Why I can never, ever work in that office again

Two weeks ago, a new bar opened on the same block as my company. Or rather, it reopened, having been closed for about a year. Until its closure, it was the number one spot for people at my company, and the location of many of my debaucherous nights out; its reopening was very highly anticipated. Great crowds were expected for their opening party, with exclusive entry and long queues to avoid overcrowding. Luckily, I’ve been around long enough that I knew what to expect, and made sure that me and my friends got in hassle free, without waiting in line.

Anyone who’s anyone was there. I saw dozens of people that I knew, and just walking to the bar to get a drink felt like a high school reunion. I had expected all of the guys from my old office to be there – they were very firm regulars at the old place – and was very surprised to only run into two of them, neither of whom I’ve ever even considered a dalliance with. I’d gone to the opening with the guys from my new office (obviously, in my new office of ten, I’m the only woman) who I don’t yet know all that well (and luckily don’t fancy), so instead of hobnobbing and talking to everyone, I stayed with this group of people and had a lot of fun. Disappointingly, the guys from my office aren’t exactly party animals, and they left at about 8pm, leaving me with two guys who were friends with someone from my office. We chatted, but I wasn’t that interested in them, so when I went to get a drink and saw The Editor talking in a group to one of the guys from my old office near the bar, I leapt at the opportunity to converse with far more exciting acquaintances, as well as to interact with The Editor in a more social setting than the newspaper office. None of us realised that we were mutually friends, and so that gave us a starter, and from there conversation flowed.

I’d never really spend much time with this guy in the office, despite knowing him for years, I wasn’t actually sure that we’d ever had a one on one conversation. All I knew about him was that he sailed a lot, and he was dating someone who I went to university with, but didn’t really know (small world, isn’t it?). With The Editor distracted by the others in this group of people, The Sailor says to me, with a flirtatious smile, “So. How’s your love life?” I assumed that he was referring to the incident with G, frowned, and asked whether he was joking. He wasn’t, he swore, it was a genuine question. I responded with a wry smile, telling him that it was disappointingly dull, and nothing was going on. Ah yes, he lamented. “Mine too.” It was then that I remembered hearing that he’d broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago, after being together for years. I’d assumed that they would have got back together, I felt bad for him. But I changed the topic of conversation, lest he get depressed, and started gossiping about people in his office. It wasn’t really flirty, just friendly, and I was happy when The Editor rejoined our conversation.

I was pulling out all the stops with The Editor, at my most charming, with funny stories coming out of my ears. It was going well – I remember him saying that I was the most interesting person that he’d ever met, and conversation was flowing readily. Despite the rest of the people he was with drifting off, he didn’t seem keen to leave. At the same time, neither did The Sailor. The Sailor was keeping me supplied with drinks, and as he drank more, he started flirting, and was becoming quite tactile about it, constantly touching me in some way. I was panicking that this might give The Editor the wrong impression, and was focussed on not reciprocating in any way, while at the same time being royally confused. The Sailor knew that I’d slept with one of his office-mates (luckily, he didn’t know that out of the five guys, it was actually two, with the other two being married and asexual), why was he hitting on me? I’d never thought about him sexually in the remotest sense, I just didn’t know what to make of it.

After several more pints, and some shots of tequila that I made the boys drink instead of me (“Trust me guys, you do not want me to drink that tequila. I am not responsible for my actions if I have tequila”), as it got much later and approached the closing time of the bar, The Sailor won this standoff between men, and The Editor made his excuses and disappeared. Although I’m sure that he said that he would be back, I didn’t see him again after that, although that could be because I got a little distracted. Now we were alone, The Sailor upped the ante, and flirted even harder. There didn’t really seem to be a reason to fight it anymore, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I kissed him back. Soon we were up against a pillar, necking like teenagers, in a bar that had called time and was waiting for people to leave.

I pulled away from him, slightly embarrassed at the situation. “They’re closing,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck. I looked around, confused. I didn’t realise that it was so late.
“I guess we’d better leave then,” I murmured back.
“What do you want to do?”
I shrugged, raising my eyebrows.
I could see him weighing his options. “I want to go somewhere and spend more time with you,” he eventually said.
Very cautiously put. I grinned. “Well, let’s go then!”

At this point, I don’t really know what I was planning. He’d certainly got me hot and bothered, but I wasn’t sure if I liked him enough to take him home. I’ll probably leave him at the tube, I reasoned. The walk to the tube took a lot longer than usual. Stopping every few steps to press each other up against glass windows that we normally look out of during the day, our eager hands explored each other in the relative privacy of the dark streets. If that hadn’t got me riled up enough to decide to sleep with him, the decision had been made for me when we got to the tube station. Much in the same way as had happened with Homeboy, I’d missed the last tube home in my direction, and really had no choice but to go home with The Sailor.

We spent the tube ride being those horribly inappropriate people you sometimes see, unable to keep their hands off each other, and barely keeping their behaviour to an appropriate public level. Tube trains are well lit, after all. Luckily, it was only a few stops. Once off the tube, we played a more residential version of our few steps to distraction game. After a probably illegal few minutes against a wall, I pushed him back. “There’s something that I should tell you,” I said seriously. “This morning, I made the decision between coffee and shaving my legs. Coffee won. They’re pretty hairy.”
“Are you serious?” He laughed. “Is that really your biggest concern right now?”
“Well,” I said. “Yes!”
He kissed me.

In between the wall moments, we held hands and had those pseudo-deep conversations that you can only have with people that you’re sleeping with. Eventually, we reached his house, and headed straight for the bedroom, with a temporary diversion so that we could both pee. Both relieved, I pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. We were suddenly both trying to rid each other of our clothes in record time. He fumbled with my bra, but then got it undone, and in one swift motion he rid my upper body of several layers of material. Still straddling him, I pulled him into a half sitting position and took off his t shirt, then reached down to undo his belt. As soon as I’d done this, I felt his strong arms hold onto me, and he somehow stood up, lifted me against the door, shed his jeans, and tug mine down over my hips, all in one swift motion. I was impressed, and very turned on – I didn’t realise he was packing that kind of strength! Eventually we were standing there, both totally naked. He made some lighting adjustments, and we dived under the covers of his bed.

Ever the gentleman, he seemed to be very focussed on my pleasure. As I tried to go down on him, he asked me the question that every girl deserves to hear. “Don’t you want me to make you come?” Ever one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and hoping that he’d make it up to me), I wanted to fuck him more than I wanted him to make me come, at that moment in time. After what felt like a lifetime of waiting, he eased into me, and we both moaned in ecstasy. After what was becoming far too long a dry spell, it was incredible to finally feel someone inside me again. And what I was becoming increasingly aware of was that he was really, really big! We fucked exactly as you’d imagine, like two people who were both breaking a drought. It was fast, hard, and passionate. We eventually broke apart, and lay back on the bed, panting and satisfied.

Exhausted, we shifted into spooning, and he fell asleep. I lay there, warm and comfortable, but unable to sleep. After a while, I decided to get up and go to the bathroom. I’d been drinking for hours, I was drunk, thirsty, and I needed to pee again. Unfortunately, I had no idea where my clothes were. Luckily, as I was looking for them, he woke up long enough to direct me to his robe, which pretty much came down to my feet. After drinking as much water as I could bear from the tap, I got back into bed with him, and went to sleep. Fast forward a few hours, when I woke up deathly hungover at about 7am. I needed more water, but was too hungover to get it, and he was still dead to the world. I think I did the classic girl thing of lying awake, tossing and turning, until he was sufficiently disturbed to wake up. Without my even saying anything, he pretty quickly went a filled a massive glass of water and put it by the bed. Either he’s psychic, or he’s a hell of a catch.

We fell back to sleep, entangled in each others arms, but were rudely awakened by the doorbell. The Sailor sprung out of bed urgently, and put on his robe, as I heard someone calling his name from the hallway. He offered no explanation as he disappeared out of the room. I could hear a lot of activity, but I had no idea what’s going on. I knew that I had two options: get dressed and prepare to leave, or pretend to be asleep. I opted for the latter, and tried not to freak out as the minutes ticked by. About fifteen minutes later, he came back into the room, shed his robe, and got back into bed.

“S’going on?”
“Tesco delivery. I was supposed to be up for it… Did my alarm go off?”
“Uh, I didn’t hear one. What time is it?” It was gone 11am, too late to be hanging around after a one night stand. “I should probably go…”
“Nah,” he replied, wrapping his arms tighter around me. “Leaving is overrated.”

We lay in bed for another few hours, chatting, snoozing, and intermittently shagging (because how can you not, when you’re naked in bed with someone?). He held up on his side of the bargain and went down on me, doing things with his tongue and fingers that I cannot possibly explain and feel that everyone should know about. I wanted to ask what he was doing, so that I can teach it to every man ever, but I didn’t think it was the right time – it seemed like there would be more opportunities to ask on the horizon, after all. Getting hungry, he offered to make me breakfast, which kept failing to materialise as we got distracted from the task of finding food. After a final round, ending on the magnificent climax of a simultaneous orgasm (pretty good for a first time, it was only the second time I’ve ever come without any direct clitoral stimulation), we lay back on the bed, gasping for air. It was nearly 2pm. “Right,” I said, once our breathing slowed. “Let’s get something to eat.”

It became apparent that in order to eat, we would have to leave his bedroom. It also became apparent that we would have to face his housemates. No problem, I thought, I’m not ashamed. I would take a stride of pride into their midst, hair a mess and reeking of sex. “Who are your housemates?”

My heart dropped when he told me that he lived with one of the guys from the office and his wife. I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Of course you live with him,” I said, cringing. Luckily, due to his being married, the housemate was a lot less laddish than the others, and at least wouldn’t say anything to me. I took my time getting dressed while The Sailor made french toast. In fact, I took so long that he came to find me and asked if I was hiding. I was, sort of, but only in a delaying the inevitable sort of way. Fortunately, in this time he seemed to have taken the hint, and told his housemates to make themselves scarce. The wife had gone out, and the husband was in his room. Breakfast was delicious and very welcome; The Sailor was clearly a very competent cook. Plates cleared, we each curled up at opposite ends of the two seater sofa and chatted, nursing cups of tea. Our conversation was slightly stilted, it was obviously a bit awkward, and moving between topics of conversation was difficult. However we found lots to talk about, even beyond work we had quite a bit in common. This was the first time we’d ever had a conversation alone together, I realised.

Eventually the housemate reappeared, and came out for a cup of tea before leaving. He was admirable – he didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my presence (he’d obviously been warned, but I didn’t expect him to be able to keep a straight face after probably hearing us at it all night) and acted as though it was totally normal that I was in his house looking like a mess at three in the afternoon.

Once the housemate left, it was slightly easier. Every so often I would suggest that I ought to leave, and he’d brush it away, encouraging me to stay. Eventually, it was gone 5pm. “It’s dark outside!” exclaimed The Sailor.
“Okay, this time I really do have to leave,” I insisted. He offered to walk me to the tube station, and after gathering my things, we set off. Unlike the previous night, we didn’t hold hands as we walked, instead out hands buried deep in coat pockets to protect from the cold. I didn’t say much, waiting for him to address the meaning of this day in some way, but it never came. At the station, he hugged me, our first significant physical contact since getting out of bed. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Maybe at the bar.” He grinned.

I didn’t really know what to make of it all. He was giving off so many mixed signals, that could be attributed to awkwardness, I just had no idea how he felt. After relaying the story to the BFF, we decided that maybe there was potential. He’d added me on facebook during the evening, so when I went online to accept his friend request that evening, I took the opportunity to send him a message. I know, why would I do that? All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

“So… How’s your love life? ;)”

Nearly two days later of mildly freaking out (though not even close to the levels of stress reached with G):

“A bit messed up, you?”

What even is that?! What does it mean? I waited a few hours, and consulted the BFF on a reply that would be technically neutral, but not unenthusiastic, just in case. And to be honest, I was offended by his messed up comment, I wanted to know what it meant.

“A little bit more interesting than yesterday. Why is yours messed up?”

Two days passed. In that time, I had an excellent session at the gym, and managed to sweat out all my nervous energy. I wasn’t bothered anymore, he’d taken too long to reply, he obviously wasn’t interested. Then…

“Because I’m a rubbish person”

Well. What sort of grown man sends a message like that? I knew that I could do one of two things in response: either send a bitchy reply, calling him out on his ambiguity, or I could leave it. I chose the latter. I’m too old to get drawn into stroking the egos of these emo men who don’t know what they want. He obviously wanted me to ask why he was rubbish, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Whatever his reasons for being rubbish, he’d quelled amy flames of desire I was harbouring for him, and I was happy to leave it there.

That was the end of our messaging, but of course, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t seen him several times since. At the bar, where I’ve seen him a few times, he’s managed to avoid me to the point that I can’t be sure he even spotted me. He sat down with some friends at the next table over in the canteen the other day, and I got to watch his face as he noticed me. He visibly cringed, squirmed, and looked around panicked as though he was looking for any possible reason to change seats. I’ve definitely had a lasting effect on him, but the reasons are unclear. Reasoning from some trusted mutual (female) friends guesses that he’s never had a one night stand before, and feels awkward about it. Other reasoning suggests he might not be over his ex. Or maybe he’s just not that into me.

As a result of our lack of contact, I have no idea whether everyone in the office knows about us. I’ve tried to make subtle investigations, but the only people who would come out and say it to my face are the ones who I can’t ask – the ones I’ve slept with. I’m desperate to know, partially because I’m strangely proud of my record there. Out of the non-married, heterosexual guys who coincided with my time there, I’ve scored with all of them, and at some point, I’ve entertained the notion of it being something more with each one. I haven’t met my (male) replacement in the office yet, but maybe I’ll make him my next target. It turns out that third time isn’t the charm after all!

Getting back on the horse

I haven’t written anything about my escapades in quite a while. There are a few reasons for this. I don’t normally write posts that aren’t telling a specific story, but there’s a lot of context to get caught up on, in the mess that is my life. One reason is that I started a new job, which meant finishing everything off at the old one, writing training manuals, doing far too much admin, and then being on the receiving end of training manuals at the new one, all while doing even more admin. Another reason is that I got a second job, which unsurprisingly, doesn’t leave much spare time on top of my original full time job. Until fairly recently, I’ve not had the time to have sex (at least not story worthy sex), much less find time to write about it.

Leaving my old job means that I’m out of the office that was basically an abridged version of my sexual history, which is pretty refreshing. Unfortunately, I haven’t gone very far. I’m still very broadly working for the same company, but doing something more important, in a different building a few minutes walk away. I’ve been there for two months, and on a day to day basis, it’s now unusual for me to run into someone in the hallway who I’ve slept with. If I stray too far, by getting off at a different tube stop, or going to the wrong place for lunch, I will inevitably see someone and maybe it’ll be awkward, but at least it’s not encroaching on my professional life anymore. Of course, I haven’t entirely gone far enough. I have fortnightly meetings with the guy that I dated in my final year of university, and the local pub hasn’t changed, meaning that after work drinks are still a stressful experience. As much as I complain about it, I do kind of love the drama – it means that I’ve got a lot of good stories to tell, after all!

So far, I’ve been maintaining a rule that I will not sleep with anyone who is in my department, building, or who I have to work directly with. About half of couples meet at work, so this does seem terribly restricting, but having been gently nudged out of my old department due to my unprofessional conduct (apparently senior staff don’t view you in quite the same light once they’ve overheard detailed descriptions of what you’re like in bed – thanks for that, G), I don’t really want to take that risk. Although the vast majority of people I slept with, either in that building, department, or even small office didn’t spill the beans, there is always going to be one who does, and that can come back to bite you. It took a lot of persuasion to get this new, more advanced position, and at least for now, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardise it. Of course, I’m a shameless flirt, and have already achieved a certain chemistry with several handsome young men, so we’ll see how well I maintain this rule following the slew of Christmas parties!

The second job is something that I’m really excited about. I started working at a weekly newspaper, which is amazing, and a lot of fun. It means that my writing goes out to a far more expanded readership than this blog, although it’s usually on topics that I enjoy writing about far less than I like writing about sex. Although it’s a lot of work and takes a lot of time, the paper is a lot less formal than my other job – I’m not worried about the career destroying implications of dating or sleeping with anyone else who also works there. This is good, because I have developed a full on crush on the Editor-in-chief, who will hereafter be known as The Editor. I hope that there are some stories to tell about him before long, but I think I’ve sabotaged any relationship with him with some slightly shameful behaviour with The Sailor (story to come, I can promise scandal!). That said, there are a few other guys who I wouldn’t exactly turn down either!

Having stayed away for so long, I have updates on a lot of my key players and a few new and old stories that I can’t wait to tell. I’ve finally broken my long dry spell, and I am definitely back on the horse. Let me tell you, it feels good to go riding again ;)

Seducing the Irish

Around the time when I started working in my current department, my company threw their annual mingling event, to allow people from different departments to get to know one another. A lot of new people had just been recruited recently, and I was looking forward to seeing some new faces and meeting some new people. I took one of my old housemates with me, so I didn’t have to turn up by myself, and so that I knew that even if I didn’t happen to meet anyone interesting, I’d still have a good time. And as my old housemate is a buff guy, I knew that I could count on him to intimidate away anyone that I didn’t want to talk to.

Positioning ourselves near one of the bars, we found an acquaintance, and with the excuse of catching up, introduced ourselves to his friends, and joined their conversation. After we’d been talking for a while, I spotted one of my best friends on the other side of the room, and excused myself to rush over to her and squeal excitedly. Seeing my housemate was happy talking to the girls in the group we’d been with earlier, and having sunk a few pints, I decided that I was more enthusiastic about going to dance with my friend in the indie room and seeing what that would bring, than I was about talking to them anymore. We headed upstairs to the beautifully decorated dancefloor, decked out like a middle eastern cafe, with plush stools littered everywhere, and wonderful fabrics draped from the ceiling and walls. The decor did not in any way match the music, and we danced to Nirvana until we were so hot and sweaty that we went outside to drink some water and cool down.

It was a warm October night, and there were a lot of people sitting outside in benches and on the grass, smoking, drinking, laughing and having a good time. We did a lap around the grassy area, scouting out cute boys, and looking out for people we knew. As we passed one of the many groups of men, I caught a snippet of an Irish accent, and whirled around, placed my hand on one guy’s forearm, and exclaimed, “Hey, you’re Irish, aren’t you?” At the time, I was set on sleeping with someone from every country in the UK (which is explained more here), and Ireland was the only country I was missing. This, to my mind, completely justified my entirely spontaneous, overly forward approach to these guys.

We started talking, and this original guy, who we’ll call Irishguy (this is actually the name that I use when referring to him with my friends, because we’re not actually sure what his name was), bonded with my friend over her having family from his hometown in Ireland. He was the most Irish person that I’ve ever met, and constantly used words and phrases that were entirely new to me. He wasn’t particularly handsome or charming, but he was entertaining enough, and we stayed talking to him until the bars closed and we were thrown out of the building. By this time, I wasn’t ready to go home yet, and wanted to go out clubbing. Irishguy was enthusiastic about this plan, but my friend wasn’t, so I tracked down my old housemate, with the hope that he’d read the message that I was desperately trying to convey with my eyebrows, that I wanted a chaperone to stop me from doing anything stupid. I wanted to complete my collection of British boys, but at this point, not enough to spend the rest of the night alone with him. Unfortunately, this was apparently too complex a message to transfer non-verbally, and I soon found myself alone with Irishguy, on a bus to a club in Soho.

Irishguy was new to London, and could barely grasp the concept of an Oyster card, let alone maintain any clue of where we were. We went to one of my favourite clubs for dancing, and he didn’t gripe about the £10 entry fee, but was visibly stunned when we descended the stairs, to find that we were the only white people in the entire club. As he very loudly pointed out, much to my embarrassment, there were no black people where he came from in Ireland, and for him, this was very different. I was quite proud of myself for giving him an entirely new experience, and after downing a few shots at the bar, I dragged him onto the tiny, cramped dancefloor. We drew quite a few intrigued looks as we danced, as we stuck out like a sore thumb, but I was holding my own, and although he hadn’t been overly flirty up until that point, my dancing was obviously sealing the deal, and he was now very interested. A few more shots in, I was happy for him to move closer as we were dancing, and soon we were grinding and making out in the middle of the sweaty club.

After we’d been doing this for quite a while, a new DJ took over, playing different music that I wasn’t as into, and so we left the club. As he was completely clueless as to where he was, I offered to take him to his night bus. Unfortunately, despite knowing that part of London like the back of my hand, and having an unnatural pigeon-like homing instinct for finding the right night bus, I must have been drunker than I realised, and I got us completely lost, so we walked around for half an hour before we got to my bus stop. I offered to take him to his stop, as I’d now got my bearings, but he insisted on taking me home, saying he’d find his way back from there. At this point, I was feeling bad for him, as he was totally lost in a city that he’d lived in for three days, so I begun entertaining the idea of letting him sleep on my sofa, so he could just get the tube straight home in the morning. Of course, by the time that he got to mine, he clearly had other plans.

As we sat a few seats apart on his first late night experience of a London night bus, I contemplated ditching him and getting off the bus without him. It wasn’t that I really didn’t want him to come home with me, but I was tired, and I wasn’t that into him, and I’d started to realise that I would obviously sleep with him if he came back to mine. I didn’t feel like he’d force himself on me, but I knew that my infamous lack of self control woul be my downfall here. Although he looked like he’d fallen asleep on the bus, he woke up as I was walking past him to get off, and followed me.

As we walked to my flat, we took breaks to make out, and although I’d sobered up quite a lot, my enthusiasm started to return. Once we were inside, we got into bed, and what followed was fairly predictable, we got naked. His… technique, however, was far from predicable. My memory is a bit hazy, but I have flashbacks of him asking me to give him a “tittywank”, which I think is hysterical (which I think is down to the use to titty, as opposed to tit, which I think might be more acceptable), and another of him crouched over my head as I was lying down, holding onto the wall as he lowered his balls onto my face. This was all thoroughly unorthodox, at least as far as my prior experiences are concerned, and I remember thinking that it was mildly hilarious, and a bit weird. Another memory that I’m sure that I have, is of opening a condom packet, of which there was absolutely no sign the next day.

In the morning, I woke up at about ten o’clock, went to the bathroom, and checked that my sister(who I live with)’s bedroom door was still closed. We hadn’t lived together long, and I couldn’t face the idea of her knowing about my seedy one night stand, so I made him get dressed and hurriedly ushered him out of the house. Mission accomplished: she’s never found out!

Later on in the day, I remember texting the BFF, feeling a bit worried. I can’t remember if we had sex or not, I confided. I remember a condom, but I can’t find it now, and I don’t remember actually having sex with him! But we must have, right? This was a tough one to call. In spite of never locating the condom, I must have eventually remembered sleeping with him, because how I definitely count him as one of my conquests. He is, however, the closest thing that I have to a regrettable sexual experience. While I don’t find the memory of him completely abhorrent, I know that I wouldn’t have persevered with it if I hadn’t been spurred on by his nationality, and that’s not really something that I admire in myself.

When I told this story to my friend, she laughed, and looked a bit horrified. “But he had awful bad breath! How did you not notice that?” I hadn’t noticed that. Another point on the side of being drunker than I realised. A similar thing happened when I told my old housemate. “Oh my god, I thought you knew him! I never would have let you go with him if I’d have known!” Well, thanks for that. Then a pregnant pause. “Ew though, seriously. What were you thinking?”

I don’t know his name, though I think that I remember which department he works in, so if I tried, I could probably find out. We didn’t exchange numbers, and I sometimes idly think about what would happen if I saw him around the workplace. Then I realise that I don’t think that I would recognise him, so I might see him all the time and be totally unaware of it. He took our photo together when we were in the club, an absolutely shameless selfie, and so he’ll know what I look like. I wonder if he ever sees me!

Four guys, one pub

To celebrate the Easter bank holidays (the holy days of the working world), I met Computer Guy for a drink after work on Wednesday. We’d both had short, but hard weeks, and wanted to drink that out of our systems. I hadn’t been in the office all week, and so hadn’t spoken to the guys who usually go to the pub, but seeing as it was the last day before a mandatory six day weekend (I love my job), I had a suspicion that we might run into some of them there.

We got to the pub, ordered drinks, and scouted around for somewhere to sit. Sure enough, the guys from the office were sat in one corner. Wanting to hang out with Computer Guy, and not particularly feeling like joining them, I pretended not to notice them. By the time we managed to find somewhere to prop our pints, I’d counted four guys that I’d slept with in the last year, each shooting awkward glances at me across the room. I normally never have to deal with more than two of them at once, and so this was a bit extreme. I decided to do my best to avoid as many of them as I could, but first, I needed a drink.

Not having eaten since breakfast, the drinks quickly went to my head. I was getting comfortable on a sofa with Computer Guy, resting my head on his shoulder and leaning against him. This wasn’t sexual, of course, those feelings hadn’t returned since that night, just affectionate and friendly. Of course, that’s not necessarily how it looked to anyone walking past on the way to the toilets.

Eventually, someone from the office came past, and greeted me. “Why are you hiding out over here?” he asked.

“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m just hanging out with someone else, not with you guys. I might come and join you later on.” This response was then reported back to the table.

A few minutes later, when Computer Guy was buying drinks at the bar, Homeboy joined me. He was friendly, and from his behaviour, no one would know that we were anything but friends. Suddenly, he muttered, “Incoming,” under his breath, and we were joined by G, just as Computer Guy got back from the bar. Knowing that I was talking three guys, all of whom I’ve been carnal with, and none of whom know the full extent of the situation, was quite a powerful feeling. I could say things that each of them would interpret as being personal, how fun! But I decided not to be that mean. I made smalltalk with G, having barely spoken to him in weeks. He was obviously a bit drunk, and the other girl from the pub that he’s been sleeping with, who I mentioned before, wasn’t around, so he was a bit more relaxed with me, but not quite as friendly as he used to be.

After a brief conversation, G continued on his way to the bathroom, leaving me, Computer Guy, and Homeboy. Computer Guy suddenly snaked his arm around my waist, and pulled me into him, kissing the top of my head. I glanced up at him, smiled, and headbutted his chest affectionately. Homeboy’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked at me questioningly, eyebrows raised, to which I returned a quizzical look. He suddenly blurted out an excuse about needing to get back to the table, and left us alone, looking thoroughly confused.

Later on in the evening, I decided that it was time that we joined the people from the office, as I wanted to catch up with them. Drink in hand, I plunked myself down in the empty seat next to Homeboy. Sitting next to him for the next hour or two, we spent most of the time talking to each other. After he left at quarter to eleven, I was just drunk enough to want to say something else to him. I text the BFF instead.

“Og fuck I’m gonna text himn”

Clearly not a time when I should be allowed my phone. The BFF, fully understanding this vague statement, and sensing the urgency, replied immediately, asking what I was going to say, and suggesting that I wait to see if I still think it’s a good idea in the morning. I completely disregarded this.

“Should I?”
“Oh fuck, I did it.”
“Shit, this is a bad idea.”

Three texts, sent in quick succession to the BFF, which really tell the full story. I was regretting this immediately.

I decided to put my phone away, and do the only sensible thing in this situation: drink more.

I saw a guy who I dated for a few months about a year ago standing at the bar, and thought it seemed like a fantastic idea to position myself at the bar near him. He’s been stoically ignoring me for the last six months or so, and I’m pretty sure that I was really rude to him the last time I saw him. The only thing is that I accidentally added him on Facebook when I was drunkenly stalking a couple of weeks ago. I took it back immediately, so it’s still unknown whether he received the friend request, but having completely forgotten about this until I had a sudden heart in mouth revelation earlier today, I was very surprised when he smiled at me as I passed him, instead of keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground like he usually does.

There’s nothing that makes my life more difficult than this kind of awkwardness, and so this potential progress in this department put me in a good mood. I decided to haggle with the (very camp) barman. He placed my pint in front of me. Cocking my head to the side, I gave him my most winning smile, and said, “Can I only pay two pounds, so I don’t have as much change in my pocket?” I didn’t expect this to work, but he smiled, agreed, and took my two pound coin as I squealed in delight. Back at the table, everyone was very impressed with my haul, and my return made a welcome distraction from the argument that was arising between Computer Guy and one of the regulars.

Leaving them to fight it out, one of the guys took me aside. “So did G talk to you?”

“Yeah, we chatted a bit. We’re pretty much back to normal now.”

“So he apologised then?”

Say what? We haven’t actually talked about THAT. It seems that he’d managed to give them impression that he’d gathered the balls to say sorry to me. The revelation that he in fact hadn’t, elicited a surprisingly strong drunken response. “He said he was going to earlier! God, he’s so childish! I’m gonna text him and tell him off! He needs to just get over himself!”

Of course, this seemed like a really good thing to encourage, and asked to be kept updated on any responses. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm, I spilled the remainder of my pint all over my legs, which seemed like a good point to end the evening. I grabbed Computer Guy, and headed for the tube.

I don’t remember there ever being any question about whether Computer Guy was going to come back to mine, I don’t know if we both just assumed, or if one of us suggested it. This wasn’t unusual though, we’ve always stayed at one or the other’s after nights out. We got to mine, and collapsed fully dressed on my bed. I was a drunker than him, and was gradually coaxed into changing into pyjamas and drinking some water, when really, I just wanted to pass out. However, at some point in this process of spooning and changing, I got distracted, and before I knew what was happening, we were kissing, nibbling, and undressing each other (“Are your legs always really prickly?”).

But this week isn’t exactly an ideal time for me to be doing this. I’m on my period, and although I don’t really mind having sex when I’m surfing the crimson wave, I’m not going to do it with someone that I haven’t slept with a lot before. This unfortunately meant that I had to draw the line somewhere, which meant that I had to be satisfied with some very extensive teasing. He pointed out that he didn’t mind, and did explore further than I necessarily would have allowed someone who I was less comfortable with, which was both stressful and wonderful.

To alleviate some of the cruelty of this ultimate restriction, I decided to disappear under the covers to distract him for a while. Following some of my best work, which had this usually quiet boy grasping at the sheets, moaning, and crying out, I collapsed onto his chest, my left hand teasing his sensitised skin.

“Who knew you were such a beast?” he blurted, apparently surprised.

“Whatcha mean?” I replied, suspecting I knew what he was talking about, but not wanting to make assumptions.

“You know”, he said, gesturing to what we’d just done. “Who knew you’d be so insanely good?”

I’d normally be offended by the assumption that I wouldn’t be amazing, but having spent so many years in a platonic friendship, I’m willing to let it slide. “I know right?”, I grinned. “I’ve got mad skills, don’t I?”

He nodded, and kissed me.

In the morning, waking up sober and mostly naked in each others arms wasn’t awkward. In the same way as before, we found ourselves subject to extensive distraction before we managed to get up. Eventually, given the unfortunate timing, the whole situation felt too cruel, so we got up, showered, applied concealer to the various visible teeth marks covering my neck and jaw, and went out for breakfast. We didn’t even talk about it this time, beyond, “This is becoming a thing, isn’t it?” from him, which was met with a shrug. It doesn’t feel weird, and I’m not stressed about when I’m going to see him next, hear from him, whether it’s going to happen again, or what it means. It just is. And I’m surprisingly okay with that.

On not feeling quite so special

Where I work is pretty male dominated. In fact, out of the maybe fifteen people who regularly hang out at the pub on Thursdays, only two of us are girls. Until the situation with G and I exploded, everyone had been placing bets how long it would take him to get together with the other girl. She doesn’t work in our department, so doesn’t necessarily receive gossip along the usual supply chains in the office. She was the only one at the pub that week that didn’t acknowledge what happened between me and G. Whether she didn’t know, or whether it’s because she has an ounce of subtlety is a mystery, but the night I spoke about in my earlier post, she was very flirty with G all night. By exploiting unusual gossip channels, I managed to find out what happened that night, after I parted ways with them at the tube.

G was obviously on a roll that week, because while waiting on the platform, he was invited back by this girl. Panicked, and possibly having just received my text, a very confused G backed out at the last minute, and dashed onto a tube in the other direction as the doors were closing. Once on this train, he spent the entire journey waxing lyrical about how he didn’t know what to do, and how he didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he really likes both of us and doesn’t know what to do. Naturally, everyone’s response to this, as always, is to tell him to man up and pick a girl.

He obviously wasn’t feeling that bad about it, because he continued to avoid me for the next week. Feeling a bit awkward, I decided to give the pub a miss on Thursday, and so was caught completely off guard when I ran into G on Friday, wearing yesterdays clothes and an expression which managed to combine smugness, awkwardness and remorse. Evidently, he’d bitten the bullet and been taken home the night before.

This really changed the dynamic of the situation. Now it’s not all about me and G, who drunkenly slept together. Now he’s the player who’s scored with both of the girls, and I’m just one of them. And the worse part is that I’m not the one that he’s chosen, and everyone knows it. He’s been single since November, and hasn’t been with anyone in all that time, so why now, has he managed to sleep with two of us in the space of two weeks? I guess I’m just not that special. How embarrassing.

After this, I decided to give up trying to anticipate and manipulate the situation to my desire, and just act as much like before as I could, back when he was in my friend zone. It’s been a few weeks, and everyone admits that he’s being childish in still avoiding me. It seems that he’s talking to everyone but me about this situation, and from what I can glean (because no one wants to get involved), he knows that he’s being pathetic, and wants to apologise for how it all went down. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that he’s mature enough to actually do anything.

I wish that I could say that this was all resolved, and had a definite ending, but sadly it seems that G isn’t enough of a man to do his part is repairing our friendship, and we’re stuck in a sort of awkward limbo for now. But it is getting better, so maybe time will fix everything. I can safely say that I won’t be getting with him again though, even if he changes his mind. He’s clearly way too immature for it to be worth it.

I don’t really know why I’m surprised!

Misreading situations and yo-yo stress levels

It turns out that G isn’t the man that I thought that he was. In fact, it turns out that my interpretation of the situation is the antithesis of what seems to have been actually going on. You can read about what happened before here, and I’ll carry on from where I got to.

The week since we slept together passed slowly. We weren’t avoiding each other, but we weren’t really talking either. And we hadn’t had any communication since that damn text! But Thursday came, it’d been a week since we’d got with each other, and we had a big meeting together that day. And Thursday nights always mean the pub, so I got up extra early to shave my legs, just in case anything should happen that night, which, if I’m honest, I hoping for. The BFF and I toed and froed extensively over exactly what I should wear, which would have the right balance of I’m-totally-cool-with-what-happened, and look-how-hot-I-am-don’t-you-just-want-to-jump-me-right-here-well-guess-what-you-can-take-me-home-if-you-want, and decided that I should display just enough casual cleavage to keep his attention. Of course, I was still worried about whether my compatriot in the office would find out (you can read his story here), but my excitement superseded my nervousness, I was starting to like this guy, and although he’d been distant that week, I’d been won over by how he’d been so enthusiastic when we were together, saying that he really liked me, and we should do it again, and being more affectionate than I would have thought possible for a first time.

I spent most of the first half of the meeting daydreaming about him, and when we broke for  lunch, a few of us headed out to pick up food together, before returning to the conference room to eat. I’d arrived late to the meeting that morning, and so I wasn’t sitting with the usual guys, I was a few seats away, on the other side of a girl who’s the black sheep of the office. Nonetheless, I chatted to her as I ate my lunch, only half paying attention to the guys. I heard them talking about Thursday night. I’d already told my chosen story, that I was so drunk that I didn’t really remember getting home (not entirely a lie), and from the other side of the room, I heard them questioning G as to whether he’d made sure that I got home okay. I heard him agree vaguely, but they didn’t buy it, because a few seconds later they were looking at me. “No!” they exclaimed. “No way! You didn’t!”

I turned to give G an incredulous look. I couldn’t believe he told them, and in that environment; could he be anymore unprofessional? It turns out that he could, because they proceeded to discuss what had happened in moderate detail for the next ten minutes before the meeting resumed. I was absolutely mortified. The girl next to me took pity, and saved me from having to participate in their conversation by talking to me about something that I can’t even remember. I just wanted to get out of there. The second half of the meeting I spent frantically texting the BFF, and wishing that the ground would swallow me up. How could we have so violently misread this situation? This was not a guy who was harbouring consideration for my feelings. Finally, the meeting ended, and I rushed off, unable to return to the office with the guys.

I was apoplectic, and spent the next hour ranting to a friend who I’d dragged out of work to sympathise with me. He agreed that this wasn’t a foreseeable outcome – I’d imagined that G might want to date me, be fuck buddies, or maybe just pretend it didn’t happen, but this just didn’t make sense! When I eventually checked my phone, I was surprised to find that I had a text from him. “For what it’s worth, I really didn’t tell anyone. Although they did guess. If you’re not feeling to awkward, come to the pub this evening x”

I immediately got onto the BFF. What do I say?!, I demanded. Should I be angry? Should I tell him that he should have lied? Eventually, we decided to opt for being casual, reminding him that gossip spreads like wildfire in the office, and agreeing that yes, I really did need a drink. And I should definitely put an x on my text, all is not lost yet!

I spent the next couple of hours eating as many m&ms as I could get my hands on, and trying not to freak out. My blood pressure spiking, at around six o clock, I picked up another girl from the office and we headed to the pub. Seeing as Homeboy, as we shall call the other guy from the office, wasn’t in the meeting that afternoon, and apart from G, he didn’t usually cross paths with the guys who were, I was still praying that he wouldn’t know. However, when I arrived at the pub to be greeted by the guy who’d guessed first in the meeting grinning at me like a Cheshire cat, I realised that everyone knew. And I was hugely embarrassed.

I drank to try and block out the humiliation. Several pints in, the jokes were easier to bear, and I was able to dish out as much as I was getting. I still didn’t know how it was going to go down with either Homeboy or G, but at least everyone else wasn’t treating it like it was a big deal. There was a huge crowd at the pub that night, and as everyone started playing musical chairs to talk to other people, I found myself talking to Homeboy, who was being friendlier than he’d been since we’d slept together. I didn’t trust this one bit.

I went to the bathroom later on, and in his classic style, Homeboy cornered me. “So, you and G, eh?” Ohhh, the pain. I didn’t want to have to deal with this, it was way too stressful.

“Oh God”, I groaned. “When did you find out?”

“I got a text from Will on Friday. A bunch of the guys had lunch and he told them.”

Friday? FRIDAY? THE FREAKING MORNING AFTER, HE GOES AND SPILLS IT TO THE WHOLE OFFICE? Who then text it to people who aren’t even in the country?! This is not cool. This is really, really, not cool.

Disbelief written all over my face, he continues. “And I’m like, freaking out. Like, does he know about what happend? Like, with us, before Christmas?”

Of course, he’s just after saving his own hide. We talked for a while, but that’s really a whole other story. To cut a long story short, I reassured him that I had no intention of telling G, and returned to the table, stress levels significantly decreased now that I at least knew what was going on with one of them!

The rest of the evening passed with G permanently being involved in conversations on the other side of the group. He was probably doing it on purpose, avoiding me, but it was impossible to say. Disappointed that I hadn’t managed to speak to him even a little bit, a group of us, him included, broke off to catch the tube. I don’t remember who I was talking to as we walked, or what about, but he was hanging back, deep in conversation with someone.

I waved goodbye to everyone at the tube, taking a different line to everyone else. I was about to take the escalator underground, when too many pints worse for wear, I paused, and without consulting the BFF, who informs me that she would have stopped me, I text him. Not an advisable move. Especially when you say that you know you should hate them, but actually you really want them to turn around and come to yours. Very dignified.

…

He was drunk too, so I was expecting some sort of reply, even if it was something along the lines of, Bitch please, you ain’t getting none of this sugar again, now back the hell off! But he didn’t! I spent the next day, embarrassed and with my tail between my legs, creeping around the office trying to avoid him (successfully). Admittedly, without the complication of Homeboy, this was down to manageable and familiar stress levels (because who doesn’t regularly drunk text men inviting them to come back with them?), but I still didn’t know where we stood, and I hate that.

Time for some more anxious waiting, I guess.

Proof of principle

The guys from the office have gone to the pub tonight. Without knowing how G (who I talk about here) feels about what happened last week, this makes me nervous. I’ve been being casual and flirty, he knows that I’m cool with it, so what if he drinks a bit and feels comfortable enough with it to mention it to the other lads? This could have disastrous consequences.

You see, I kind of have unfinished business with another guy in the office. The guy who sits at the next desk, in fact; how’s that for awkward? Not exactly an ideal situation. Luckily, I think shame will keep this one in check. See, here’s what happened.

When my attentions wandered from G in October, they found another guy in the office, who grew up near me, and who I immediately bonded with. Despite being told by various other people that he was unavailable (“But he’s flirting with me!” “Trust me, he’s REALLY taken.”) we fell into this pattern of flirting obscenely every time we were drinking together. It got to the point where we would be making excuses to disappear together just to dance around the fact that nothing could happen. And over this period of time, I found out more about why he was so taken. It turned out that he had a girlfriend in America, who he’d met that summer and they’d been long distance ever since. Now I don’t know how the general populous feel about this, but as far as I was concerned, this didn’t really count. She was younger, less experienced, and further away than me. Easy to ignore. And whatever, it was me that he was going home to wank over.

To the credit of my BFF whose text advice I constantly seek, she actively discouraged me on this occasion. Unfortunately, it didn’t work, and I became determined to win him, on point of principle. After all, I’ve got a success rate to maintain! It didn’t take long before we inevitably ended up drunk, alone and horny in a darkened room. We both knew that we wanted it, it just became a matter of who would make the first move. We bobbed and weaved, lips almost meeting, hands almost brushing bodies, until in a swirl of passion we were pulling each other closer, fingers entwined in hair, tongues darting into each others mouths. It felt good. It felt better than good, it felt incredible. We’d been building up to this for months, the anticipation heavy in the air.

Not expecting this to happen, I was not keeping up my girl guide training of always being prepared, and so in a moment of extreme sensibility, we were limited to what could happen in that room that night. He confided that he’d never been made to come by a girl going down on him, and taking this as a challenge, I was happy to indulge him in this fantasy. Apparently I really am that good, because I succeeded where all others have failed. Although I hadn’t quite managed to get with him, who’s going to say no when you’ve got it on a (secret) plate in front of you every day? I was pretty confident that I’d as good as won this one.

Unfortunately, I didn’t stay happy for long, because as soon as we were dressed, he started freaking out. I hadn’t expected this, given how easily he’d been flirting with me. It quickly became apparently that he really, really wasn’t the cheating type, and he honestly did feel really bad about it. So where did that leave me? I felt a bit awkward about it, so I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone we work with, and opted to jump ship and leave him to his guilt. That worked pretty well, until the next time I saw him, a week later. At first he was really awkward and completely ignored me, but the ever present social lubrication that is alcohol eased the situation. After exchanging a few panicked looks in conversations where we both thought that the other had told someone, he cornered me when I was on my way to the bathroom, dragged me into the snooker room… where unfortunately we just talked. Yeah, I thought it was an anticlimax too. We’ll just be friends then, we decided. This can’t happen again, he insisted. At least, he went on, I can’t make a move again.

Being quite drunk, I didn’t really process this until later when I was transcribing the evening  to the BFF in an unholy barrage of texts. As always, she was there to offer the wonderful suggestion of drunk texting him (always a fantastic idea), asking what exactly would happen, if I were to make a move instead. When I nervously checked my phone the next morning, I wasn’t hugely surprised that he hadn’t replied. Well, I thought, at least the ball’s in his court now. And besides, the next week was the Christmas party, and who’s going to resist me in my red party dress that I’d bought purely for festive season seduction purposes?

The party passed without much drama, and after drinking for eight hours a few of us decided to give up and make a break for the last tubes, this guy included. After making unsuccessful attempts to get me alone as we were walking, he pointed out that I’d missed the last eastbound tube, and offered me a sofa to sleep on for the night. It was freezing, I didn’t want to take night buses, and so curious, I accepted, and boarded the tube in the opposite direction to home. Once we were alone, he broached the subject of the text. He was mad at me, it seemed, for making things more complicated. “Why did you have to do that? This can’t happen! What do you want from this?”

I could sense that he was trying to justify it. This was my chance: if I said that I wanted it to mean something, then, he hinted, it could go somewhere. But I was drunk, and afraid that if I confessed to any feelings then it would come back to bite me. After a lengthly pause, I meekly murmured, “I thought you would be a bit of fun.” This, it turns out, was not the right thing to say. He was offended. I tried to turn around and go home, I didn’t care how many buses that I’d have to take, I just wanted to get out of there, but he insisted that I stay and sleep on his sofa, mostly, I think, so he didn’t have to walk me back the way we’d come to a bus stop.

Of course, once I was in his house, it became apparent that I wasn’t going to sleep on his sofa. He checked, he said, while I was in the bathroom, and there was already someone sleeping on it. But people share beds all the time without anything happening, right? So it won’t be weird? Though if anyone asks, you slept on the sofa, okay?

Like that’s gonna happen.

So in my knickers and a borrowed t-shirt, I get into his bed. After offending him earlier, I was convinced that nothing was going to happen, and I was just looking forward to sleeping for a few hours before I could run away home and die of embarrassment. So when he got into bed, put his arm around me, and drew my face towards his, I was more than a little confused. But you know, I went with it, and ended up having what was probably the best sex I’d had in a year. Pretty impressive for two highly inebriated individuals having sex for the first time, whether or not that was due to the alcohol induced lack of inhibitions. Sadly, afterwards he freaked out a bit again, and pushed me away, seemingly not wanting to touch me. Feeling justifiably pissed off, I passive aggressively chose to hog the duvet and go to sleep.

Waking up to an affectionate boy spooning me and kissing my neck was surprising. Figuring that maybe he’d forgotten that I’d insulted him the night before, I decided not to question it, and just go with what felt good, which was what he proceeded to do to me. Seeing as I mostly have casual sex with lots of different people, I rarely get the opportunity to have a toe curling, sheet gripping orgasm first thing in the morning, but when I do, it’s very welcome, even when I’m brutally hungover. This man knew what he was doing, and I really didn’t want to get out of his bed. But eventually duty called, and I had to leave to make the cross-London journey of shame in last night’s party dress. Before we went our separate ways, we talked briefly about how this really was the last time, and then said the famous three words…

“So mates, yeah?”

Yeah right.

Since then he’s been in major avoidance mode. We’ve been drunk together and had conversations and unrelated arguments, but he’s incredibly careful that he’s never alone or very intoxicated with me. He won’t say hello if he passes in the the hallway, he’s blocked me on facebook (not that I’d ever use it to communicate with him, but it is a handy stalking tool!), and there is no doubt that he’s not cool about what happened. A comfort to me is that I know that he wouldn’t normally tell anyone in the office, so I’m not subject to everyone’s judgemental gazes, but he’s the sort of guy who has to have one up on everyone, and I suspect that the discovery that someone else has had me might push him to confess, and assert his claim of having been the first (in the office) to stake his flag in me, as it were.

That might hurt my chances with G a bit, don’t you think?

Fresh meat

So let’s talk about the most recent man in my repertoire!

Although I only joined my current department in October, I’ve been working in the same place for nearly five years now. It’s the kind of place that people stay for a long time, shifting departments, but not going far. Because of this, I already knew pretty much everyone that I’d be working with. But, when I started, there was a guy starting at the same time who’d come from an entirely different institution in an entirely different city. Radical. Seeing as I’d already sized up all the other guys that I’d be immediately working with and decided that none of them were suitable for various reasons, I was eagerly anticipating checking out this fresh meat.

We spoke for the first time at our initiation into the department, which involved large quantities of vodka, and assorted high jinks. We hit it off right away, and at some point in the night ran away from the group together to buy frozen yogurt. (In another story, while excitedly and drunkenly buying said fro-yo, we ran into one of my friends, whose relationship I managed to end in that instant, by having a foot in mouth moment and revealing a little bit much. Needless to say, discretion isn’t exactly my strong point.) I fancied him, he obviously fancied me, and it was all going so well… Until he revealed that he had a girlfriend.

Although I don’t make it a hard and fast rule not to be the other woman, I figured that it would probably be a little bit too awkward to put myself in that position before I even started working with this guy. So I put it to the back of my mind, found others to amuse myself with, and became really good friends with him instead. But then they broke up.

Generally, I don’t friendzone guys. I really don’t. I’m always open to being surprised by someone that I haven’t considered, but there’s something about seeing a man moping over a girl that really doesn’t turn me on. I can’t think why. So we bonded over our failed relationships (more on that to come, I’m sure!) and had many drunken mutually sympathetic rants and rambles in fast food joints, which are something that I usually save for people who are totally out of the question. Obviously, I was no longer anticipating anything happening between us!

Then a couple of weeks ago, something unexpected happened. As is the weekly tradition, we were at the pub, but everyone else left, leaving just us, the only two without partners at home, to drink until closing. This in itself isn’t unusual, but when I said goodbye, as we were parting at the tube, he goes, “Aww, I was going to ask if you wanted to come back to mine?” Now, I can’t quite describe how, but this was definitely a let’s go and have a lot of sex invitation, no question about it. I however, was totally speechless, which is not something that happens a lot. Somehow, after what I imagine was my standing there dumbfounded for a while, my subconscious piped up and made an excuse (which I maintain really was more of a reason than an excuse) and I hurried home.

See, I can show some restraint, sometimes!

We went out the next night, had cocktails and went clubbing with some friends. There was a lot of tension, and we were flirting, dancing close, but we were stuck in stalemate with no one willing to make the next move. And that’s where we’ve been for a while. I could bore you with all the details that I overload the BFF with via text, such as careful analysis of every glance, hug and x at the end of a text, but that’s only really fun at the time, so I’ll skip forward until last Thursday.

There was a sort of office party, where the drinks were flowing freely (in that not only was I  was pouring liberally, I wasn’t paying for them either), and there was only one person in the room who I had to avoid due to awkward coital embarrassment. It was all looking good. The night ended, and once again, I found myself alone with him, walking to the tube. Although I’m pretty sure that I was mostly concentrating on not falling over too much (unsuccessfully I assume, given the number of bruises on my legs), I realised at some point that he was talking about how he really liked me, but was confused by my behaviour since I knocked him back. Seeing as one of my aims in life is to confuse, baffle and mystify, this ticked all the right boxes for me, and what could I do but invite him back to mine?

At my flat, it’s all going gloriously well. We’re kissing, undressing each other; it’s not awkward and he’s clearly really into me and ecstatic that he finally gets to see me naked. Obviously we’re too drunk for the sex to be any good, but such is my ease with the situation that when we warns me that this is gonna be the case, I happily respond, “Don’t worry, my main concern right now is that I haven’t shaved my legs!”

Unlike a lot of my sexual encounters, even with friends, this was affectionate and easy. We laughed and chatted, and fell asleep spooning. After I got up in the very early morning for much required supplies of water and paracetamol, I was greeted with a sleepy, “Hi honey”, kisses (despite my horrifying hangover morning breath), and more cuddles which rapidly turned into morning sex. This was not one night stand behaviour. This had to mean something. Before he left to go into the office (I can sleep all day if I want, as long as I get everything done, but he actually has to make an appearance everyday), we agreed that we should do it again when we weren’t so hammered, and then he kissed me goodbye and was gone to the wind.

After sending the BFF a very thorough text update, I slept for a few hours, then commenced freaking out. Why wasn’t he texting me? What was going on?! Wasn’t he thinking about me? A few hours before, I was undecided whether I liked him at all, but now he was all I was thinking about. I lasted until the evening before texting him, but I had to test the waters, I had to know where we stood! Obviously, advised against being that open, I constructed a casual message where the enthusiasm of the response could be used to gauge where he wanted this to go. Five hours later, after practically becoming a screaming banshee, I get a reply. “It was fine lol x”

lol x

LOL X

LOL KISS

Not a good sign. And the lol x is just annoying! So I’m thinking, okay, well he doesn’t want to be texting me a lot, but at least he DID reply, so you know, not the end of the world. He’ll definitely text me this weekend though, it’d be terrible etiquette not to!

He didn’t.

Naturally I went a bit psycho. I had to be restrained via text. I don’t think I’ve ever reached quite these levels of crazy behavioural extrapolation before. But I got through the weekend without doing anything stupid, feeling crazy nervous to see him at 9am Monday morning, where I sat next to him for three hours, barely exchanging anything beyond a shy smile on my part. It wasn’t hugely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t looking good either. So I was persuaded to text him again. (Sensing a theme here?)

“Awkward?”

Five hours later… “I didn’t think it was especially awkward lol x”

LOL KISS. I HATE LOL KISS.

So by now I’m pretty much ready to curl up on the sofa, eat my share size bar of emergency chocolate, and watch He’s Just Not That Into You (repeat until crazy). But it’s not like the texting devil on my shoulder of a BFF will allow me to do that. Go on, reply, she says! I don’t give a fuck what you say, just reply!

“Not awkward is good. I can work with that :p x”

Possibly the right level of flirtatious and friendly. Possibly crossing the line into clingy. Possibly going to make me want to die inside when I see him tomorrow. And almost certainly going to keep me obsessively checking my phone for the reply that I’m sure isn’t coming. Isn’t that a delight?

A new year of misadventures

You know how sometimes you have to keep secrets because if everyone knew about everything then you’d be really worthy of judgement? I get that a lot. This week, my biggest secret is sleeping with someone that I work with. Again. I don’t even have a desk in that office yet, and despite that, I’m working through the boys on one side of the room nicely.

I don’t think that this is a problem. In fact, I’m really happy with the people who I’ve slept with; I think that each one is special in their own way, and I don’t regret any of them. However, when the social or professional circles of people overlap, somehow you’re subject to a lot of politics, lies and secrets, the extents of which are determined by each person. It’s a lot to keep track of, especially considering people aren’t exactly upfront about how they want to deal with this.

This, along with my propensity for getting myself into ridiculous situations, isn’t exactly a winning combination.

And then there’s my friend. She’s the BFF. We text a lot. And I mean a lot. She gets updates from me to the extent of before, during (only sometimes!), and after I sleep with people, and what she says often encourages me to do, or not do something. This would probably be a good thing, if she didn’t use this power to make me do ridiculous things for her entertainment. Yes, she weeds out most of my psycho tendencies (WHY HASN’T HE TEXT ME BACK???? IT’S BEEN THREE MINUTES AND HE HASN’T REPLIED! LET ME TEXT HIM AGAIN!), but she does encourage some of the more stupid ideas that I have. But at least they make for pretty decent stories, and that’s what matters, right?