OK, so the Christmas break is finally over and I’m back to blogging about my dating disasters (on the world’s worst come-down, obviously).
I don’t know why they call it Boxing Day… Maybe it originates from “Get out your box” day, maybe it was the day they moved Jesus from the manger into a box and set off again on the donkey, or maybe it’s simply the day you box up all the shit men, dates and sexual experiences you had that year and prepare for the next, who knows? But this is where we pick up…
So Boxing Day, with our fabulous friend finally returned from six months in San Fran, our clique had been reunited. Naturally, Soho drinks rapidly turned into an all night club… Ahh our own traditional Christmas – just how the homos of Bethlehem celebrated.
At the point of boredom/aggitation, I’m ushered over to dance by a stranger. He had dark spikey hair and his combat trousers reminded me of action man, sort of. Not a girl to recline a dance, I totes obliged. F.Y.I- a gram and a half of k is not the best motivation to bust a move, cut to me doing the Ross Geller robot, LATER. Anyway, I can feel a familiar body rolling and a quick flashback takes me to a recent memory. So he begins winding like Cassie, goes in into a pop, drop and lock like the vampiric dancer of Usher’s Yeah video and finishes with a Pussycat Dolls hand-clap to the floor. Drop me out. This type of dancing was made for man and woman at a dancehall rave… not man and man in public, unlike the Salsa. One only let it continue for so long because he was cute, before taking a side-seat, pulling the Sarah Harding card and claiming “exhaustion” to his buck-tooth fairy of a friend.
Anyway when the opportunity arises to dance ‘n’ dash, i.e. dancing with someone briefly before dashing back to one of your houses for sex, I take it. So after Wynona Ryder’ing my friends house keys (taking without asking) it felt like the car-ride of a century. Yes, you damn right we drove. No sunglasses = no public transport. The tempermental journey left the gear-stick not the only thing that needed manouvering. Finally back to an empty flat (minus our two friends in the other room), after a dance so sexual one of us may be pregnant, I concluded that we were a little past small talk and wasted no time stripping off.
After a little bit of awkward foreplay, he finally picked up his cowgirl hat, jumped on the horse and hit the rodeo. In this vivid image where I’m the mechanical bull and he’s Miranda (SATC), he was only a lassoo short from a real rodeo. We were definitely in cowboy territory here, although anyone would’ve thought she was riding a horse, not a man. Whipping his head round in pleasure like a samalian teenager doing the dutty wine, (“Can we get a neckbrace, stat!”) and moaning so loud I could see his diaphragm vibrate, I was forced to use my palm to muzzle his trap. WHILE still bucking my pelvis like Elvis on E… Who knew I could multi-task? Fierce.
He rocked, bounced and panted like a lonely housewife that’d found herself on the washing machine. Then after what was probably the quickest sex known to man (an orgasm’s an orgasm right?) I was back to reality, or as close to reality as one can be after two bags bursting full of horse tranquilizer, (and thus, Cocktails and Cocktalk becomes Ketamine and Cowboys for the night).
Still it’s always good to know that the hip-thrusting at 1:10 of the Call On Me video taught us something, am I right? Even I was waiting for the plastic saddles and baggage to go flying across the room like a childhood game of Buckaroo.