Thirteen

11 Dec

Thirteen (Takoma Park, MD)

flickr image by takomabibelot

 

This one’s from ‘The Good Old Days’…

The night started out quite innocently enough – in my East London kitchen accompanied by a good friend, downing glasses of liberally poured vodka mixed with diet coke. After a few drinks and despite our meagre funds, the urge to venture out to a bar became overpowering. We soon found ourselves jumping on a tube. Generous helpings of mascara coated our lashes, heels painfully crippled our feet and a used water bottle cheekily refilled with vodka nestled snugly inside my handbag.

It’s a wonder the barstaff didn’t question why two girls insisted on consuming their diet cokes in a shared toilet cubicle, yet were bizarrely becoming progressively inebriated on their non-alcoholic beverages.

The night thundered onwards and our empty bottle of ‘water’ was eventually discarded carelessly in a gutter as we exited the club. Drunk, merry and not yet ready to return home, we wandered through Chinatown. Here we stumbled upon a dingy little club named Thirteen, perched above a late-night Chinese restaurant.

Upon entry into the nightclub, we caught the hungry eyes of the male-heavy clientele. My friend was quickly locked in a passionate embrace with a blond-haired Russian, whilst I was subjected to the egotistical ramblings of a skinny Englishman. Of course in my intoxicated state I found him to be handsome, charming, and the dull conversation to be one of the most interesting and gripping I had ever had the good fortune to be involved in.

As the night gave way to early morning, my head was spinning and my eyes seeing double. The club was shutting up shop and we found ourselves ousted onto a cobblestoned alleyway. My friend and I reconvened, our suitors hovering on the fringe of the conversation. Against my better judgement, I found myself agreeing to accompany her back to the Russian’s Chelsea home for more alcoholic beverages. By this stage it was three thirty in the morning and my friend assured me we would merely consume a couple of friendly ales at his place of residence, before catching an early morning tube and being safely transported back to my Canary Wharf flatshare.

Stupidly, I agreed.

The back of the cab soon resembled something from a pervy teen movie – my friend being (willingly) groped by her Russian lothario, whilst the clueless Englishman slobbered all over my mouth with an extreme lack of precision and technique. Once we arrived at the Russian’s flat, a glass of red wine was hastily thrust in my direction. Shortly thereafter, my ears were assaulted by two sets of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs, followed by a bedroom door being slammed somewhere above my head. Obviously my friend and her Russian had disappeared into a bedroom upstairs. So much for the quiet drinks and early tube ride home.

The beanpole of an Englishman leered at me suggestively and asked something suave like, ‘Shall we?’ gesturing towards the lounge room. Knowing by this stage I really had no choice, I followed his lead and settled onto an uncomfortable brown couch. I was then treated to tedious story after tedious story. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this Englishman’s favourite topic of conversation was most certainly himself.

As he leaned in for a kiss, I readily obliged, if only to shut him up. I figured if his mouth was otherwise occupied I’d be spared another tiresome tale.

I’m unsure how to satisfactorily justify the events that followed. Perhaps it was my supreme level of intoxication. Maybe it was the knowledge that I was stuck in that unfamiliar flat for at least the next few hours, as the unspoken code of wingmanship would prevent me from leaving without my friend. It could have been the overbearing desire to blissfully not have to listen to anymore of his rambling stories. Or perhaps it was the basic fact that after six months of being single, I was horny.

Really horny.

As you very well may have guessed, sex followed. On the revolting brown lounge.

By that stage, the digital clock on the dvd player informed me it was nearly seven o’clock in the morning. Now for anyone who has never bumped uglies at that time of the morning, following a huge sleepless night out, I certainly do not recommend it. Not only was my eye sight and brain function fuzzy with lingering intoxication, lack of sleep and extreme exhaustion, but my partner in crime was no longer at his peak physical fitness. By this hour, a sustained erection was as elusive as a hetrosexual male at the screening of a Julia Roberts film.

My exact memories of the romp were either never properly formed due to my vodka-fuelled, sleep deprived mind, or perhaps never willingly retained because of the sordid and regrettable nature of the act itself. Either way, I do at least recall him falling into a noisy slumber, a clumsy arm flung around my waist, a cumbersome leg entrapping one of mine. There I lay for a number of hours, wide awake and full of regret – my sense of wingmanship preventing me from getting the fuck out of there as fast as my weary legs could carry me.

Eventually my friend reappeared, looking a little worse for wear. Her Russian suitor flowed closely behind, a smug smile plastered across his face like a badge of honour. Huddling together in the small bathroom, my friend and I wiped at our smudged eye makeup with wet toilet paper and attempted to rake clumsy fingers through our tangled tresses.

In a brazen display of chivalry, the guys offered to walk us to the tube station. As we weaved through the back streets of Chelsea, they strode ten metres ahead of us, their heads bowed towards one another, voices hushed. I could only imagine the exaggerated stories of sexual heroism being shared. My friend and I trundled along behind, walking rather inelegantly in our high heels and skimpy outfits at nine o’clock in the morning. Upon reaching the tube station, a period of excruciating awkwardness ensued as phone numbers were dutifully swapped and cheeks obediently pecked.

On the train ride home we sat in silence, thankful to have narrowly missed peak hour, whereupon the train carriages often resemble sardine cans. However, we were still surrounded by a number of commuters on their way to work, dressed crisply in suits. These commuters gave the two sickly looking girls who reeked of cigarette smoke and spilled pints a wide berth, some daring to sneak inquisitive peeps over the tops of their newspapers.

As we gratefully exited the tube station at our destination, the lack of food and sleep, coupled with vague memories of the debaucheries committed only mere hours ago, along with the copious amounts of alcohol that had been consumed, all cumulated in an overbearing urge to vomit. With determination and surprising speed, I hurtled towards the gutter, my body revoltingly giving birth to a huge river of sick. My entire torso convulsed as the waves of nausea continued to ripple through me, and the seemingly endless stream of vomit continued to spew forth. Huge wracking gurgles escaped from my throat, drawing the horrified attention of passersby, who looked on in disdain as I remained crippled over, hurling into the gutter. My skirt was hitched up far enough to reveal my underwear, while my friend sympathetically patted the top of my birds nest head.

Suddenly the name of the club blazoned into my mind – Thirteen. The ironical nature of the name failed to escape my blurry, hungover brain. With the Englishman being thirty six years of age, thirteen was the number of years age difference between myself and him.

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4 Responses to “Thirteen”

  1. fsugirl101 December 14, 2010 at 4:05 pm #

    I know the feeling of sneaking to the bathroom to spike my drink all too well! I love your blog and your writing style, just wanted to let you know 🙂

    • Dawn Dash December 19, 2010 at 5:03 pm #

      I love writing stuff that others can relate to. Thank you, Lovely! xx

  2. newyorkcliche April 21, 2011 at 2:57 am #

    36 and still delivering slobbery kisses? Sad.
    Any girl would be lucky to have you as a wingman!

    • Dawn Dash April 21, 2011 at 11:55 pm #

      I’ve currently been nominated as wing-girl of the year. I think when all my good wing-girling deeds have been considered, I’ll be in with a pretty good chance!

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