Archive | January, 2011

The Stayer

30 Jan
Fireworks

flickr image by tsuacctnt

My friend Lucy and I decided we couldn’t face another New Year’s Eve in Sydney. The thought of cheesy fireworks over the harbour, along with the inflated cover charge we’d be forced to dole out in order to watch said cheesy fireworks from a bar stool, while sipping on overpriced cocktails,  ultimately cumulating in a mediocre night, just wasn’t appealing.

Riding on a whim, we packed our bags and headed for an undisclosed holiday location. (Well, I don’t work for the tourist board, so there will be no free advertising on this blog).

We arrived at our destination on New Year’s Eve, as the sun was setting and the air was buzzing with anticipation of the upcoming festivities. Due to our trip being a rather last minute affair, we had yet to book accommodation. As a consequence, we ended up in a rather disenchanting guesthouse. Two uncomfortable single beds resided side by side in the dingy room. The grubby walls were littered with dirty feet marks and a cornucopia of other brown smudges. Toilet paper and soap were also noticeably absent from the less than pristine bathroom.

Ignoring our revolting surroundings, Lucy and I slipped into our party frocks and headed out for what we hoped would be a night of debauchery.

We began with an Italian meal accompanied by an assortment of beverages including beer, vodka and whiskey. Now, I don’t know if I’m alone in this way of thinking, but I usually try to avoid garlic-laden foodstuffs before a night out on the tiles. My reasoning being that I do not wish my chances of picking up to be hindered by my eye-watering breath.

However, Lucy threw caution to the wind, proceeding to chow down on an onion-laced salad, chased by buttery garlic bread and pizza. I followed suit, devouring a Mediterranean style pizza besieged with an obscene amount of garlic. Not to worry though, I’d just stop at a convenience store on the way to the bar and purchase myself fifty-seven packets of chewing gum. That should mask the smell. But only just.

Deliciously tipsy, we made our way to an open air bar where the crowd was heaving and the alcohol was doled out in quite a heavy handed fashion. Perfect.

Before long we got talking to a pair of guys from Melbourne. Will was talkative and bubbly, while Robbie was more reserved and peered at me with curiosity, undeniably tinged with a lick of desire. I clocked Robbie’s lingering looks early on and made a relatively sober decision – fuck no.

Now, I am by no means supermodel-esque, with men regularly fainting in my wake, serenading me from the garden bed below my second storey window and penning romantic odes in my honour. However, I do have standards. Kind of. And Robbie just didn’t meet them. He towered above me at six foot one billion, with a sinewy torso and gangly limbs. Although he possessed a pair of piercing blue eyes, his frizzy unkempt hair was permanently falling into them. Imagine Justin Bieber’s hair if he was unable to access a straightening wand. His tanned face was a tad weathered and I placed his age to be somewhere in his mid to late thirties. But most importantly, he had no charisma, no pizzazz and was severely lacking in conversational skills.

In order to fully comprehend the next part of my tale, there are two things about me you should know.

Number one – my sober thoughts don’t always translate to my drunken actions. Meaning, somebody I find to be ever-so-slightly unattractive when I’m sober, is not always unattractive to me after I’ve consumed my own body weight in vodka.

Number two – at times I can be lazy. Meaning, sometimes if I am aware that a guy is interested in me, I’ll give it a shot even if I’m not initially that keen, purely because I can’t be bothered venturing off to find someone of a higher calibre. I do maintain some standards, but sometimes, just sometimes, with the application of alcohol, those standards can drop. Quite significantly.

I know this revelation may surprise some of you, given that I’ve previously written such posts as Man Buffet; celebrating the proactive woman in all of her glorious bolshy femininity. But hey, I’m only human and I certainly don’t belong on a pedestal.

As Happy New Year kisses and hugs were exchanged, I decided to give Robbie a little more than he had bargained for – an eager round of tongue lashing. Consider it as pro bono work. It was New Year’s, and even gangly thirty-somethings with bad hair deserved to pick up.

After another hour or two, we found ourselves a romantic nook not far from the portaloos, where we continued our mauling session. After a while, the party crowd had thinned out considerably and we soon discovered that our friends had deserted us.

Being a gentleman, Robbie escorted me back to my guesthouse. My suspicions that his actions weren’t entirely borne from chivalry were confirmed when we arrived at my lodgings and he proposed that he pay for an extra room for us to share.

At the suggestion, I promptly informed him that there were no spare rooms due to it being New Year’s Eve. As it was, I was lucky somebody had cancelled their reservation at the last minute, rewarding Lucy and I with our hovel of an abode.

Disappointed, he asked if he could escort me to my door. Knowing full well he was actually asking for permission to enter my vagina, I rebuffed the offer. However, he persisted by cajoling me with a most irritating whine engrained in his voice. Relenting, I agreed, but assured him that Lucy would be in the room so there was to be no funny business.

Once in the room, Lucy quickly retired to bed, turning off the light. Robbie and I snuggled on my springy single bed; a rather difficult feat given his size. He began to lightly pet my lady parts, but his advances were firmly refused, given that Lucy was resting less than a metre away.

We both drifted into a drunken sleep. Waking a short time later, my arm flung over a man’s chest, I felt an all too familiar hungry stir between my thighs. Listening carefully, I could hear slumbered breathing from Lucy, indicating that she was safely asleep. I sneakily removed my underwear and guided one of Robbie’s hands in between my thighs.

That rather hastily awoke him from his slumber and we slipped beneath the sheets.

By no means was it great sex. We were drunk, it was late, it was a single bed and one of my best friends was in extremely close proximity. There were many factors hindering the eroticism of the tryst.

I was awoken a few hours later by urgent footsteps thumping their way to the bathroom. I looked up in time to see Lucy, clad only in a singlet and g-string, charging determinedly into the bathroom, followed shortly by the distinctive sounds of throwing up. I wasn’t surprised; the copious amounts of alcohol consumed the night before, mingled with my severe lack of sleep, meant I wasn’t feeling too fresh either.

Lucy continued to charge back and forth from the bathroom, violently vomiting, then crashing exhaustedly back into her bed. The poor girl was so hungover, she didn’t even have the energy to rifle through her suitcase in order to find a pair shorts to cover herself up.

During all of this, Robbie was still in my bed. The fact that I had turned away from him some time ago, facing the wall, not giving him one iota of attention, didn’t seem to deter him. He was also not fazed by my friend being violently ill. He had well and truly outstayed his welcome, but for some reason, he wasn’t leaving.

His motive was revealed soon enough when Lucy torpedoed towards the bathroom once again. I felt his timid hand on my breast, and his morning breath on my cheek. “Your friend’s in the bathroom,” he whispered, “We can… You know.” He began peppering my cheek with kisses.

I promptly brushed him away as I would an irritating blowfly. “Not going to happen,” I snapped. “I feel sick and just want to sleep.”

I believe most people would have taken this as their cue to leave. But not Robbie. Upon Lucy’s next trip to the bathroom, he tried the same routine, seemingly having forgotten the frosty response he had received the first time.

Again, I brushed him away.

His advances soon progressed to attempting to fondle me when Lucy was back in her bed. “Let’s go to the bathroom,” he suggested.

By this stage I was fuming. My friend was sick. I wasn’t feeling well either and all I wanted to do was sleep. But he didn’t seem to possess even a scrap of intelligence that would assist him in realising he was no longer welcome.

What I should have done is asked him to leave. But it was awkward. Oh so awkward. And I kept hoping that’d he’d finally get the not-so-subtle hint that he had outstayed his welcome and leave us be.

I’m a big believer in treating others as you would wish to be treated. This is what prevented me from actually asking him to leave. I put myself in his shoes, and decided I’d be mortified if a guy told me I wasn’t welcome, treating me with little more respect than a cheap street walker.

Though, to be fair, if I was in his position I believe I would have picked up on the very obvious fact that it was time to bid farewell.

I lay on my side, facing the wall, remaining mute. However, inside my head I was screaming, “FUCK OFF!” Why wouldn’t this guy just leave?

Finally, although I pathetically lacked the ability to blatantly ask him to leave, I started a line of gentle questioning that began with, “Won’t your friend be wondering where you are? He’s probably really worried.”

After more gentle prodding, Robbie began to slowly redress himself. Annoyingly, he then delayed his departure further by attempting to give me a lingering goodbye kiss.

Just fuck off already!

Finally he left. At the sound of the door blessedly closing behind him, Lucy rolled over and gave me a murderous look. “Thank God I was wearing earplugs last night,” she quipped.

The moral to the story? Well, where shall we begin?

1) If you find somebody unattractive when sober, don’t fuck them when you’re drunk. God knows they’ll be even more unattractive the morning after.

2) After a drunken sexual tryst, don’t overstay your welcome the next morning. Use your common sense and gauge the situation. Is your sexual partner avoiding eye contact and rebuffing all your advances? Yes? Then leave. Immediately.

3) If you ever have the misfortune of sharing a twin hotel room with Dawn, bring a pair of earplugs. You’re probably going to need them.

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