want the girl to stay over when all I really want to do is to roll over and get a good night's sleep without having to engage in inane conversation with someone I never had anything in common with in the first place. Will you give me back my bloody duvet!;
b) kicking the poor girl out or, better still, her asking me if I want her to stay, to which I say "it's up to you" or something that makes her think that it's her decision;
If I kick her out - which I would never do pro-actively - I feel guilty. But that's nothing compared with the sullied, cheap and empty feelings that overwhelm me if she stays.
Tonight I shared my bed - briefly - with Mariella, our voluptuous Brazilian (who, when the layers came off, actually wasn't as curvy in the right places as I had been led to believe).
After rebuffing my initial attempts to woo her to my home last week, she came back on the scene on Saturday night. I'd just been out with Lisa and we were back at my place watching Garden State (which is phenomenal) and engaging in intermittent smooching. (which reminds me - just downloaded Tenacious D "F*ck her Gently" on iTunes, which would be quite soothing and romantic if it didn't consist of advice on how best to bone your woman, albeit softly).
My phone bleated into life: a text message from Mariella. "So I'm at this place called Guanabara," it began. "and just saw a guy who looks so much like you. I almost asked if he was looking for on-board service. Wish it had been you! How are you?"
When Lisa went home, I replied. I told her I was fine and that it seemed she needed more entertaining. "I'm ready when you are..." I told her.
"So here's the thing," she said. "I have been ready. But I'm Brazilian, so the way it works is you have to begin entertaining me with drinks in a nice bar (some nice kissing) and we take it from there..."
Who was I to deprive her? So I took her out for two drinks tonight. Total bill, including my G&T and a diet coke: £9.00. Outside the bar - coincidentally-located just two blocks from my flat - the air was so cold that it sucked all the energy out of me. Mariella would be doing likewise within 15 minutes.
We got back to mine and started tearing into each other like bison on heat. But when I went to relieve her of her jeans, she stopped me. Frigid? Pricktease? Her period. Bollocks! "Okay," I thought to myself. "At least I can get a blowjob off her." Two in fact. The pleasure was double, though, not because she came back for second helpings. But because while being fellated by her I gained some respite from her Brazilian/faux-American accent and her incessant whining.
As we lay in bed in the afterglow, all I could think was how I really didn't want to be laying in bed in the afterglow with Mariella. Next to the woman that I love; my wife, one day, couldn't be happier. But being with someone I don't have those feelings for simply reinforces what's missing even more. It's just not worth it. Although I've never taken drugs, I assume that this is what the come-down must be like.
At 10.30pm, Mariella said she had to leave. Shame. I walked her to the station (because although I might not think or write like one I am, at least on the surface, still a gentleman). I don't think I'll ever see her again.
Which brings us back to Lisa. I took her out on Saturday night. We went to a pub. It was a former snog's birthday. Midway through the evening a pretty little, fun-sized girl walked up to me. I recognised her immediately. It was Veronica, my first love.
I hadn't seen Veronica in about 10 years. She still had the attractively-dimpled cheeks; the incongruous-lashing of pink lipstick; and a tom-boyish lariness that I found instantly attractive.
Of course, she was very different now to the Veronica I fell in love with when I was 10 years old. "You broke my heart," I reminded her. Laura, to her credit, didn't seem to mind that Iappearedd more interested in Veronica than her. I had just bumped into a long-lost primary school-friend, after all. I gave Veronica my card. The next day, she texted me to say how nicee it was bumping into me. "Likewise," I replied. I suggested we meet up. She said sure, but nothing confirmed so far.
My only fear now is that any day now another Veronica, one that my friend James is setting me up with, returns from Asia. So on the one hand I want everything to work out with Vernonica1 (there would be an element of poetry if I ended up marrying the girl I was besotted with at primary school). But I also want it to work with Veronica2, a tall, toned, fit blondey who once went out with my friend Samuel.
And Lisa? No complaints so far. At least, she's yet to be eliminated from my enquiries. Further probing definitely required.
posted by David Cohen at 11:46 pm
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I LOVE your blogs! All I have to say.
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