“Not Myself Tonight”

Some of you may or may not know that I’ve been off drugs for three weeks. And let me tell you there are some things that are just absolutely impossible to do when you’re not nasal cartilage deep in snow. For instance, going to East Bloc sober is like being chained up by a fat gimp and tortured; only less fun.
Similarly, skanking out to house music is just a total no-go; cut to you on the dance floor looking like your frigid friend Freida after she’s been wocked out by six black men. It’s also a lot harder to go meet a stranger for sex in a hotel. Last week, I attempted all three. Talking specifically about the last one; something I wouldn’t even bat an eyelid over after twelve bags of mephedrone, suddenly seemed ridiculously daunting sober. Four spliffs on a hangover still counts as sober right?

So I had to weigh up the pros and cons, and it soon became inevitable that I’d be taking a little detour on my way home from my friend’s place.  The guy in question had set up the perfect scenario: it was his last night in the country before he goes back to the other side of the world.
So a) if things went disastrously wrong – which they frequently do – I’d never have to see him again. And could repress the memory of anything too kinky he wanted to do; there was no way
Or b) if things went great I’d given him a last night in London to remember.
My friends and I even discussed a less realistic third option while dining over steaks at the Hoxton Hotel. In between covering up the inappropriate outfits we still had on from the night before, and checking out the table of hot boys next to ours, we talked about option (c) The Dream.
This involves going, having mind-blowing sex, followed by a post-coitus conversation…

You: So I’m gonna shoot off.
Him: Really? Well, you’re more than welcome to stay until the morning.
You: I would but I’ve gotta get up for the gym and stuff.
Him: Babe, your body is perfect, you don’t need to go – and we can work out here.

(Yes, I’m aware how far-fetched this is).
So you stay the night and then in the morning he tells you he’s actually bare rich and wants you to go back to Australia with him that day. You drop everything and do it, and live happily ever after with a Bohemian lifestyle as an aussie stoner with a pet kangaroo. Unfortunately the chances of this are slimmer than Mischa Barton at Paris Fashion Week ‘09.

The more stoned I got, the less likely I could see myself going; honestly, I was nervous. Truth is I hadn’t met someone for hot hotel sex in ages – and he looked fit. I was more intimidated than Sarah Jessica Parker that one time they gave Kim Cattrall the main story line.
So while I found myself in a difficult situation, there’s always something that tips the scale, and this time it happened to be his hotel; Swanky St. Martin’s lane top floor. Yes. Because the only thing better than hotel sex is swanky hotel sex. For an hour and a half you get to feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman; without the pay cheque at the end.

So it was decided that I’d be a fool to pass it up; fit shags in bouji Covent Garden suites don’t come along every day, right? But there was one large factor making me reconsider. Why had I just inhaled lunch like I was Kerry Katona at the free tasters tray in Iceland?
I pulled in my stomach muscles to see if I could still comfortably tense without squeezing out a shit or being in unbearable pain. And I could. Five days a week at the gym sounds like hell but the new regime certainly had benefits; and spontaneous sex after a satisfying meal was just one of them. So I waited for the food-baby to subside and hopped on a bus; no tan, no shower and dirty clothes. Glam.
But I thought sometimes you need to just grab life (or a Grindr meet) by the balls and go for it. Life is about taking chances and doing things that scare you a little. Life is also about taking opportunities. Of course, not all opportunities are meant to be taken. But it’s about saying yes to ones like this, and no to the “Chem sex with sleazy sub and fetish for armpits.”

So I turned on Christina Aguilera’s ‘Not Myself Tonight’ to aid the transition of stoner so lazy he hadn’t washed:

to Kathryn from Cruel Intentions:

When I walked through the main door of the hotel, I glanced around at the draped curtains and blue lighting; it was like being in a Britney video. Although not sure the staff of the 5 star establishment would have appreciated me dancing like a stripper in a k-hole through their reception.

Coming out of the lift I walked through hallways that were dimly lit with minimalist orange glowing lights. The maid clocked me knocking on his door and cut her eye at me. Luckily for her, I was so baked I couldn’t even muster the energy for:

And of course after he opens the door, there’s always the first 20 seconds of awkwardness while you decide if the person’s pictures were an accurate portrayal or just wondering why their profile said ‘Straight Acting’ when they’re mincing around in a jockstrap asking “want a shot darling?” in an octave higher than expected. Fortunately, his pictures were accurate and we were able to sit and actually have a level headed conversation.
So we sat on the bed talking for a while and he was actually quite intelligent. It’s been a while since I fucked someone with half a brain or not so high they couldn’t tell their arse from their elbow.

Still it was a welcome surprise to have a sexual encounter that didn’t end in embarrassment. Well, not for us anyway. The maid that came into the room to leave his ironed clothes – who we hadn’t even noticed – may be a different story.

Other posts you might like:
>> The Art of Dating: Sponsored by Gaydar
>>“Easy, Sleazy, Brazen” 
>> Great Wall of Grindr: Cruel Intentions