Eating Out For Breakfast

The only reason to be out the house before 9am on a hangover, aside from a fry up – is a throw down. One of the down sides of the evolution of technology is waking up every half hour and checking your notifications on every social network (yeah I’m totes addicted). One of the plus sides however, is receiving a message from the fittest bloke you’ve ever seen and going for an early morning wake up call. There’s the weigh up of getting on public transport while you’re still half pissed after 4 hours sleep (less desirable than Janet Street Porter in PVC underwear) and having sex with an absolute stallion (more desirable than Matt Damon in, well, any underwear). But when he offers to send a car to come get you… honey, the deal is done.

“Are you *Daniel?” Asked the taxi driver as I got in.
I pondered for a minute; before agreeing. It’s nice to be someone else for a day, and today I was *Daniel.
“Would you like the radio on Mr *Daniel?”

Yes Jeeves, yes I would. Just to ensure I was all horned up he puts on Suicide FM. Nora Jones though? Seriously. It’s probably the first time I’ve wanted to kill myself BEFORE meeting a stranger for sex. And while having a shag pay for your travel is totally bouji, you know you’ve made it when you’re clipping your nails out the window of a company car. Of course on the outside you’re like:

But the inside is:

Pure VICTORY DANCE.

We pulled up to what looked like some huge estate. He opened the back door (of his flat) and was even better looking in person. That cheeky boy-next-door smile, that body, and that accent. OH, MOIRA.

‘Moira’ (Moy-rah) noun: The person one calls out to when he/she just cannot cope with a situation. 

And if you know me then you know accents have me gushing like the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, but girl I almost called the midwife – I thought my waters had broke. He had an extremely trendy place too so I’m thinking I better suck dick like my life depended on it, ’cause this ones a keeper.

“Do you want a line? A shot?” he asked.
Erm, does the Pope shit in the woods? Is the bear a catholic? Duh. 
Needless to say that was the day I fell off the wagon. But some things are more important than looking/feeling good; and it this case it had dark features and a welsh accent. I felt bad that my hard work staying sober had come to an end, but…

So that was my breakfast. I wonder what the doctor would say. Actually no I don’t care, I was living. And he’d been up all night so it would have just been plain rude for me to turn it down. A morning like that on an empty stomach tends to kick in a lot quicker than usual, so it wasn’t long before we were buzzing like Lady Gaga on tonight’s X Factor and fooling around on his sofa.

Now I always say, never trust a man that wants to fuck on the sofa. It usually means he has a man and doesn’t wanna do it in his bed. Or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered to change the sheets, but surely bodily fluids on an imported corner couch is harder to clean than throwing the linen in the wash. Maybe he’d had someone in just before me and hadn’t cleaned them. OMG – was I a revolving shag? Where they just have men coming in one after another like those automatic hotel doors. Meh – just another one of life’s mysteries. And not necessarily one I cared to analyse.

Unfortunately our steamy/sleazy rendezvous got cut short when he got called into work, but we arranged for round two over the weekend.

Needless to say, round two never came.

Still, least it was a breakfast to remember. And obviously I did what anybody would do in such a situation. I decided that a shot and few lines (and getting all flustered under the waistband) was too much to go and have a work out on. So I re-diverted the taxi to a chill out. *Files nails.

Other posts you might like:
>> “Not Myself Tonight”
>> Down Under
>> East is East