As a continuation from my last post, I decided to keep the titles in sync. ‘Cause that’s how I roll ho.
It started with me feeling really pasty after shunning sunbeds for a whole month, and then desperately wanting a tan to compliment my new Birkin man. So I slap on one of the tanning creams that the sun bed shop I work part-time for doesn’t sell (probably because it hasn’t been FDA approved) and I start getting hot. Really hot. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look like sebastian the lobster. Oh my God, I must be having an allergic reaction to the accelerator cream! After phoning NHS Direct, whilst almost having a stroke, they tell me to calm down and to read the packet to them. I get to the second sentence before realising it had tingle cream in it.
*Hangs up phone*
So now that I was darker than a mahogany coffee table I was ready to meet my mans so he could tell me how pretty and Puerto Rican I looked! But he didn’t. He didn’t even attempt it in his boss-tongued lingo. Turns out he was feeling pretty down, telling me how he felt emotionless and was beating himself up for not going to the gym. LORD! As if you’ve invited me over while you’re on a comedown. Pull yourself together or cancel! I tried to tell him “Cheer up!” but he just thought I was singing the Chiwawa song they play at Zumba classes.
When we get into his flat, he puts his finger to his lips to signal silence. I assumed the Landlady had taken her rake-like frame and bird’s nest hair to bed. He then turns off the hallway light, and we’re left in pitch black. And I mean it was darker than Lennie Henry’s ball sack. So naturally, I fall over a mirror (that was ever-so-smartly situated in the hallway. You know, just leaning against the wall like it was waiting for a bus) causing an almighty racket. Firstly, you don’t tell someone “sssh” before taking away their sight and leading them into an obstacle course. But then he laughs. As if I had to injure myself for him to crack a smile – what was this Nickelodeon?
Still, we spoke different languages but he wasn’t stupid, and he was certainly resourceful. When the laptop overheated, he balanced it on two boxes of condoms allowing the air to get underneath. Whereas I just blow on mine.
So we do the dirty, and you know it’s good when you’re dying for a cigarette afterwards.
“Can we smoke out the window?” I asked hopefully.
“No, but yes ’cause now I want one -”
*I open the window before interrupting*
“- Sure you can! There’s an ashtray on the win…”
*Watches ashtray drop three floors down* “…pavement.”
Whoopsie. I may have legs like tasty chicken drumsticks, but these fingers were all buttersticks!
And talking of food, we had some delicious pineapple pieces, although when he pulled out the plastic cutlery I nearly had a cardiac arrest. Until a text from my friend Darren told me to stop being a snob and brought me back to earth. OK, the cutlery doesn’t bother me anymore.
He then starts watching some blah blah success video on YouTube, about how you gotta work to be successful. Interspersed with cheesy lines from ‘Rocky Balboa’ and ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ and he looks like he’s about to cry as if Bambi’s mum just died. He was definitely on a comedown. Nobody relates Sylvester Stallone to their own life and tears up. So obviously I comfort him by giving him a brief hug and going to the bathroom to fix my make up. In front of the mirror, I have mascara all over my face! As if I was the one that had been blubbing… I looked like I’d gone under in Lauren Goodger’s make-up bag. After I’d made myself pretty again, I cringed a little bit at Rocky, and then I felt bad for him. I should help him. So I agreed to look over his CV and help him get a job (let’s face it, he’s gonna need one if he’s gonna be taking me out for dinner). Making myself pretty for him and offering to read his CV – I was practically Florence Nightingale or Saint Bernadette.
Then, when I saw his CV, I did an unsaintly thing and gasped in horror.
“No. This picture? No.”
To put in terms he’d understand. Why would you use a photo that makes you look like something off Costa Del Street Crime? I sent his CV to an organised crime ring in Mexico – even they sent it back and said he looks too dangerous. No wonder he was unemployed. Then after erasing the memory of that photo from my mind (hate having nightmares), we lay down on his single bed, pressed in closer together than Christina Hendrick’s breasts at an awards ceremony. Not sure how the mammoth ended up being the little spoon, but he did. Then she started winding’ her batty pon me, at first I thought he must have Cheryl Cole’s Ghetto Baby stuck in his head (’cause you know you can’t hear that shit without winding girl!) But then when I heard the faint moans, I guessed she wanted to go for round two…
I’ve heard the phrase ‘chihuahua pounding a pitball’ but this was a whole new level! Which was fine, until he wanted it bareback. We’d only known each other for a week and a half, and hadn’t even figured out how to say the word “bareback” to each other yet. Which I felt was a bit irresponsible. Aside from that, it’s so not about pulling your dick out of someone’s ass with it looking like Mr.Hanky. And who knew saying “I’m scared of sexually transmitted infections” wouldn’t cross the language barrier as easily as I thought.
Not that he had any pubes to catch crabs from, but you get my drift.
This incident had began niggling at me – or should I say wiggling at me. If you wanna have sex without a condom that’s down to you, I’m gonna wear one anyway – but don’t interrupt MY sleep for sex. And we’re not just talking one time, we’re talking like FOUR times. I’d already made him cum twice – how did he have any jizz left?! This is what happens when you’re the size of a whale – you have too much stamina in bed! I had work in three hours and had already hardly slept because you own a match box for a bed – and you expect me to have energy to rag? I need double beds and days off work. And even then – don’t ever interrupt my sleep.
“I will cut you…” – Bon Qui Qui.
I think after our second encounter it showed that I wasn’t ready for a relationship where I was restricted in my favourite past-time; talking. I mean what’s the point in me yammering on, if he can’t understand how fabulous I’m telling him I am. And if he can’t tell me that I look Caribbean after a sunbed? On the plus side at least I could explore (did I say “explore”? I meant expose) our dates online without him being intimidated.
But girl, where’s that damn Birkin Bag? ‘Cause I’m trading this man in. To be honest – I think the bag just gets me more.