Wrong booty call

So I posted Monday night thinking I was about to crawl peacefully into bed with only a missing bag to worry about. How wrong I was. The royal crap of bad luck that had been thrown my way was about to get much worse

Catherine calls to say Calum was coming over and she wasn’t far behind him. While on the phone the door buzzes and I let him in – and quickly put some trousers on so I wasn’t greeting him in my undies. Calum is the guy she has been secretly seeing. She met him through her ex (who has moved to Australia), infact her ex and Calum are best friends. Catherine wants it to be a serious relationships, but Calum has been busy shagging many other women.

So booty call man is suitably drunk when he arrives. I let him in and get him a drink from our very well stocked bar. And almost immediately it starts. “I owe you an apology for the way I acted at Dan’s party”. (see Neanderthal night post for background) I said: "I didn’t remember anything, I was pretty drunk (lie)". “I was too,” he said. “I said a few things”.  Again I tried to shut down the direction of the conversation. Catherine was going to be home anytime and I just wanted to go to bed. But he isn't haven't any of it and continues: “I find you really attractive and I would really like to take you out some time.” He then gets up to come and sit next to me!  I get up and move away. Just to highlight, in case, it isn’t clear. Calum, at 2am, has come over to my house for a booty call with my housemate and then cracks onto me!


“What about Catherine,” I say. “Catherine and I are never going to happen, she is keen on Sam anyway.” I immediately correct him and say there is nothing between them. They are just friends that hang out, end of story. “She is into you”. (Sam by the way, is another of her ex's friends, well built, good looking and the record holder for the number of drinks he can down in a drinking session before being sick - another class act).  Then Calum goes on about me being his type and then tries to invade my space again. I am backed into a corner, drunk and really quite annoyed that this is happening.


So I launch into a barage of insults: “You are not my type, I would never be attracted to someone like you. Ben is my type” (this was a complete lie, Ben could not be further from being “my type”). He scoffs and says “Ben”. The purpose of inserting Ben’s name was to squarely stomp on Calum’s over inflated ego - instead I may have come across as overly keen on his mate. “We know, Catherine knows about all your girls, the girl you picked up on the bus less than 10 hours after leaving Catherine's bed, the shag buddy in your building. She knows and yet she is still interested in you. You are definitely not my type, but this isn’t fair to Catherine. If you aren’t interested in her you need to lay that out.” 


At this point he says he was leaving. I panic a bit, and think that Catherine is going to want to know why he has gone. How do I explain this? But as he tries to make his great escape – ego crushed, stomped, shattered – he runs straight into Catherine. I turned around and go to bed somewhat bewildered by what had just unfolded.

How exactly did he think I would react to that? “Ok cool, let’s jump into bed with Catherine" or "OK cool let’s start dating”. Catherine is my housemate and friend! So after losing my bag, drinking way too much and being hit on by my housemate's booty call, I very grumpily fall asleep. Five hours later I, very grumpily, wake up with a thumping head ache feeling a great need for a greesy breakfast, and drag myself to work.

Ego Crushin'

Tonight five girls were on a mission, to meet the man of our dreams. Location: Firefly at the Old Bailey. Activity: speed dating. Ok. So we knew it wasn’t going to be great, but Catherine  and I have done speed dating before and found it quite fun. This time the geek factor was a little higher. I was armed with a couple of great questions to separate the men from the boys: What would you do with a million pounds? And, what would be your ideal holiday? From these questions I figured I could find the men with generous and adventurous spirits. The problem was there were few men that I actually wanted to ask the questions to. 

Exhibit A, was quite nice to look at, but a bit too body builder looking to me. A trader – good job – but the conversation started off poor and went south. I asked most the questions and received very short answers. There were long periods of silence. I was relieved for the bell to go. A big "no" against him, but later in the night I was rather amused to discover the other four girls had all put a very big yes next to him.

Guy number two was friend to exhibit A. With a name of Colin, he had a big cross next to him before we even started, but I enjoyed a nice chat and with dark features and a very cute German accent I was inclined to give him a yes. It was a good start... But then went downhill rapidly. 

There were the standard geeks and a few “interesting” guys that seemed to be putting on an entertaining performance to see if they could get through three minutes without revealing anything. As a former reporter – who knows how to elicit answers - I became rather frustrated and pointed out to one, that maybe he was creating this persona because he feels the real person isn’t interesting enough. He agreed. Harsh I know.

Afterwards the cute guys from the beginning of the night joined us at the table. As we teased about what we had written on the cards, I delivered an ego crush, highlighting to body builder boy that he had a no. Of course his next response was he had only put a yes against me. Yeah, right.

We soon made an exit with a couple of the geekier guys in toe. But our cab trip to a nearby bar, the very funky Abacus bar, ended in disaster. With umbrella in hand and purse in the other, I lean forward to pay the cab, hop out and promptly realise my bag isn’t under my arm. But it is too late – the cab has driven off. Lost – two pairs of prescription glasses including sunglasses (£500), ipod (£100), passport (can’t get back into the UK without it) and work phone.

What a shit night. But Catherine, keen not to have her night soured, pulled me into line. "This is shit, but we gain nothing from ending the night and going home to mope around". She was right. I had my purse and my personal mobile was at home. It could be worse. 

So we continued drinking. Unfortunately I have to work tomorrow. Catherine on the other hand, does not. I thought yaga bombs would be a good idea. Fortunately Catherine was switched on enough to steel them away from me. When one of the girls declared she was taking the last train home, I joined her. At home, I did the necessary chasing of lost items and cancelled phone numbers, stripped my make-up and jumped into my brightly coloured PJs. Ahh bed.

What the duck?

Tonight I went to a premiere in Leicester Square. Sounds very glamorous? Well, I thought so too, so I glammed up wearing a cute cocktail dress and makeup to be all ready for the red carpet. Well as it turned out, this movie was so premiere it was pre-premiere and I am sad to say it was so bad it should not have been pre-premiere, but pre-production and pre-funding. 

I am a great supporter of Australian and New Zealand television and film but this production left me hanging my head in shame and shocked that such a script could ever attract funding or the two high quality actors that I adore, respect and love to watch on screen: Brian Brown and Rhys Darby.

There are so many amazing scripts, with amazing producers and top quality actors lining up to produce top quality Australian and New Zealand film, if only they had the funding, that I am just in shock that this movie, called Love Birds, should attract any money except from animal rights charities. What person could possibility, in their right mind, read this script and think: this will make a great movie?

Ok. So with my rant finished – actually it is not - what is this film about? A duck – yes a duck??? and other than that, it follows the traditional romantic story line. But pretty much all I can say, it is a story about a duck??? And, as a great fan of Peter Rabbit and many things fury that I am - I still find myself questioning; a duck?  

I am a huge fan of Rhys Darby - fabulous in Yes Man (opposite Jim Carrey) and, of course, Flight of the Concords – and a highlight in this otherwise – what the duck? film.  I hope it is just a product of the recession that Rhys and Brian Brown should associate themselves with this film – you are so much better than this. Rant, or should I say, duck over.

There is always a catch

I returned home Saturday very tired, still struggling to recover from the lack of sleep the night before. I was looking forward to cooking a nice dinner and having a quiet night in watching a chick flick. I turned down the offer from Catherine to join her in Mayfair and settle down to my suitably girly DVD for night, Leap Year.  

It was quite funny and part way through Harry - who I had just left - sent an text gushing in excitement: he had just taken a toilet break at the Cinema and found himself at the urinal next to Bill Nighy of the Boat That Rocked and Love Actually fame. I asked him what he said to him, and funny enough he didn't quite feel that "how's it hanging?" was the best way to strike up a conversation.

I was about to head off for bed at the ridiculously early time of 1130 when I receive a text message from Ben. He is at a party at a mutual friend's house and wants me to come over. I am very satisfied with the warmth of my bed and flirtatiously decline. What follows is a series of text messages, with the final saying, “I am coming over, meet me outside”.

I decide I will just ignore them and go to sleep. But as I am playing with my phone I accidently answer his call before the phone even rings. Shit!

So I let him in. He is pissed and can barely string two words together. I am stone cold sober and not finding him at all attractive. Funny that! I make him a cup of tea and decide to get changed and take him back to the party. Bad move, he pretty much passes out on the couch and was not moving. So I put a sheet and blanket over him. Given him a pillow and water and go to bed.

He crawls into bed in the morning. He is actually quite good company when he is sober. When he is not shagging his way around Europe – oops, I mean, very responsibly leading tours - he is working in marketing.

His last tour starts in just a few days and after that he is moving to London and of course wants to live in South London near his mates and brother. He loves the ocean, diving, surfing and adventure. So on the face of it, he is perfect. But of course there is a catch – or several. He is 25 (yes 25!). He thinks I am 28 (no idea where he got that idea from!?). He likes to drink excessive amounts of alcohol as demonstrated in our short encounters, and while he is clearly intelligent, I am not sure how turned-on he is by discussions of politics and world events. He is very chilled. So he is good for some casual fun for this weekend. A nice surprise.

Surprises

Every now and then little surprises pop up that always keeps things interesting. Tonight mine came in a very nice little 5’10 package with shaggy hair. I saw him as I approached the bar where I was meeting my housemate and thought “wow he is gorgeous”. He was staring at me and as he was standing right in front of my housemate Catherline, I threw a brilliant smile to Catherine and, of course, he thought I was smiling at him – which of course I was!. But I walked straight passed him and embraced Catherine. Where did this confidence come from? A glass of wine and comfort in my decision to wear a stylish business skirt instead of my Friday casual jeans.

Shaggy haired boy is Ben. We chat – I don’t remember what about. Travels – he is a tour company guide – which led to me talking about how tour guides have a deserving reputation for picking up a girl. I certainly had no doubt that he didn’t experience the advances of a girl (or two) on his tours. It is a sad indication of the direction of the night when you don’t remember a first kiss. And sadly I don’t but I do remember later ones and they were very nice.

We caught the last train home to Clapham and lost Catherine and our friend James along the way. The Clapham North Pub is the logical next stop and I make my way to the toilet and as I descend the stairs a gorgeous guy catches my eye. He looks familiar, but I can’t place where I have seen him before. I turn around for a second look and he looks back at the same time. We exchange a smile.

As I make my way back to my friends after the ladies break, I am suddenly grabbed from nowhere. I am expecting to see Ben, but instead it is this mysterious man on the stairs. He introduces himself. We exchange pleasantries and I am acutely aware that it is very uncool to be chatting up another guy when I have just been kissing another.. My new admirer is gorgeous with a brilliant smile – probably about 28. He tells me he saves penguins for a living. It sounds like a line – but surely too ridiculous to actually be one. And I ask if he is a marine biologist. Which he isn’t. I was almost convinced he was feeding me a very bad pick up line, but then I do have a friend that keeps a stock of KY jelly and latex gloves in the boot of his car in case he is called out for a marine rescue. So we exchange numbers, he says he is away for a few weeks and will give me a call when he gets back. The following morning I have a message from him.

So. Ben, Colin (Catherine’s very posh work colleague) and I are reunited with Catherine and James and the next stop is Sol Bar on the high street. We dance the night away – Colin is surprisingly good on the dance floor. I am noticing that my young acquaintance is looking increasingly intoxicated. But so too am I.

We are the last to leave the bar and with Catherine and James on good form, they are keen to move to Infernos – a bar you only go to if you a completely trashed. We manage to lose them in about five seconds, to which I call it a night. I was happy to leave my friend at James' house, but of course he had other things in mind. I warned him in advance that he would not be adding a run to his very long tally. But I had a feeling the attraction of a comfy bed over a stinky couch was his main driver for “I really don’t care”. So for the first time ever I invited a guy that I have just met to my bedroom.

Of course when it is the early hours of the morning and you are suitably very drunk you forget one minor issue in the whole equation: the sports bra underwear that is a requirement of my recent operation. It is only two months since my surgery. My scars are there, the operation wasn’t a perfect success with my C cup breasts looking quite odd and nothing like the perfect DD natural originals - however I haven't regretted for a moment my decision to have the operation. 

Even drunk, the self consciousness is dawning on me. My solution was to find a sexy bra, make haste for the bathroom and change. I would simply tell him he couldn’t take it off. Sounds easy enough.

So, as the moment of truth arrives, I assert my desire for the bra to stay on. He wasn’t having any of it. “Trust me,” I say. “This is a bit of fun and if you take the bra off I have to have a serious conversation with you – which I really don’t want to do.” He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So I told him I had had a mastectomy, that I hadn’t had cancer, it was just precautionary because my mum had had cancer. He insisted on taking my bra off. And proceeded to tell me how beautiful I looked. So, all really quite sweet. But things all went very emotional. His father died only two years ago from cancer and I told him of my mum. So a fun one night fling suddenly became very deep and serious.

It is funny. The thought of showing someone my breasts – that first time – is something that had worried me quite a bit over the past few months. I didn’t know what to say or what to expert. I certainly did not think it would be like this. But I, in some way, felt that everything was meant to be just as it was.

This morning I had a headache. It has been a long time since I have woken up like this. I was running late and keen to get out of the house. Harry and I planned on having lunch together before seeing a matinee session of La Boheme in Soho.

The modern adaptation of the classic opera was brilliant. We took our seats for Act 1 in a sold out theatre. Act 2 was set in a bar. So the entire audience moved to the real life bar and the opera was performed amongst us. We were sitting next to some of the performers. Brilliant. It was a great day.

It’s official: I am single and 30ish

All women, like men have certain needs so you know you are in trouble when you start imagining sex with a friend or entertaining the idea of whether you should have taken up the drunken, cigarette-filled offer from a few weeks ago - ok so still didn’t quite go that far.

Desperate, single times, call for desperate measures. So tonight I find myself on a certain High Street lingerie-wear website that also happens to sell certain female toys. They come in all colours and various settings. I can’t believe I am doing this. But it is time to buy... a vibrator! 

I am a bit worried about the package not fitting through the letterbox, having to pick it up from Royal Mail. They say it is “discrete” packaging. Maybe I should go in and buy one in person. Hmm.. Nah online is good. Purchase! OMG!

Friends or lovers?

We've all experienced that moment when someone you had always thought of as just a good mate, crosses a line and becomes, well something else. So feeling very unhealthy, having drunk for the best part of a week, I decide to make the most of the glorious weather and walk to Battersea Park. It has been a year since my last visit and too long. Before I go I decide to text Sam who lives close by to see if he wants to catch up. Our last catch up ended in a very drunken and somewhat uncomfortable pashing session. Five months of no sex was taking its toll and I was ready to grab anyone. Well not quite, but you get the idea. Despite being very drunk, a moment of clarity made me realise how wrong the how thing was. He left the house feeling rejected. I woke the following morning and had the moment of waking up to a new day, all happy, before the memories flooded back. I sent a text full of expletives and “sorry”. So this weekend I decided I needed to face the embarrassment and get over that first catch up and hopefully retain some form of friendship.

After lounging in the sun in the tropical garden reading The Island by Victoria Hislop, I meet Sam at his house and we take a train to Waterloo for the Thames River Festival. The energy is amazing, people, music and smells everywhere. The energy between us is also a little extreme. I am shocked by how nervous I feel and the sexual tension. What the hell is this all about? We grab our food and drink and take a seat on one of the long tables across the closed-to-traffic Southwark Bridge. The sky is turning pink behind the Tate Modern as we overlook the river, drinking Pimms and lemonade.

I find myself noticing his cute brown eyes, his gorgeous smile, how well toned he is. Wait on a minute! He is clearly flirting and I am flirting back. What the hell is going on?! He invites me back to his house for some of his famous chocolate chip muffins that he has baked that day. They are amazing. I am tempted, but remembering my plan to make a new pumpkin soup recipe for this week’s dinner and the fact that I didn’t want a repeat of our last meeting, I decline and promise to take up the dinner and muffin offer next week. Friends win out.

Labels: Pom, Manolo Blahnik, gay, straight, bi? Which one fits you?

This morning began with an interesting conversation with my housemate Catherine. She had been delivering the cold shoulder since the Neanderthal night, leaving me perplexed about what I had done. "I have been seeing Calum in secret," she says. Slightly confused, I go "ok" (yes the same guy that pretty much asked me out). "It just sort of happened. It is not serious but I really like him, we don't want John to find out," she says. That would be her ex-boyfriend and his best friend. I didn't have much time to chat and had to run out the door to work. But an interesting development.

After work today I decide to beat the tube strike and head out to All Bar One at Holburn with my GBF (gay best friend). Harry and I met at university and worked a little while together as reporters in our home country. I have always thought Harry was gay and finally, about six months ago, he came out. I faked shock. He hasn’t told the rest of our friends who will of course not be surprised.

But then tonight he threw in a curve ball. “I’m not sure if I am gay”. “Ah... ok”, I say. It turns out that stubble and hairy chest just aren’t doing it for Harry anymore. He was a rather late bloomer. Now 31, he had a few female encounters before trying the men in his late 20s. There is no doubt that he is attracted to men. Definitely not straight. But just as it is taboo in some circles for a heterosexual man to be gay, in the gay circles being bi just doesn’t go down well. But I was very shocked when he said he imagines himself with a wife, home and kids, settling down in our home country. “Do you think it is just the kids you want?” He told me it was the complete package.

I do some counselling asking him about his parents’ divorce, stereotypes he has grown up with. We conclude that he probably is attracted to both men and women. Although, I am not really convinced. I think the casual sex that is all about the physical and not the emotional could be the real reason why he isn’t all that turned on by his random and fleeting sexual encounters. By the end of the night we decide that Saturday night we are on a mission: to the straight bars to pick Harry up a girl.

 

Brains, Balls and Neanderthals

When it comes to partying, my workplace doesn’t oooz staying power, or starting power for that matter. I arrived at my new job to discover people don’t usually socialise after work and there is no social committee despite having more than 100 people working in one building. So in the first two weeks in my role I instigated the Friday night drinks. So far we’ve received a good turnout. And for a moment I even thought maybe I had found someone special. With dark hair and blue eyes there was no lightning bolt but a few minutes into discussion and I was thinking “this could be nice”. He has climb Kilomanjaro (took the easy route) and several mountains in South America, is well travelled, intelligent and nice. But after enjoying a nice conversation he moved to the other end of the table. Clearly I didn’t quite impress with my conversation!
 

A quick change of outfit and I was dressed to kill in a low cut number. I joined my housemates and their newly acquired Aussie male network. We partied until the wee hours.  One of the guys, Sam, apparently tried to kiss me, missed and planted one on my breast. I planted an open palm on his face. Although very drunk myself, it was very clear my lips were never the aim of his,  not that I, in anyway, invited either. 


There was one rather nice conversation with Calum, a slightly pudgier South African with dark features and dark eyes. He seemed shy, unassuming and very friendly. He strikes up a conversation and clearly feeling very merry from several drinks, seems to have a bit more confidence. "You are looking very beautiful tonight," he says. "Why thank you", I respond, not taking too much notice. "When I get back from holiday I would really like catch up for a drink some time." I say, “that would be nice, we can get a group together to go out”. And hoped I had suitably deflected the conversation.



The following night we turned around and did it all again. The number of Aussie males grew, joined by English and South African counterparts. It started with a traditional game of backyard cricket in a local pub, followed by a very manly beer drinking competition, a bit of male love thrown in and finished with tops off and an arm wrestling competition (actually this bit I quite liked).  As I looked around the bar, thinking ‘have I stepped back in time 20,000 years?’ I noticed a doctor, physiotherapist, vet and accountant struggling to maintain their balance. Yes, even men with proven intelligence strive to regress to the testosterone filled Neanderthal state.


Clearly not turned on by pre-historic males, and quite stuffed from going to bed at 4.30am that day, I decided to retire to my bed. At 5.50am I receive a knock on the door. One of the cave men sticks his head in. “Do you mind if I sleep in your room?” already half way in carrying the mattress I had left out, I ask “Why can’t you sleep in the lounge room?”. Apparently my housemate is wooing some random guys (plural) that she met at the bar. Keen to get back to sleep and conscious the sun was already up, I let him in.

I was sleeping in my underwear so I grab my towel to go to the bathroom. Drunken exhibit A tries to pull me onto the bed. Fortunately the alcohol is lowering his strength factor. I manage to convince him to let go and head to the bathroom to cover up. On my return, wreaking of smoke my early morning visitor tries to get into bed with me. “What are you doing?" I ask in shock. He tries to tell me it is too uncomfortable on the spare mattress that he needs blankets. I tell him he stinks of cigarettes and is not getting near me and “anyway I plan to fart all morning”. That seemed to stop him. He retreats to the spare mattress. I lie there trying to work out if I am sending out “hi, I’m a slappa” signals to attract two poor attempts of seduction in two days, or whether the group motto is ‘try your luck’. I think it is the latter.

Pumpkin in the Big Apple

Every girl has had one. Mine came at age 31 – when I should be too old for a pumpkin moment. And in the classiest of cities, New York.

I looked the part, dressed in a sparkly black strapless dress, shiny high heels, I am ready to go to the ball and find my Prince Charming in the Big Apple accompanied by my two stunning stepsisters (friends Sarah and Catherine). The location is a Bleeker Street bar in central Manhattan where I meet an old colleague who has recently moved to New York. We enjoy great music, great conversation and I was even being chatted up by a gorgeous guy. Knowing there was no time for hangovers, I opt for vodka and orange drinks, confident the fruit will keep the hangover at bay. It has been a long time since I have gone the hardcore spirits over the more stylish wine, but I can handle my drink. 

In the early hours of the morning my friends call to leave and wait for me outside while I say good-bye to my cute friend. However, he has disappeared. His friend’s joke that he has left, but then say “no, he has responded to nature.” Suddenly from nowhere I feel it approaching, the stylish facade, the fairy godmother magic, is about to all disappear. Any moment I am to turn into a pumpkin or worst still a very, very ugly step-sister. Acutely aware that there is no time for good-byes – I dash out the door as Prince Charming’s friends grab me fearing that something they have said has scared me off. I say “I have to go, now, I’m sorry”. I want to sit down for a moment and try to make myself feel better – but I know it is too late for that - exiting with some sense of glamour is all I can hold out for. I hail a cab  - in a very Sex and the City style – and call for my friends to get inside. It is the last glimmer of style pretence I deliver.

Believe me – as your pumpkin moment approaches - you do not want to be in a New York cab. The taxi dodges and weaves through traffic with the driver determined to get us to a destination in record time – even though at three in the morning, we are in no rush. The lights go green and he floors it – aiming to cover 10 blocks before every light turns red. I just want to stop. But ensuring that we do not dodge our cab fare – the doors are locked. I am trapped.. The clock strikes midnight as the cab flies down Fifth Avenue.. I am certain that no story line in Sex and the City ever featured Carrie Bradshaw in such an ugly fairy monster moment.

I can only imagine what “Prince Charming” would be thinking at being dumped without so much as a good-bye. You may say – ah well at least I don’t have to worry about bumping into him again. Or do I? Somehow out of all the men in all the bars in New York, I end up chatting to guy from London who lives just two suburbs away. As an antipodean – it is highly like that there are only two degrees of separation between us.

In the cold, and very painful light of the following morning I drag myself through New York determined not to waste any time and secretly thinking the horrendous night’s end was a blessing in disguise. I am pretty certain Prince Charming wasn’t so spunky or charming without my ginormous vodka and orange beer goggles. But the night of the Pumpkin in the Big Apple would have to go down as my most crazy and cruel exit of all time.

Life has other ideas

In my early 20s I watched Sex in the City and enjoyed the antics of the girls, but never did I really want to be one of them: in my 30s sexy and single, no way! In love, settled and babies, that was where I would be. Well sometimes life has other ideas. So here is my blog about my life, love and hopefully sex in the city of London. But what better place to start than in the best city in the world, New York!