Oh S**t!

I always imagined that I would be in a long term relationship, possibly even

married before I started having kids. I never, in a million years, imagined that

I would find myself having a series of drunken encounters with a Canadian

tourist who was FAR too pretty for me. I DEFINEATLY did not see myself

 having an even drunker fumble with an old friend within a week of said

encounters with The Canadian. I actually joked with my best friend B about

the situation, as sleeping with more than one man in such a short time

frame is not like me. AT ALL. We were out having dinner, and I said to him

“I better not have got myself knocked up, that would be a bloody disaster!”

To which he replied, “don’t be stupid! Have some more wine” and that, I

thought, was the end of that.

Two weeks later I was singing in a cabaret show. I was very excited. I had

dug out the gold corset, perfected my songs, convinced my nearest and

dearest to come along for support and the pregnancy test I had taken that

morning was negative. It was a good day. Directly before the performance, I

had my ritual Tanqueray and Tonic. It didn’t taste right. It didn’t warm the cockles

and limber the chords like it usually did. It felt wrong. So I left it unfinished,

something that NEVER happens, and went on stage. Perplexed.

I took another test the following morning. Again, it was negative. I knew it

was wrong, the unfinished Gin from the night before had proven

this. So, I went to Boots and bought another 4, and took them each

morning for the next 4 days. Day 4 confirmed it. Shit.

Eight weeks earlier I had been living the dream. My business was going from

strength to strength, so much so that we had relocated to larger premesis. The new

place was huge with living accommodation above. One of my chefs had a friend

coming to visit from Canada for four weeks, and as he and his wife were

staying with her mother whilst their flat was finalised, there was nowhere for the

Canadian to stay.  He was apparently a dab hand with a paint brush and a hammer

and would be happy to help decorate the restaurant in exchange for a place to

sleep. It was a win win situation. He got free board, I got free labour.

The Canadian had been with us for a week before I met him. There was evidence of

his existence, a painted skirting board here and a repaired door handle there. The

busty blonde who kept turning up to wait for him and a female member of staff had

been gossiping about the cute guy who she had spotted coming out of the shower.

To say I wasn’t curious to see what all the fuss was about would be a lie. To accuse

me of spending far longer than was necessary cashing up every night in hope of

catching a glimpse would be justified. To suggest that my mouth dropped open and

a little drool escaped when I finally caught that glimpse would be bang on the

money. The man was hot in a Calvin Klein underwear model sort of way. The bluest

eyes I had ever seen on a man with such dark hair. Chiseled jaw line with a chin

dimple that was begging me to lick it. Well dressed, good shoes, big hands, tick,

tick, tick. He was sex on legs. It felt a little stalker like watching him from the darkness

 salivating, so I found my voice, stepped into the light, and knowing that this man was far 

too good looking to even bother flirting with, introduced myself. 6

hours, 40 fags, half a bottle of rum and lots of laughs later I woke up in his arms wondering how the hell I had managed to get myself there.

The next three weeks were spent in a flurry of nights out, mornings in and me constantly questioning who I’d been good enough to in order to deserve all the wonderful sex I was having. I was, to put it simply, in heaven. It was clear from the start that our little arrangement was nothing more than a holiday fling and  I convinced myself that The Canadian was shagging his way round Brighton. How could he not be?  looking the way he did. I was clearly batting outside my region. I prayed that he wasn’t and he did nothing to confirm or dispel my paranoia.

The weekend before he was due to leave he went to London for a night out. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and was feeling pretty bummed. I went out for drinks with a very old friend who was down from London for the weekend to cheer myself up. 12 hours, 80 fags, a bottle of rum and so much laughing I almost peed myself later, I woke up in my old friends arms wondering when I had become such a whore.

You see I have always been single. At the grand old age of 26, my longest relationship had lasted for 9 months and that was when I was 19. I have no idea why. I’m not a girly girl, never have been. I don’t get jealous. I appreciate my space. I encourage my boyfriends to spend time with their mates. I’m not clingy, needy, insecure or overly emotional. I don’t rely on the man to make me happy and

fulfil my life. I don’t text every other hour and I don’t insist on spending time with my man every waking second. I’m not offended by porn and I enjoy giving head. In short, on paper, I’m the perfect girlfriend. Yet I remain forever unboyfriendable.

My nearest and dearest have put it down to a combination of my stupidly busy lifestyle and the fact that I radiate “I don’t need a man” vibes. They seem to think that if I were to play the simpering chick I might have more luck. Not appear so together, act a little dumber than I really am, make them feel important. I refuse to behave like a fool, so I stay single. On nights out I surround myself with beautiful girlfriends and hot man friends as they make excellent wing people, especially my Danish gal, who is possibly the most attractive person I know. Classicly beautiful, long blonde hair, green eyes, perfect skin, killer body, 100 watt smile. The kind of girl whom all other girls instantly hate on sight. I know as I was one of them. She worked behind the bar of my favourite hangout. I made a point of never ordering from her as I couldn’t bear the idea of her standing close enough to me that comparisons could be made. My best friend B, who also worked there, was constantly banging on about how amazingly cool she was, how I had to meet her as we’d get on like a house on fire. I completely disagreed. How could anybody that beautiful have any kind of personality? This girl had it made, with her out of this world looks and doting boyfriend with a selection of very nice cars, beautiful home and seemingly fat wallet. We could never be friends.

 One cold November night, I was in the bar, having a quick drink, when I heard one of the owners complaining that he was short staffed for the holiday period. I offered my services. I didn’t need the money, but as I wrote my own hours at the restaurant it would be easy for me to fit in a couple of shifts a week to help them out. I also knew it would be a lot of fun as I would get to work with B and would have all the free alcohol a girl could wish for.

 I spent hours deciding what I should wear for my first night shift, as this bar was always full of single men with money to burn, and I was hoping to make a killing in tips and possibly leave with one of them. I decided on a denim skirt over black wool tights and a black vest top which optimised my cleavage and accentuated my curves. Casual, yet sexy, in an understated way. I walk in, and to my dismay, the Danish hottie is not only stood behind the bar, she is also wearing a denim skirt over black wool tights teamed with a black vest top. I wanted to cry. There’s all size 16 of me, competing for tips with all size 10 of her. In the same fucking outfit. This was not good. I’m considering running home to change, as I’ve arrived early and I only live around the corner, when she spots me, looks me square in the eye and shouts, pretty much at the top of her voice, “How the hell am I supposed to compete with her tits? Bloody hell, they’re amazing!”  I’m stood there flabbergasted as she thrusts a shot in my direction. She then proceeded to spend the entire shift pouring shots down my throat which had been bought for her by every single man she served, and making sure that my staff drink was never empty. By the end of the night I’m drunker than I’ve ever been in my life and have made more tips than I ever imagined possible.

  A few weeks later she invited me to a Christmas party at her house. She was planning a girly night as her boyfriend was going up to London to party with the lads. The plan was for everyone to bring a dish and a bottle, and we would eat, drink and be merry before going to a club. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I didn’t know any of her friends, hell, I barely knew her. I was intimidated by the ones that I had seen visit her in the bar as they were all as slim and shiny as she was, and the thought of being the dumpy girl didn’t fill me with much excitement. I wasn’t

going. I’m settling down in front of the telly when I get a text from the Danish hottie –“ Where are you? Would you mind bringing some soft drinks with you – there’s shit loads of vodka and nobody’s brought mixers! HURRY UP! xxx” I felt bad, as she was expecting me and I hadn’t told her I wasn’t coming. I throw some clothes on and call a cab. I arrive 30 minuets later laden with soft drinks, to be greeted at the door by the Danish hottie throwing her arms around my neck, gasping “Thank god you’re here!” She then leads me in and introduces me to a room full of stick thin, tick haired, bright eyed beauty’s with absolutely NOTHING to say for themselves. There’s a mountain of food, which none of the other girls are even looking at, I’m guessing there’re afraid of it, and enough Vodka on the table to open a bar. The Danish Hottie proceeds to make me the strongest drink known to man before launching into the crisps and dips with gusto. The stick thin, thick haired beauties look on in disgust. I’m stood there with no idea what to do with myself, as the Danish hottie is inhaling the hummus like her life depends on it, and the others are avoiding my eye in way that suggests they’re afraid my size 16 genes might be catching. I have to get out of there. Fast. My plan is to say I’m going to the toilet and sneak out. As I’m slowly backing out of the door, the Danish Hottie catches my eye and offers to show me where the toilet is. Bollocks. She then proceeds to take my hand, runs up the stairs, pulls me into the bathroom, locks the door, pulls her dress up, her pants down, and starts to pee. In front of me. Strangely enough I’m impressed, as I pee in front of my friends all the time. She then takes out her phone and orders a cab to meet us at the corner as soon as possible. My hand is grabbed yet again and I am pulled down the stairs, out of the front door, and straight into the waiting taxi. Is this really happening? Has she just

snuck out of her own party? She then extricates a bottle of Tequila from her handbag, takes a swig, passes it to me, then leans over as if to whisper something in my ear, and burps in it. She laughs, pays the driver, drags me out of the cab, then says to me “hold on, I’ve just got to do something,”  pulls up her dress, down her pants and moons all the passing cars. Stands up straight, lets out a sigh of relief as she says “that’s better” and marches into the bar. I’m left standing outside in a mixture of awe, admiration, disbelief and love.

It turns out that the stick thin thick haired bright eyed beauties were mostly the girlfriends of the boys that her partner was out with. She had been begged to have this party by him so that the boy’s would be let out to play. She had no idea how awful they were when she’d invited me, she honestly thought it could be a fun night. She was on the verge of tears when I arrived, and could tell that I was planning an escape, and there was no way she spending another second in that room with those people without me. I remind her that she had left them at her house. She didn’t seem too bothered. Half of them lived locally and the others were due to stay the night there anyway. She would text them in an hour letting them know where we were if they wanted to join us. Funnily enough, they didn’t. The Danish Hottie has been my Danish Gal ever since, and she makes an EXCELLENT wing man. Her plan is beautifully simple. She spots a group of guys with potential, gets their attention and allows them to buy us drinks. She then proceeds to act the drunken fool, whilst I am left apologising for her, and playfully telling her off. The guys continue to buy us drinks, in the hope that she will cop off with one of them, (she NEVER WILL), and she acts up even more. I’m left looking like the despairing, cool, sensible friend. She works out which one I like and proceeds to terrorise him,

which leaves me free to defend him and his honour in a flirty playful kind of way, which makes him feel like a million bucks, as he is receiving all the attention – abuse from the hottest girl in the room, and praise from her not so conventionally hot but sexy in her own kind of cool way friend. It never fails. There have been the occasional disasters, like the rather hot guy who chased me all night, and when I finally succumbed, he got offended as he was sure we had slept together before. I knew for a fact we hadn’t, as I would have remembered someone who was as equally good looking as he was bad in bed. After investigation, it turns out my sister had pulled him a few months previous and failed to return any of his many calls (he really was bad), and he was heartbroken as he really liked her. On meeting me, thinking I was her, he thought all his Christmases had come at once. Poor boy.  I’ve had one night stands, and I am always careful. They are few and far between, but when they happen, they are usually lots of fun.

 It seems that my attitude to sex was more on par with a mans attitude, as I had been single for an eternity, and, lets face it, a girls gotta eat. It wasn’t until I awoke in the arms of the second man in as many days that I realised just how loose my morals had become. I decided at that moment that my knickers were staying on for the foreseeable future.

After the Canadian had returned home, of course!