…stays in the hotel. And on the blog. And our mobile phones.

Finally. After all the years of shit dates, I finally get a good one… Although, you should probably hear the back story first…

It was three and a half years ago at a trashy pool party over Gran Canaria pride. I was drunk off my arse, and wearing another ratchet outfit from the wardrobe of camp. After I’d entered the Mr. Gay Gran Canaria competition (I know, who the fuck was I kidding – but stick by the fact that my judgement was impaired from a sole diet of WKD and ice poles).
He was fit and approached me with what remains to this day, one of the best chat up lines I’ve ever heard;
“Do you want some drugs?”
Does the Pope shit in the woods? Obviously. It was like he could read my soul. And even when I lifted up his shades to see him properly, and his eyes boggled, some guys would’ve been puzzled if he was in fact looking at them. I just thought he was endearingly self-destructive. And after ketamine I always go a little cross-eyed too, so who was I to judge.
So we went to the toilets for a dab of MDMA, and while riffling through his baggie (and his swimming trunks) I came across a pill – so naturally, dropped that too. Took him back to my room, where until this weekend just gone, I was a little bit (OK, a lot) blurry on the events that followed. He tells me that we fooled around for a bit, before I kicked him out, whilst drousing myself in glitter (another diabolical fashion faux pas from my teen years) exclaiming “Sorry, you gotta go, I’ve got places to be” – like some sketty version of the White Rabbit. Later! Totes scarlet.
But still, that didn’t stop us from having a great date almost four years on. I was definitely nervous beforehand. God knows why, am sure David Beckham doesn’t get nervous before a football match, and Beyoncé doesn’t get nervous before a gig. It’s a known fact… people don’t get nervous when they know they’re good at stuff. So why was this the most nervous I’d been for years before sex? And it’s not even like it was the first time we’d done stuff; there was that time in the KFC toilets at Picadilly Circus, although hopefully this time we’d actually get to use a bed. I just kept telling myself;
“I’m no Mena Suvari, but I’m great in bed!” – Miranda Hobbs, Sex and The City.
We went ice skating at Somerset House, before cocktails and dinner at a Mexican restaurant. And after eating solid food for the first time since the early 90s, and sipping on Long Island Iced Teas weaker than Betty White’s bladder – in true ‘first date’ form, it was time to ditch the romantics and get well and truly ratchet (but still glamorous, obviously). Back to the hotel to get ready before hitting up the Mister App Launch Party, although I totally could’ve ditched it (and my knickers) and just got high and slutty in the hotel room. But like the dedicated club critic I am, we headed out anyway. Only to be presented with;
#ThatAwkwardMoment when you bump into your uni lecturer, while frolicking outside a hotel with a lover on one arm and a bottle of vodka in the other.
On the way, the sexual tension showed no signs of simmering – and let me tell you, if you haven’t had someone put their hands down the front of your trousers on a packed tube – you haven’t lived. And I’m not talking about that guy with the long unwashed hair that lives at Elephant & Castle station. Although to be fair, his public handjobs are popular.
At the launch party, in-between laughing at the posters of ‘vulnerable’ Bears exclaiming “I call my mother every day” (I mean, seriously, WTF. You a want masculine-man-slash-mummys-boy? They’re like total binary opposites) and digesting enough plant food to grow a forest – I was rashing on him like a lust-struck teen. I’d actually become part of that couple that I used to throw half my Pornstar Martini and hiss “Get a room bitches!” at. But at that moment, I didn’t care.
Back at the hotel things were certainly not vanilla (thank God) – although they did get a little golden (and that’ll be all I say on the subject). It’s also safe to say I’ve never taken so many dirty pictures in my entire life. Basically, if his phone gets robbed and I get famous – I’m totally fucked. But things were so much hotter than I expected, I’ll address that situation when it arises. One thing he said he liked about me was that “you’re not slaggy, and don’t go putting it about”.
AS IF I’d pulled off an Oscar-worthy performance without even knowing. No, but in fairness, I’m probably a lot less slutty than the blog suggests. Unless, I’m on holiday, and it’s 2009.
But needless to say, it’s rare to find someone you get on with on the street and in the sheets. It’s Monday, and we’re still talking, therefore it certainly ranks pretty high in my list of dates. Starting four years down the line definitely helped, we were able to skip those awkward first date conversations;
“So… do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Yeah. He’s in prison and she’s fifteen and pregnant.”
and we’d already seen each other in enough states to know what we were getting ourselves in for. And we were both OK with that. But like all dates, there’s always at least one downfall; he doesn’t live in London. Damn. Who knows as to whether long distance ever works – but you’ve gotta try first.