Last night I dragged the Usual Suspects to the pub.

As you do post break-up, I got myself tremendously drunk, and can barely remember anything at all, appart from the discovery of that little gem of a bar in the middle of Soho, where the smoking ban didn't apply, and cheering as we got a random to climb on top of a bus shelter.
Nothing else. Oh well...

There will be no blogging for me for a while, so Merry Christmas!

Dumped

I'm officially dumped.
Well, not exactly. But I got Mike to speak to Hihes at a Christmas party last night. Apparently, he said there was nothing wrong with me, but that he just didn't want to take things any further.
(It looks like the night I thought we could really be together, he thought I wasn't worth the bother. What a connexion!!! And I am so winning the first prize in the fools' category. Congratulations to me!)

Thanks for letting me know and not let me hang in there for almost two fucking weeks.

Mike told him the least he could have done was telling me or at least give me a call and ended the conversation by calling him a chidlish coward.
Good boy. Couldn't have said it better myself.

I'm seriously thinking of asking Mike to marry me.
We would have the perfect arrangement; we already live together and we enjoy the same things (including boys).
We could be eachother's soulmates, and still bring home whoever we'd like for sex.

And I wouldn't get so fucking hurt... Because it really hurts.

Another thing that pisses me off so much is that I know myself: It's going to be a long time before I can allow myself to get emotionally involved with anyone. Can I possibly become more cynical than I already am? What a cheerful thought...

Anyway, I'm going to take a break from it all. I'm leaving London for ten days. Five on holidays with the parents. Five visiting the family.
I can't wait... to be back. To be back, and over it all.

My mum keeps asking me on the phone how things are between OG and me. I find it very hard to explain the situation, somehow... For the time being, I'm staying as evasive as I can, but when I'm coming home on Friday, I know there will be no way to avoid the Great Maternal Inquisition. I need to work out a plausible story which makes me look respectable, and preferably -well, absolutely- not involving too much sleeping around. Hmm...

I've got until Friday, and, anyway, despite the copious amount of coffee, my brain is working way too slowly this morning to be used properly. I spent another sleepless night. Not an hour, not a minute, not even a second of sleep since Monday morning.
It's not that I had fun last night. I didn't go clubbing. I didn't attend any house party. I didn't go to the pub. I didn't even spend the night at home drinking with the usual suspects. I didn't spend the night with someone who kept me awake for good reasons either (sigh).

Insomnia. Or the great pleasures of being unable to sleep for no reason.

At 4:30, I gave up trying, and came downstairs where I watched most the DVD collection whilst playing sudoku. Pretty much until now, if you don't take in account my 7am trip to the corner shop to get another pack of cigarettes.
I live a great and exiting life.

That probably explains why I decided to give it another shot with Hihes and emailed him this morning. No, that doesn't explain anything. But I need to blame that impulsive self-destructive act of mine on something, and insomnia seems like a great excuse. Let's say that if I don't get any reply, I won't blame myself entirely, but rather blame the lack of sleep. Makes life so much simpler.

Not that it was anything too explicit either. I just asked how he was, how were the gigs going, and invited him to our New Year's Eve party. Nothing foolish. (well I did say that it would be good to see him, "whenever"...) I calculated he would read my mail either in state of great drunkenness, either with a terrible hangover, as I learnt by a common accointance that he is attending quite a big Christmas party tonight. Either option, that pretty much guarantee me a honest answer.
If there's no answer, again, well, I guess I'll know where to stand...

Dear Santa,

You know I don't like all the fuss around your appearance on the 25th, and that I'm not a big fan of the whole hypocrite presents exchange process either, but if you consider I've been good this year -then I think you need glasses the size of your sleigh, but that's not the point- and if you really insist, I could really do with with an extra helping of irony and sarcasm at this time of the year.
So far, I think it's the only thing I need.
Hoping you don't freeze to death before you can bring all this at the foot of my Xmas tree, (but seeing my luck and the London weather, it's likely you will and I'll be left wanting more, as usual...),
Yours "sincerely",
Lilith.


Ok, I know my irony level has reached tremendous heights lately, but just imagine where I'm coming from...
I'm trying as hard as I can to forget that Hihes ever existed, and this morning I woke up to find two texts messages in my inbox.
It looks like, as always, and for some mysterious karma reason, OG and French Guy decided to get back in touch with me at the same time. Is it that they're not feeling that merry either? I don't wish to know.
See for yourself...

OG: "Darling, how are you? When are you here til? Miss you!! xxx"
I answered that apparently our respective timetables clashed and that we couldn't meet before 2008.
OG: "Shit! That's no good... No sex with Lilith for another two weeks?! I can't wait that long... Will be in London until 3rd so, PLEASE, let's make sure we meet and celebrate to the altar of your wonderful body... xxxxxxx"

French Guy: "Hello you! How are you? Long time no see... (no kidding) I'm back in Paris for Xmas. Home sweet home. I really hope I'll see some of you when I'm back. Merry Xmas Angel. XXX"


At least, it's good for my ego. I guess I'm not that crap in bed after all...
Does that mean I'm about to go back to the pre-Hihes period when I was juggling with them two? Looks like it.

I happen to spend whole day in Paris this Friday, and I'm planning to swap my Christmas shopping for some "quality" time with French Guy. Why not??? I didn't have sex in more than two weeks now, and really, it doesn't help my well-being...

Merry Fuck-mas to me!

I am just starting to feel human again...

Last night was a great joke. My gay friend Andy invited us all to his sugar daddy's flat for what was supposed to be the biggest, gayest, most happening party of the year. Well, in its own way I suppose.

Stella and I were welcome downstairs by a very angry neighbour who told us to go home and get fucked somewhere else. He pretended the police was on its way, but how seriously can you take an angry English man in a white velvet dressing gown? We walked pass him, and once in the flat, it was exactly what I thought it would be:
Gay gay gay. Three fag-hags (us for two thirds), Vs eighty queens. What a waste, all those gorgeous men there, and completely uninterested, hence uninteresting.

Still, we were served drinks by two very hot models wearing only red boxers and Santa hats.
Needless to say we stuck around the bar most of the night, taking in the view. (Not the one over the Thames.)
Believe me, even if you considered yourself the most open-minded person in London, you wanted to stay away from dark corners.

At some point, I was talking to an old accointance in the corridor, when we saw three (gorgeous) men not-so-discreetly entering a room and closing the door after them but apparently they "forgot" to lock it...
Stella happened to have forgotten her cigarettes in the said room, and the nicotine call getting the best of her, she ignored my warnings and walked in.

She came out with an expression of such disgust that I had to walk her straight to the bar where we stayed for the next two hours and got hammered on the sugar daddy's expense.
Cherry on top, Sexy Santa Number 1 insisted he was straight. He even showed me a picture of his current girlfriend to prove this unbelievable fact. Ha-ha.
After he poured me the sixth Malibu and pineapple, in which you could barely guess the presence of microscopic bits of pinapple, I gave in and let him take my number, but I really hope he doesn't call. How would I explain anyone how we met?

We left the party soon after the Santas departed, mainly because things were getting too heated up to our taste, and tried to get in Pasha, which was situated conveniently close. Unfortunately, the bouncers decided we looked to drunk to get in. Great.
He was probably right, because I really don't know how and when I got home that night.
The last thing I remember is telling the bouncer he was a fool because the last time I came to that place, my friend was carrying three grams of coke on her person, and we had no trouble getting in. Woops.

Me and my big mouth... Thank God this is not my favourite club in London, I reckon it would be best not to show up at the door any time soon...

I spent the whole day in The House, dealing with the worst hungover in history, (shame on me) ordered a pizza for breakfast, and sworn off drinking for life. Again. Maybe for the tenth time of the year.

Feeling like shit all day long for too much drinking probably didn't help the not feeling-like-shit-because-I've-just-been-dumped-in-the-most-ungracious-way part. I find it really hard. But I'll get over it eventually. The question is when?
I already hate the whole Xmas period for many various reasons, mainly because there is so much tacit pressure to be happy or at least behave as such. And I just can't feel very festive right now. Meaning if I don't manage to shake Hihes off very soon, I'm just going to be the sad one in the corner, or the drunkest one in the middle. What a cheerful thought.

I'm all cheered up! It didn't seem to start that way though.

Last night, I took the last tube to South London, zone 3 (=miles away), and apparently, I was the only one in whole London who wasn't both dressed up and utterly pissed. Not the best way to make me feel a bit less lonely, if you ask...

When I finally got to the Schmoking Creek's flat, I had to wait a good half an hour freezing my ass off outside. Alas, needless to say they're not the most reliable persons I know!

At 1am, I was making my way to the bus stop, ready to brave the night buses nightmare to go home, and swearing off my friends for ever, when they eventually showed up.

I swear I could have killed someone, anyone actually, but the feeling was repressed as soon as I was handed over a joint. Thank God for that!

We stayed up talking until 5am, and it was good to finally get everything which was bothering me out of my system in the company of good friends.


I slept on the sofa, and was woken up by John, that very nice boy I used to go out with back in the day, and whose unsupected presence in the flat came as quite a nice surprise this morning.

When I said I was woken up by John, it's not entirely exact, as the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes, was another pot "staring at my face".

Except when I was in Amsterdam, I had never smoked pot before coffee, but hey, what can you do, it was there, screaming Smoke me, and moreover, it was nice to catch up with John and see I could remain friend with an ex.


Had another few, and headed to Leicester Square with Liz, mainly because conveniently situated on the Nothern line, and changing line seemed like too much of a mission at the time.

We hanged around the Fun Fair, and went to see Enchanted, which was wonderful in its extreme stupidity. Exactly what the doctor ordered!

Re-reading myself, I realise I still think that the world is a beautiful place right now, meaning I must be still stoned. How nice!

Ok, I gotta go now, apparently, I'm about to attend the biggest posh gay orgy of the year... I'll tell everything about it tomorrow!

I hate Chrismas.
For me Christmas equals an over-crowded Oxford Street, office parties where everyone wonders why they're mingling with people they spend more than enough time with at work, and a very hypocrite family gathering, which always ends with an argument over the turkey and someone leaving smashing the door.

Tonight, everyone I know in London is attending a office party of their own, and even if I could have joined, I simply don't want to.
I was also invited to join the lesbian crowd in Scala, but a night of gay clubbing isn't very appealing right now.

I was also supposed to go and see Hihes and his band playing, but that seems out of the question now.
I simply don't want to do anything else.

My phone keeps ringing, and I deeply offended the Usual Suspects, my clubbing partner in crime Stella, and all the others, by answering that I'd much rather stay on the sofa watching Pierce Brosnan in Tomorrow never dies. (Pierce Brosnan is the oldest crush I ever had as far as I can remember, and meeting him in person through work last May, was a definite way to confirm that my crush was entirely justified. Even if he had over-estimated the amount of fake tan needed, he was still absolutely-totally-gorgeous, with that great voice of his, and, cherry on top, really really tall as well!)

Anyway. I eventually gave in to my friend Liz, who was making the best offer so far tonight: A night spent at the Schmoking Creek's brand new flat. That seems to be the only thing I can think of to cheer me up. So, I'm going there. After both James Bond and my Cadbury bar are finished, that is.

Obsession

I have to stop obsessing. I'm driving myself crazy.
Each time I have more than three seconds to let my mind wander, Hihes automatically pops in.

When something funny happens, I wish I could tell him.

When I'm sat alone on the sofa, I imagine how it would feel to have him here.
Worse! When I'm chatting with a friend, any friend, I can't help but secretly wish the friend could be magically replaced by Hihes.

When I walk in a bar, I remember when he used to make his way through the crowd, firmly gripping my hand, how I would scurry behind, with a huge smile on my face, and smiling at everyone, thinking: "I'm with him!!! Can you believe it???"

When I go to bed... God... Bedtime is definitely the worst part of it all! I keep remembering what it's like to caress and play with his chest hair, how good he feels inside me, how I enjoy his attentions so much more than everyone else's, how euphoric just feeling my naked skin against his makes me feel. How happily I'd fall asleep knowing he's there, how happily I'd wake up... The list is endless.



I can't fucking stop thinking about it. And each time it makes me want to cry.
I simply can't believe it is over. And I really don't like being left down like this.
And I hate the fact that I completely lost control on that one.

My friend Brooke, who is a bit of a meditation freak, told me that the best way to deal with the "flashes" was to picture myself mentally punching him as hard as I can, each time I'm thinking about him.
The whole point being to convince myself that I don't need him to be happy.
Sounds like a good joke to me, but I'm trying anyway. Every little helps. But it makes me feel lonely.

And I want to know for sure if it's over. I talked to a common friend today and sent him on a mission. Tomorrow, he's dropping me in the conversation. Let's see how it goes.


Okay, I know, I am so coming across as a drama queen. But my feelings are hurt...

Apparently, something went wrong...

I came back in town yesterday.
Hihes.
All the time I was away, my mind was filled with him, him and me, me and him, the two of us, the two of us together, the two of us talking, the two of us kissing, the two of us in bed... The list is endless.
I could physically feel his absence, if that makes any sense.
So, before boarding, I sent him a sweet text, hoping (even if I was completely knackered and not looking my best), I would see some of him in the hours following my landing, as we had previously planned.

NOTHING. Nada. Niet. Rien. Niente.

Instead of spending the evening with him, I got myself completely trashed on mulled wine at the Notting Hill Arts Club with Stella.

The guy has gone completely AWOL.
He screened my two calls, and I can't be asked to go through another calling/screening.
This shit is so painful, especially since I really don't know what went wrong.

I wish I could get angry, upset, break something, throw the phone out the window, but I'm just feeling incredibly sad...
I don't even want to start asking myself what happened to my being invited to his gig this coming Friday, and what about meeting the f*cking parents????
Seriously, I know that behaviour of his is a little bit more than arse-holic, but I'm just here, waiting next to the phone, hoping he'll ring and will come up with a plausible explanation. This is only a nightmare, right? Yup, I know: reality denial.

And I can't help but ask myself WHY? What did I do wrong? What happened? What the f*ck is wrong with me? This is doing no good for my self-esteem.
I am totally pissed off with myself. I can sense a theme there: each time I actually admit having feelings for someone, either that person disappears, either I freak out and disappear. Great. I'm not fucked up at all.

But I'm decided not to let myself feeling like a whole lot of mammoth shit because I met a "perfect" guy who "really likes/d me".
Here is my goal. OG just came back - as quite a few texts from him, involving my perfect naked body (his words, not mine) seem to be saying- and if by Friday I haven't heard from Hihes, I'll be sending a few texts of mine involving OG's private parts and his eagerness to make me come over and over again.

I am such a bloody masochist. And I can't even start to explain how sad I am feeling...

romance?

He walked me back to the station under the rain.
Just before we got in, he grabbed me by the waist and oh-so-gently kissed me.
He tasted of Corona and Malboros, I tasted of Malibu and Camels.
It was the best of all mixts.

I was stupidly smiling to myself and everyone like I was on E, all the way on the tube back home and even gave my seat to a Japanese grandma. I spent the rest of the evening singing out loud in The House (that probably explains the crap weather today....).

Now I just want to cry. I wish I exactly new why. I wish I could relive that moment again and again.
I think I'm slowly (ok, not-so-slowly) but surely falling for him. I haven't been feeling like that for years. Maybe never...
And I'm listening to Gary Jules' Mad World way too much.

And I'm also going away for work this afternoon. Another bloody plane. And I have the worst of plane-sickness. Another five days of travelling. I'm less than enthusiastic at the prospect, but I know I'll be back next week...... I just can't wait.

Saturday

I was holding it tighly with my shaking hand, trying to adjust it in the perfect direction.
When it was over, I waited, anxious, and feeling even more nauseous.
Two minutes later, a single line appeared, and I let out a scream of joy which wouldn't have been out of place in the bedroom.
Thank God, I wasn't.

My period had come two days earlier and had vanished that same afternoon for an obscure reason, visciously reminding me of the condom accident two weeks ago.

So, that morning, decided to come to terms with that awful suspicion, I pulled myself together and went to buy that pregnancy test.

My Italian friend Martina, staying on my futon for the week, heard my screams of relief and I had to explain why I was singing Oh happy day in the kitchen.
She's no one to judge, seeing that, back in the day when we were still schoolmates, she called, begging me to go and buy her a morning after pill. It was 7am on a Saturday morning, I was on my way home from a China White night with Shakira, and was wearing nothing but heels, a skirt and a sparkling top. After getting the "you-slut" look from the Boots cashier, I made Martina buy all my drinks for a whole month...

This time, we decided to celebrate my non-pregnancy with MariJuana (her again), and spent the whole afternoon downloading music in the kitchen.

So, I completely forgot to sort out the accomodation problem I knew I was going to face after my date with Hihes that same night.
As I said, Martina was staying in my room, and couldn't possibly sleep in the living room because my "dear" (see the irony there) housemate's stupid cow of a mother was also staying over for the week-end.

And after a few drinks in Brick Lane with Hihes, I couldn't bring myself to tell him to make his own way home.
So we shared a cab back to The House... To find Martina in my room, and the mother in the kitchen, finishing the stock of wine we stashed under the fridge when we knew she was coming...
Such a good look!

I told the mother to piss off when she drunkenly asked if she could see what my date looked like, but she still made a point of stumbling in the living room to steal a glance. Do I need to precise I'm not a great fan of the woman?
But she saved the night by letting us know her passing out in the kitchen with loud snoring.
Martina got the sofa in the living room, and Hihes and I got my room!

Hihes...
I wish I wasn't such a cynical commitment-phobe. Everything is just perfect with him, but I can't help thinking that something is going to turn awfully wrong at some point.
We have the same interests and can spend hours talking about everything.
He's smart, terribly handsome, and strangely doesn't behave like a player. And he's the only guy I've been dating in a long time that I could actually proudly introduce to all my friends.
He's GREAT in bed, even if he's serioulsy impairing my sleep quota...
And incredibly sweet.

As I keep telling Stella, I simply can't believe my luck.
He's invited me to all his gigs, keeps asking me how long I'm planning to stay in the UK for (I wish I knew darling...), tells me I'm beautiful, and even invited me to spend the week-end at his parents' house.

I mean, isn't it every girl's dream to meet someone like that?
But now I've written it down, I think I know what's wrong: it's all going too fast for me.
I'm not the greatest monogamist one could come across. I still find it amazing I haven't slept with anyone else since we met.
The only time this happened, I was madly-deeply in love.
But I can't be in love with him yet, can I? And I know I'm not. We've only known eachother for what, three weeks? And I find it weird someone could sincerely like me after such a short time spent together.
I'll just try to wait to see what happens, and will try not to freak out in the mean time...

My Thursday night wasn't meant to include any:

-drinks other than the quick pint with the Usual Suspects at the local pub

-stuffing my bag with three wine glasses from the pub (I figured out I was expected to do so, after breaking all of our four glasses by myself the past week end)

-going to that crap club which name I can't even remember

-falling into randoms' tables, spilling their drinks all over their cheap sparkling dresses, and thinking I could get away by a "WOOPS! Sorry people! On the bright side I made your night! I'm sure nothing else happened to you until I fell on your table! This place really sucks! Anyway nice to meet you all, have fun and don't fall on other people's tables!"

-Upper-body-dancing for half an hour on the shitty music while sitting on SA's lap.


Oh my...

I think the best part was the illegal taxi ride on the way back.
We asked if we could smoke inside. The poor driver said yes, but only one at a time, and with the window open.
Of course, the four of us lit up almost instantly.
And of course, about thirty seconds later, there was a bump on the road, and one of the Usual Suspects accidentally stuck his lit cigarette right in the ceiling of the cab.
The driver didn't notice, but when it was getting stifling from the smell of burnt carpet at the back and when the hole in the ceiling reached the size of a pizza, we stopped the car, threw a few pounds at the poor guy and left running.



Skipping dinner and drinking wine is not a good look, really....

Obviously, after almost two weeks of abstinence, Hihes reappears exactly at the same time as my periods.
This is my kind of luck...

I haven't been very good at writting posts recently.

I've just taken up a new translation job, for extra income. Spending so much time on my computer is driving me crazy, and when I'm finally over with the work, I angrily switch it off and go out to get a life, even if it just means going for a walk and pondering the lack of sense in my love/sex life...

Sense is lacking. Definitely.

I stopped returning French Guy's calls, and I think he got the picture now.
That's a shame, but I just figured out that he was the one person in my life I really couldn't be bothered with.
Yes. I am that selfish.
And I'm not worried about him. He's hotter than a jacket potato, and I'm sure he's not short of girls ready to burn themselves taking his jacket off.

I think what pushed me to stop seeing him was Hihes.
Not that I've heard from him since he left to NYC. He's supposed to be back by now, and the fact he hasn't said anything yet is slowly starting to piss me off.
I really like him. And I know I shouldn't have provided him the bed&breakfast&dessert formula the last two times, but there are some things you're just unable to say no to. (sigh)

And there's OG. Of course. You don't think he could withdraw from circulation, do you?
Not that I saw him since he went on tour, but we keep messaging eachother.
And I hate the guy for being so similar to me in many respects. It's such a shame we are also similar on the "I can't commit now" aspect...
Oh well, he's fun. And I'm looking forward to our next meeting in two weeks.



Now, that's where the big problem comes in:

Let's call the guy at the origin of the problem SA.
SA is that handsome great South African guy I've known for months.
Even if he's practically a decade older than me, we get along great, make eachother laugh to the point of rolling to the floor, have the same sense of self mockery, get into passionate discussions about pretty much everything, and are great drinking buddies.
Being part of the Usual Suspects, he's my mate, ok?

True, we've had that flirtation thingy going on for ages. (I remember hinting I had a sexual fantasy which included him during a "I have never..." drinking game months ago.) But it couldn't be serious, could it?
I've met him when he was about to be engaged to my friend Tam. (They broke up since. Shit happens.) But I would NEVER EVER had got into anything with him while they were together.
And when they broke up about a month ago, I remember my first thought was: SHIT!

It was so comfy before, when we knew nothing could happen. And now what???
He spent some time with rebound girl, that I've met at a few parties. Seeing her unbelievable level of stupidity, I wasn't surprised when he told her to bugger off.

I should have seen it coming.
At the party where I met Hihes, I remember coming back from the bathroom for my second Bringing-The-Cocktails-Back-Up/Brushing-My-Teeth session, only to find out he had got into a stupid argument with Hihes.
After the third BTCBU/BMT (it was an exceptionally bad night for my stomach), he was really too drunk to handle and told me it didn't matter if I was planning to bed the wimp, because he was about to call rebound girl. Even if what I thought then was more to do with "What the fuck do you care about???", I told him I didn't give a shit and he could bang his stupid half-siliconed cow an extra time for me if he wanted, and that yes, I was planning to have fun with Hihes, and couldn't care less about what he thought. The discussion ended on a exchange of angrily screamed "FINE!!!" and we thought best not to ever mention it again.

Until last Sunday, when my housemates and I decided to end that drunken week-end by a major coup de grace and invited all the Usual Suspects over to drink a few more vats of mulled wine.

We didn't exactly mention the event.
But after Fiona left, he decided to take her place.
(FYI, I had spent the last hour half lying down on her, not doing anything else than lying down, still following and participating in the drunken conversation... Maybe not a great idea in front of a straight guy, but, call me naive, I really didn't think about it that way.)

One word to define the situation: AWKWARD.
Now, we've always shared a lot together. He had become over the months a much closer friend than Tam, which I know is a bit weird.
But physical intimacy? Never before!
I think it was part of our tacit deal, both of us being conscient of the mutual sexual attraction, and thinking it best not to go too close to eachother... Even our hugs have always been so full of akwardness!

Nothing else happened than us holding eachother. But I had never felt so uncomfortable in my whole entire life. It was just wrong.

I'm afraid I'm slowly loosing a great friend.
What did he want? I'm not sure. But I was certain I didn't want to even think about kissing him by that point.
So why, why, why is he making me so nervous?
And why, why, why do I keep telling Stella about what a great guy he is, and that he would actually be the only straight guy I could see myself marrying?
This is just plain weird.

I'd better stop thinking about it, and rather get upset about the fact that Hihes still isn't calling me back...

Dream night out

Last night could have been every single girl's dream night out:

-I walked in that bar, with, at my side, the most gorgeous boy I know.
-Once inside, I knew most of the staf, hence got fantastically tipsy on free Malibu-and-Diet-Cokes.
-Everyone called me Darling I was treated like a star.
-Every man in sight deserved a place on a catwalk.
-I kept dancing surrended by all those gorgeous men, with almost no girls in sight.
-Some of them took their shirt off.

Haha! Gotcha! I finally gave in to my best friend Andy and spent the night in a gay bar!

House of corruption

Each time I have friends-in-a-couple staying over (and that tends to happen quite a lot, said couples being gay, straight, whatever...), I always feel obliged to precise : "Sorry lovebirds, but the rule is NO body fluids, hence preferably no sex..."

I don't know if all of them always followed the rule, (and I don't wish to know either) but if they did, that must mean that, recently, I've bypassed it a bit over-enthusiastically...
All for the best, obviously, but still, my bed is broken, and that's a good reason to be pissed off.
The landlord refused to pay for a new one, so I spent most of yesterday evening battling with an Ikea build-your-own kit. Not my favourite pastime if you ask.

I brought the subject up to my housemates yesterday night, and the three of us sat in the living room, trying to count the number of persons -including us and partners- who had sex in The House since we moved in last February.
It was actually impossible to make a proper approximation. But the minimum is definitely over 20, and the maximum is, hopefully, below 40...

We had a private joke going around amongst the Usual Suspects saying that when once one stepped in The House, it was impossible to escape without at least a serious drinking problem...
It looks like we found another way to make The House a place of corruption... and fun!



This being said, my current life seriously lacks in corruption. And fun.
I'm just recovering from another flu. It probably has to do with my half-an-hour-long walk under the pouring rain on Monday night. Coming back walking from the Shmooking creek's new haven in Gloucester Road felt like an amazing idea at the time... And it certainly was a great feeling. At the time.
NOT the next day when I woke up with enough temperature to cook a whole English breakfast on my forehead.

To add to all the "fun", I've been working my ass off at work recently, and can barely get my six hours of sleep a night. This, and the perspective to work at week-ends very soon, and travelling all over Europe again. Ok, I love my job, but it's getting all VERY stressful. Tremendously panicking is the correct term actually.

And no "corruption" either since last Saturday.
I realised I kind of really like Hihes, and I kind of miss him too...
So I kind of avoided OG while he was in London, and was quite cold to French Guy. At least until I've figured things out. The fact that Hihes is currently out of town and out of reach doesn't help the whole figuring out, though.

I keep thinking that if there's a God somewhere, he keeps having fun at my expense.

Last night, when I went to my newly built bed, I found two texts in my phone.
First one from OG:
"My darling, I miss you!! I'm so sorry we couldn't catch up when I was in London! I'll be back on 10th December, ok!?! And will be around til xmas...I hate xmas... :) Let's have lots of sex to make us ignore it... xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx" (I had mentioned earlier that I hated Christmas...)

Second one from French Guy:
"Hello you! How are you? I haven't seen you in sooo long, are you ok? What are you doing tonight? We could go for diner or something. Take care. xxx"

I really wonder what I am going to do...

Knowing perfectly well that, on a Saturday night, it would take me 35 minutes to get to Picadilly from home, and my date being at 9pm, I left The House at 9:05pm.

I know, I know, I'm incorrigible.
But I had done my best and was, for once, ready on time.
Everything was done:
-perfect hair, check
-make-up, check
-legs, shaved
-room, cleaned,
-two Red Bulls (not to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation seeing I had only slept three hours the night before and had spent most of the day in the haze of the hungover), absorbed.
-pick up an outfit, check.
-change it for something classier, check.
-change the hair to go with the new outfit, check.
-change the whole thing again for something more casual, but still very cool, check.
(After all, I was about to go for drinks with the man who told me I looked like Kate Moss - he needs an appointment with a serious ophtalmologist, if you ask, but let's not get into that- and I felt it was my duty to try my best to live up to the comparison...)
-nails, bitten, check.

So, I was ready to go, in skinny jeans, killer heels and a D&G black top (brought for £8 in a second hand shop, but no one has to know that...), by 8:15pm.

That is, until Fiona popped in The House again with a bottle of wine. It's becoming a habit.
I decided a drink was exactly what the doctor ordered to settle my nerves.
Then, of course, I was late...

Bless HIHES, he was still there, waiting under the rain, and looking even more gorgeous than I remembered. Wow!

An hour and a half, a bloody mary and a gin tonic later, (I think I'm developping some serious alcoholic tendencies...) the conversation was going thick and fast.

Another gin tonic later, he "suddenly realised" that his last train was gone... "Woops!"
Oh well, fine by me...

I didn't sleep at all that night. Not one single little minute.
Damn, the boy has some stamina! All for the best, rest assured...

(Of course, I am wondering where all this is going.
Well, HIHES is going to New York for the next ten days.
Does that mean I can keep having fun at least until he comes back? We didn't really discuss that point.
But, in my head, I'm already chosing the fun option... Woops!)


After he left on Sunday afternoon, Mike, Fiona and I went to the Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park.
Armed with an extra supply of canned beers, we made a point in trying to get all the "speakers" to talk about sex. We were very successfull indeed.
How much fun!

Shunt

I can't believe I hadn't even heard about that place before!!!
Even if, right now, I am nursing one of the biggest hung-overs in human history...

I fell in love with all of it. It has everything I expected London night life to have when I first moved in.
Underground, huge, great DJs and crazy bands playing, amazing (and very random) setting, with a dance floor but loads of chill-out areas too, an incredible mix of people, and a fucking long queue to get in as well...

If you don't understand why the place is emptying and don't believe your friends when they tell you, that, come on, it's 4:30, we should go home, it must be that you had a great time!

I just wish I hadn't stolen that full bottle of wine, on top of the bar, just there for me to take, and hadn't happily shared it in 30 seconds top with Tam. (Because one has to make the evidence disappear quicky...)

I'd like to know as well why, if I left home with an half-empty pack of cigarettes, I came back with three full ones...?
A big thanks to the generous donators, even if I can't remember who you are!

I'd love to come back tonight, as it is their last night before a month of closure because of refurbishment, apparently. But the bouncers told me I'd need to be in the queue before 8pm, and I'm meeting HIHES for our official "first" date at 9pm in Soho...

I'm a bit nervous. Ok, really nervous actually.
I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we already slept together.
What will he be expecting? (=should I clean my room?)
And I'm a little worried about the fact that we both had huge beer goggles last saturday...

Planning

I have put myself in a very shitty situation.
When I logged on facebook this morning I had three messages.

One from French Guy, suggesting we meet up today/tonight.
One from HIHES, asking me on a date tomorrow night.
One from OG, saying he'll be back next week, hoping we can then see eachother then.

My organisation skills are about to be tested to their limit... So is my ability to come up with decent excuses regarding how come I won't be free the next day...

Thank God I have travelling "boyfriends". (OG is on and off to Europe all the time, and HIHES is going on holidays in the US next week)

I'm lucky enough not to have them three in London at the same time.

Still, the reasonable part of me (yes there is one, it's just not very active...) is telling me the time has come to ditch at least one of them, and maybe commit to one of them. But how do I do that, eh?
When I started seeing OG, I told myself it was only until a more appropriate guy came along and set the goal of meeting someone else to take the pressure off...
Then I met French Guy, and decided to keep juggling until I'd figure out want I wanted.
After a month of juggling, I remember telling my good friend Brooke the big problem was I couldn't figure anything out, and saying as a joke the only thing I needed was meeting a third much-much-better one in the aim to happily say sayonara to them!
And BANG! Out of the blue comes HIHES!
But it doesn't mean I want to ditch OG and French Guy... AAAARGH!

I''m going to wash my hair. I wish it'd wash my brain as well.

I just got some really bad news...
I'm going to celebrate with my two soulmates: Mari Juana and Brian Molko

I wasn't planning to go out last night, not at all, I swear. I figured out that, somehow, a quiet night in wouldn't do any harm to my health, and to my wallet either...

But that was until the fight with my parents on the phone. They don't entirely agree with my current lifestyle, bless them. Even if I always serve them a massively toned down version of my night time activities. Still, they'd love to see me very focused and at least about to get engaged. (I know, HAHA!) That's how conservative they are.
A few weeks ago, I made the huge mistake to tell my mum I was seeing OG. I never ever told her anything before about boyfriends, but OG was so good on paper I thought it'd make her happy. It did.
But now she keeps asking if he's calling me from his tour, and if I say no, it just stupidly upsets her... I don't need my mother to be upset about that too!
My current state of anger is more than enough I think!
(Anyway, he did text me today to say he was in London for the next 24hours only, and I still have to work out what I want to reply to that...)

The phone conversation quickly worsened until I hung up in tears. Needless to go through all that now. It was 5pm, I grabbed the last bottle of red, leftover from Saturdays party, and poured myself a well-needed glass of liquid comfort.

When my housemates came back from work an hour later, I had forgotten even the notion of dinner and was very merry indeed.
And when Fiona popped in, screaming at the top of her hoarse Autralian voice "Guys, let's go out and get fucked!", I simply had to obey.

So out we went, and fucked we kind of got...

Must have had some serious spare energy once in the club, because I danced until I almost dropped out. And damn, it felt good!
That stupid photographer took way too many pictures of us looking extremely wasted. Not a good look for their website if you ask. Potential customers would not want to go to a club after seeing pictures of three smashed girls all over eachother, would they?
Oh, I think I see his point now...

At around 4am, we dragged that lesbian girl from Norway all the way back to Fiona's place and carried on drinking. I can't even remember the girl's name. Bless her, it must have been all very confusing for her.
Fiona recounting her -many- same sex experiences but concluding she was straight, grabbing my ass as she made her point...
Me, after telling her all about my current "love" life, naming Winona Ryder and Nathalie Portman in the five celebrities I would do...
I swear I had never seen someone looking that puzzled. Bless her.

I have to admit, the whole situation was seriously confusing.
And the flirtation level in the room was unbearable.

Now, I have always kind of fancied Fiona, and we had that genuine sexual innendo going on for ages... But I didn't want to get into anything that night.
AND I DON'T GET INTIMATE WITH FRIENDS, WORKMATES, OR HOUSEMATES. It seems to always get everyone involved into such a mess I'm not prepared to cope with.


So we all pretended being entirely straight that night and all went to sleep in different beds/sofa.

Strange, strange night...

Evelyn Waugh

"Oh, Nina, what a lot of parties.
(... Masked parties, Savage parties, Victorian parties, Greek parties, Wild West parties, Russian parties, Circus parties, parties where one had to dress as somebody else, almost naked parties in St John's Wood, parties in flats and studios and houses and ships and hotels and nightclubs, in windmills and swimming-baths, tea parties at school where one ate muffins and meringues and tinned crab, parties at Oxford where one drank brown sherry and smoked Turkish cigarettes, dull dances in London and comic dances in Scotland and disgusting dances in Paris - all that succession and repetition of massed humanity... Those vile bodies...)"



Sounds all rather bogus.
But nothing has changed since then, has it? Or has it?

Just wanted to share the good (?) news...

HIHES called and said he had a great time and wants us to meet "for coffee sometime".
I'm not sure if he actually had a great time -unfortunately, I can't rely on my memories for that matter- and he might just want to get his watch back...

We'll see what happens.
So it looks like I'm up-grading from seeing two guys at the same time to seeing three.
Oh well, if there's a time in my life I can allow myself to go over the top, it's probably now.
Let's go over the top!

Realisation

HIHES left his watch on my bedside table, but still hasn't accepted my Facebook friend request. Apparently he's so eager not to see me again that he's prepared to abandon his watch.
Great.

I don't get it. From my point of view, what happened Saturday night was much more about an amazing connexion than anything else...
Ok, ok, I know, after three hours tête-à-tête in my room, chatting about the deep meaning of life, I shouldn't have stripped down to my undies saying I really really needed to go to bed NOW. (But he joined straight away...)
And I shouldn't have, half an hour later, out of breath, begged him to "please please, fuck me hard"... But, remember, I was in bed with Handsome-Incredibly-Hot-and-Extremely-Shaggable, moreover horrendously drunk, what else did you expect me to do???
I just hope I didn't scare him that much...


I haven't heard from OG since Saturday morning. He's probably having the time of his life in Eastern Europe, meeting loads of model-like Polish girls.
Great.


French Guy has disappeared from the circulation. Never called since last time we saw eachother. Neither did I.
Great.


GREAT.

Either I must be very very crap in bed. Great.
Either something is wrong with my approach and I need to do something about it... Great.
Either I should stop wanting to see my one-night-stands partners again. Great.

Maybe it's just the old "what goes around comes around"...Meaning I must have attracted some very bad karma on myself by sleeping around like I did recently. Is one girl and three guys in two weeks too much? Probably. Yes, I know... Great.

I think I'll just calm down and wait to see what goes my way.
Depressing thought.

The day after (sunday bloody sunday)

11:43 am, Sunday


There's a disturbing noise in my room.
Oh shit, my pillow hurts. Or is it my hair? My head?
Something really hurts anyway.
And that fucking noise...
Sounds like a phone.
My phone actually.
Fucking annoying.
I'd better pick up.

AAAARGH! Something is moving in my bed!!!!
Scary.
I can't psychologically deal with that now, I'll just pick up.

"Hello?
-Hey! It's Stella!
-Cool.
-Oh shit, I woke you up, didn't I?
-No kidding.
-Sorry, just wanted to apologise for leaving so early last night, I was knackered. Did anything interesting happen?
-My brain hasn't started processing the details yet, but I think so...
-Shit, I missed out. Please keep me updated on the gossips!
-Hmm...
-Who got HIHES at the end?

(first flash-back* and quick look under the duvet)

-Erm, hmm, well, I suppose I did...
-What do you mean??? Anything happened or just number exchange?
-Hmmm... Oh... Good morning you... Err, Stella? You know what, I gotta go! Bye!"

(HIHES had started some very skilful moves to cure the headhache, and kept going until 3pm: Hmmm...)


*First flash-back: HIHES stood for Handsome Incredibly Hot and Extremely Shaggable.
That old school-mate of Mike's, who set off quite a heat wave amoung us girls last night...
After the third of Mike's infamous cocktails, I remember going to Stella to ask what she thought of him. HIHES of course! With her being single for more than a year, I told her to go for it now, because I wasn't going to hit on him, was I? I couldn't, could I? Enough trouble as it was at the moment, right? Still, I admitted I wouldn't be able to answer for myself after another drink...

After being "officially" nicknamed HIHES by Fiona, Tam, Stella, that pushy Scottish girl I wanted to kill and I, a bit of an un-spoken competition took place in between us... Pathetic, I know, but, believe me, he was definitely worth the effort!
I went around The House, asking who he was, who he knew in there, and, more importantly, was he gay?
I think he might have heard me at some point, because he made eye contact with me and said something to his friend about being gay.
So I took the plunge:

"Sorry to interrupt guys, but did you just say you were gay?

-Yes. I'm gay.

-Shit! (I meant it) My gay-dar is broken again! It's funny though, I'm never attracted to gay men! That's a real shame, and quite unfair, you know? May I say, it really is a shame, you're one of the hottest guys I've ever met... Actually, my gay best friend Andy is kind of single as the moment, he's really good-looking, too, he models for a living... (blah blah blah. I was high on three red bulls mixers to be able to go through the night, and simply couldn't shut up)

-Haha, no I was pulling your leg. I'm straight.

-FUCK! Haha. Erm... Well, on the bright side, I guess my gay-dar is repaired!

-I was just telling him that I thought you were really hot. You've got that kind of Kate Moss attitude, dancing with your drink and your cigarette...

-Erm... Haha?

-And he just told me you were doing [...] for a living. That's really impressive. I'm a guitar player. You want a smoke?"

-Oh yes!"

Ting ting ting jackpot!!!
Lilith gone with the wind!
Or gone with the booze and the lack of sleep.
Or gone to my room with HIHES.
As you wish. All three are true.

And what can I say, but WOW!
I hope he'll call...

In between parties

I feel like I've just been beaten up. I wish I could sleep. Sleep until I wake up, litteraly. Which would probably not be before 9pm on Sunday.
Not bound to happen.

I have a party of my own to organise. That's right. In The House.
The sixth one of our fancy-dress parties.
Like the past ones, it will probably attract about a hundred persons, if you don't count the gate-crashers... That' s how famous -or infamous- our parties have become over the months in West London.

I can't wait. There's always loads happening. Even if The House might end up somehow destroyed...Again.

But, if I am still laughing at last night randomness, I am too knackered to think straight.
I was wild last night.

The original plan was a quiet dinner with Brooke in Covent Garden. Yeah right, like we stopped at that...
One thing leading to another, we then dropped by that gay bar for a few free drinks (an old school-mate works there), and at 11:30pm, decided we couldn't resist the clubbing call and jumped in the tube.
Direction: Fabric.

Except that, when we got there, the queue to get in was going all the way around the block. Some bouncer I asked to said we should expect about three hours of queuing.

No thanks.
I'm not Bristish enough to love queuing that much, and London is bloody cold at that time of the night in November.

So we walked around for a while and sat down outside a crap coffee shop for a cigarette.
The owner sat with us and invited his prostitute friend to join in, which made for an interesting conversation...
"Bianca" (that was her "stage name") told us they were having a great night at Turmills and that we should go. I complimented her on her shoes (maybe a bit too much for me, but still really cute!), and we headed to the club.

What a great choice! I should follow more often prostitutes advices!
As expected, people in there were out of their faces, but so much fun nethertheless.

Here are some the things I said, and to whom:

*To the bunch of blokes who asked us which "stuff" we were on and where we got it:
-double-espresso: Caffe Nero!
-sambuca shots: the cute bartender!

*To all the people who told me they luuuuved my sunglasses:
Cheers! Portobello Market, four pounds!

*To the guy who waved a glow stick two inches away from my face for half an hour, hoping I would take it:
Sorry darling, but that's too small for me!

*To all of those who asked for a spare cigarette:
Nope. I'm an addict. And when I run out, if you ask again, I'll probably savagely murder one of you guys and search your dead bleeding body for anything smokable.

*To the guys who asked me if I had a boyfriend:
Nope. I don't have one. I have two. And that's more than enough, thanks!

*To the guy next to the toilet who offered me mushrooms:
Sorry, don't do them, but do you have some of the non-magic organic ones from Sainsbury's? I love them!


And on and on...

Appart from talking bullshit with randoms, we danced, and danced and danced. The DJ in the back room is a genius.
But the place was a bit too hot. Seriously, it felt like doing aerobics in a steam room.

At 5am, ours legs refusing to keep up with the jumping around and feeling extremely dehydrated, we embarqued on our 3+ night buses journey home.

Oh, and I'd like to make a little dedication to the Spanish guy on the N55, who kept going on and on about how two girls ate his sausage;
Yes, I understand Spanish, and yes, I was laughing at you.

When too much is too much

French Guy's friend's party was actually much less stressful than I expected it to be. I guess it can be put on the account of the incredible amount of pills/powders/smoking substances present...
That, and the absinth being introduced to us girls as "sambuca".

Yeah boys, right. I wasn't born yesterday.
And I know sambuca. It is my predilection drink on a long clubbing night. Believe me, I know.

So I stuck to the wine, and tried to keep my friend Fiona away from the absinth and the rest.
I miserably failed and spent most of the morning leaving panicked messages on her answer phone because I didn't know where the heck she was... (she's a tough girl though, ok, completely crazy, and happened to be in the flat below, rocking that cute Swedish boy's world. Good for her!)

The thing is, I know absinth as well. I don't wish to know more about it.

The first and last time I touched the liquid was two years and a half ago. It had been handed to me in the form of two double-shots by the then-manager of China White as a "baptism" everyone was supposed to go through to be officially part of the creek.


Back then, Stella and I used to refer to the club as "our second living room", being there at least on a weekly basis. After closing time, we'd accompany the staff/creek to their infamous after-parties, usually in the basement of some posh restaurant or some amazing flat in Mayfair, where we would spend hours spraying eachother with Moet&Chandon...

Glamourous lifestyle, you might think. Especially when you just turned eighteen, and you still naively think that being greeted by your name and a vintage bottle by a handful of promoters in every VIP room across central London makes you someone.

(Well, you then have to find a plausible explanation why you thought the champagne your parents proudly cracked open for your graduation tasted like shit...)


But Stella and I, even if we still are occasional users ( dinner+cocktails at Soho House are always welcome...), gradually grew out of our posh-nights addiction. The fact that those clubs are mostly full of very-old-very-rich(understand very-well-fed)-very-creepy gentlemen and skinny aspirant models on the look out for sugar daddies certainly helped... Yep, that, and the ridicule amount of cheesy commercial music played there.


On that particular night I somehow lost complete control of my muscles and my "friends" had to litteraly drag me off the middle of Regent Street where I was lying down, unable to stand on my legs (not on the pavement, in the middle of the street. Thank God it was 4am and the traffic quite light...). NOT a good look.

Now, I am a control freak, meaning no matter how trashed I'll be, I'll never do the following:
-get into a fight
-follow a dodgy someone home
-get into a car driven by someone drunk/on drugs/I don't know (I remember a three-hours-long walk back to a hostel in Spain, ON MY OWN, because all my friends had jumped into a random car passing by)
-take class A drugs (appart from the very occasional line of coke)
-have sex with someone I wouldn't want to have sex with while sober
-do something unnecessarily dangerous and stupid (I once sat on my housetmate to prevent him from breaking his neck by climbing all the way to the bathroom window because both of us had forgotten our keys on the way to the pub)
-take an illegal cab if I'm not with at least one guy
-abandon a girlfriend somewhere when I know she's not able to take care of herself anymore.

Try me if you want, I'll just never do it.


Needless that little adventure scared me shitless off absinth for life.

Hence my restraint last night.
Sorry guys.
I must apologise for not being among those walking stark-naked in the flat.
For not being amoung those whose passed out bodies were not so discreetly pushed behind the sofa or under the curtains.
For not participating in the happy chemicals-swallowing.
For not being the one who redecorated the kitchen with the content of my stomach.
For not going to the street corner to meet someone's dealer (being amoung the rare still fully-clothed ones didn't oblige me to do that).


But I hope you still appreciated the way I diplomatically convinced the angry neighbours not to call the police. Twice.
And I know you certainly enjoyed our little perfomance. But you ought to know no-one can appear naturally that skilled; Fiona and I went to a few pole-dancing classes, back in the day...
I still have one question, though, what was that inviting pole doing in the middle of your living room?

Because of the obvious, I didn't have access to internet until now, so here's the first post I wrote from a Starbucks yesterday late afternoon...

I am seriously starting to find the fact OG and French Guy always call on the same day, at the same time of the day, a weird coincidence. It must be some kind of bad karma I keep draging around.

I went to Covent Garden with Liz for drinks and set up the details of THE party this Saturday ( she had to leave early for a flat-visiting emergency - Why does everyone I know seem to be homeless/sofa-surfing in London? Must be something wrong with the living conditions and the exhorbitant prices... But that's not the point.)

OG called first, from somewhere with hardly any connexion (airport terminal, maybe?).
We got cut and I didn't bother return his call. He is leaving, right? End of the chapter.
I just wish it would leave me unmoved...

Five minutes later, it was French Guy's turn.
I felt bad and didn't want to pick up. But I did.
Surely, if you are a well-brought up girl, if you have spent the last twenty-four hours obcessing over a guy's arseholeness, you don't plan drinks followed by a fuck-fest with another one the following evening?
Well, apparently, I am not that well-brought up girl, (Damn, I knew it...), and figured out that another night spent in front of DVDs, eating another jar of nutella by myself, wouldn't do me any good. Except, maybe, give me cellulitis: Ouch.

So, I am on my way to Angel. Carpe Diem after all.




This morning's post

Being in a public place with your date, gently put your hand on his knee, or slowly lean across the table over your two martinis to exchange a sweet kiss...
There's an amazing feeling to it.

Especially (at the risk of sounding pretentious...) when people around look at you, and you know they are thinking that you two make a very attractive couple....
It gives you that sort of social recognition you'll only ever get in couple, and it feels good. Even if I'd like to have a world or two with the one who established that convention; why do you automatically get better consideration as soon as you are part of a couple?

Anyway, yes, that was me and French Guy yesterday night in Angel, kissing over martinis... We had a great time talking about pretty much everything, and, before I knew it, four hours had passed.
We went back to his place, he introduced me to his flatmate, we shared a few joints in front of Comedy1, and ended the night - of course - fooling around in his bedroom.

Maybe the weed was a bad idea, because he lost it, several times... And I found myself becoming way too lazy, hence decided against resuscitating him with my mouth for the third time (it worked wonders the two first times), and happily dozed off to sleep, which was very welcome, since I tend to be quite insomniac recently...
He more than made up for it this morning, though.

I was still stupidly grinning to myself while walking Oxford Street this morning, immersed in my very own debate, whether we could eventually make a relashionship out of it, when my phone rang. Again.


Convinced it would be French Guy, as he always calls after I left, generally to wish me "bon voyage", I put on my sexiest voice (at least as sexy as it can get before coffee) and picked up without checking who was calling:

"Hello?
-Lilith, it's OG.
-W H A T ? ? ?
-It's OG.
-Yeah, I know. Wait! I didn't say "what", I said "wait"! Err, wait, I need a cigarette. And I didn't have my coffee yet, so if you have even a desapproving thought, I'll hung up!
-...ok...
(it took me less than two milliseconds to lit one)
-OK, I'm done. So, what did you call me for? In which bloody country are you anyway?
-I'm at the airport, Heathrow...
-... "
(long silent drag on my cigarette, secretly hoping the lung cancer would finish me off on the spot)
The lying bastard had told me he was leaving YESTERDAY!

So I let him talk, talk and talk, punctuating his words with a few "uhuh..", while trying to make everything stop spinning in front of me.
And did he talk... Saying that whole bunch of bullshit about how the only thing he really wanted to do before leaving was seeing me, how great he thought I was, how much he was going to miss me, that, if I wanted, he'd fly back for the week-end from wherever in Eastern Europe just to see me in two-weeks time, and begged me to try my best (the fucking "best" again) to be in London from the 10th of December on, as he would come home for Christmas...
To which, even if I chose not to spend Christmas home for the past three years, I still retorted I had a family, too.

What was he doing? Bloody liar. The only answer I could find to all of this was "Yep, cool, whatever. Take care and good luck."

If I wasn't messed up before, I certainly am now.

I think I am going to treat myslef with a new vibrator. Now, vibrators, they're great!
*They don't mess up with your head.
*They're not selfish (it's all about my pleasure).
*They don't increase my consumption of illegal substances.
*They don't "loose it". (well, it depends of the kind of batteries)
*They don't lie.
*They surely don't pretend to be something they're not.
*They don't call you at the wrong moment.
*They don't move abroad.
*They don't take pleasure in messing you around.

I wish us a very long merry relashionship together!

Texting fiasco

"My hair is sooo horrendously short! It's very depressing."
is the text I got from OG after he got out of the hairdresser yesterday afternoon. How can someone so bright be so shallow? I wasn't really expecting that. Usually, yes, his texts are quite graphic, but not in that way... So I replied:

"How short? Horrendously? Really? I am sure it can't make you unattractive"

"I'm so upset. I said I wanted to keep all the length and they still managed to make it ghastly... They truly can't understand English... It was so silly of me to go... Now I have to wait at least a month before it looks nice again!"
Seriously, how old is he? My thought exactly! 25. Come on, get a grip and get the hints! Apparently I was texting the worst kind of self-centered metrosexual. Yeepee.

So I replied:
"Good news: It's only hair, meaning it'll grow back eventually...
Anything I could do to make you feel better?"

Half an hour later, I got back down to earth with:
"Absolutely not. I'm so depressed. I must now hide for a month."

What was the f*cking point of all this texting? Discussing a guy's hair cut? What world are we living in?
Pissed off at myself, OG, and the rest of the world, I texted back
"In that case, have a good month hiding and recovering from depression."
And went to the corner shop to stock up on brioche and nutella, planning to spend the night watching DVDs. Great.

After two thirds of the brioche, a whole jar of nutella and my stomach about to explode, my phone beeps again:
"There is one thing you could do to ease my depression, be on top of me, naked..."

Absoultely unable to say no to that kind of proposition, I melted, texted back: "Oh, change of mind I see. Good, I had something similar in mind..."
and ran upstairs for an emergency make up session.
I was still there when John, my other housemate, knocks at my door, my phone in hand:

"Lilith, your phone was ringing, so I picked up, and someone asked me if I was naked, is that normal?
-John, no one was asking you if you were naked, pass me the goddam phone!"

I think hearing John's voice saying he was pretty much dressed, thanks, kind of cooled down OG. He told me he still had stuff to sort out before tomorrow, but that he would do"his best" (his f*cking best again!), to make the [...mentioned above...] happen.

So I tragically spent the next FOUR hours intensely watching my phone, like it could make it ring faster. Pathetic I know.


I was on a bus towards the West End with my friend Tam at 11:30pm, when I got the last text:
"Darling, just got home... Will ring tomorrow, ok? :) Sleep well... xxx"

Liar.
B*stard.
Son of a b*tch.

End of an era.

And I am sad. Wish I wasn't. Life is a b*tch, isn't it?

And so am I. I am seeing French Guy tomorrow, and I find it sad somehow...
I need a good clubbing night to cheer me up.

Good byes?

I am such a fool.
A bloody foolish idiotic fool.

OG just texted me to say he was leaving London tomorrow for two months.
I freaked out, spilled my cup of coffee all over myself, swore in every language, and decided I needed a nicotine fix now, and didn't even bother to open the door to the balcony. I'm at my third cigarette in the kitchen, still shaking, and my non-smoking housemates are going to kill me...

I am such a fool.
I swore to myself I would never let myself get emotionally involved with OG.
He is toxic, remember?

And then, out of impulsiveness, against my own will, I told him I really-really needed to see him before he leaves. So much for not sounding needy. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

And he said he would try his best... Shit.

What on earth am I expecting????

Why did I say that? I could hit myself right now...

If we do meet up tonight, it's going to be the same old, involving him sneaking into the house, (Mike really doesn't appreciate my seeing him... For some -right-reason, he thinks he is a bit too full of himself, but it doesn't matter, does it? As long as I am, too, full of "himself") clothes flying off, rough ( but oh so good) sex, and him leaving an hour later. Except this time, I won't be able to be that strong, and it's very likely I'll burst in tears once he'll have left. Yep, that, and hating myself.

And if "his best" can't even involve that, I'll hate myself even more. And regret spending the coming hour shaving and cleaning my room...

Well, I'm still off to do that. And yes, I already hate myself.

Why do I care so much? How could I be in such denial?

Went for coffee and some well-needed girly talk with Brooke today.
She made the big step and just slept with the guy she had been seeing for the last few weeks. And, of course, as you do, has fallen head over heels for him. She's now talking about going on the pill because the lucky bloke goes soft when "faced" with a condom...
Hmm...

I mean, that's great, she looks happier than I have seen her for the past few years, so I can't help but feel happy for her.
But, being my usual cynical myself, I couldn't avoid telling her to be careful. I haven't met the guy yet, but if he'd happen to behave like a b*stard and hurt her, (she's so genuine, bless her...), I'd happily tear his head away from his body...

I know, I'm overreacting. It probably has something to do with the fact that my booty-texts didn't get the expected effects...

For some reason, I got myself into a text-fight with OG about my smoking. He really pissed me off; why would he care about the state of my lungs if he doesn't even bother telling me he is definitely moving abroad (as I discovered after a little Facebook spying) ???

As for French Guy, he is working late until the end of the week, but invited me to one of his mate's party on Thursday.
I am so going. Of course I am. But I'm shitting myself.

Seriously, what am I going to say to his friends? I can picture it from here:

"Hi! Nice to meet you.
So, how do you know French Guy?
Oh! You're his brother? I didn't know he had one...
What about me? Oh... At a bus stop, got drunk together, had sex twice, if you don't count the one time at the back of a cab. The usual really...
And what about you? Oh yeah, you said, you were born in the same family... hahaha, I'm gonna... erm... get a drink. Later!"

I am going to have to drag Mike to the local pub for pre-drinks that night. The prospect of showing-up sober is just too scary. When my liver falls appart, I can always sue French Guy. Or his brother for that matter...

To bouncers.

Yesterday night, I litteraly dragged the Usual Suspects to Vibe Bar, on Brick Lane, where I knew they usually play good quality live music. Most of them had to start work early this morning, and they probably all got in touch by now, to work out the perfect murder, and how to get rid of my body.
I am bad influence, I know.

A good night, all in all, filled with great jazz, loads of dancing and drunken talk with randoms.

But still, I have a few complaints to adress. To most of London bouncers.

I am not THAT OLD! I've just turned 21 for God's sake!

Most of my friends are five or six years older than I am, and almost each time we show up at a club door, they all get asked for IDs, and while I'm fumbling with my bag, trying to extract my driving licence, I'll get a smile from the bouncer, accompanied by a "Not you darling, you're ok!" It happened the last five times we went out, and I'm seriously starting to find it annoying.
I can't help but retort that I am the youngest one in the gang, and when I get the ironic "Yeah sure" answer, I have to start doing breathing exercices in order to keep the murderous feelings to myself...

After all, bouncers are much tougher than I am. It is their job not to have an as petite stature as mine...

Still, it is doing no good for my ego. I know some of my best friends have told me I look and behave older, which could be explained by harsh past experiences. Life is a bitch, I can't stress it enough.
But as far as I know, I am not wrinkled, and I wish I could at least pretend to be as carefree as the next person...

So please, if any London bouncer is reading this, stop the ID discrimination! If you're suspicious about a person's age in a group, just ask IDs to everyone, or to no one.

And stop making me feel like a wrinkled old fart!

frustration...

I'm back from a not so good night out.
It was only my plan C. Lesbian birthday bash in Soho.
Plans C almost never happen. That's why they're called plan C. But then, as I mentioned earlier, it's my time of the month...

As a result, I am:
-drunk,
-tired, but unable to sleep for some reason,
-horny as hell, but having to control myself, because sharing my room with the birthday girl that I had to litteraly drag home by her hands and feet all the way from the bar's floor, to the street corner, to a few cabs who wouldn't take her. She's smashed, probably going to puke on my futon, and I don't even fancy her. I am too nice.
-stuck in the kitchen, blogging my frustration away.

When I could be:
-upstairs, fucking OG's brains out.
-at French Guy's place, doing pretty much the same.
-getting some hot guy's phone number.
-dancing until my soles peel off in Fabric.
-at least in my bed, fighting insomnia with some welcome self pleasure...

Great. And I had to make up a plausible explanation to all persons present about why on earth my last facebook status update was "Lilith" is stuck home with the flu. I had to buy them drinks to make them all shut up. Great.

I can't wait for this to be over.

OG called, apparently he has "unbusied" himself...
And I had to pretend my flu was not completely cured.

I can't wait for menoposis, really. I hate having my periods.
Because of them I'm missing out on two hot shags this week-end.
Bloody periods.

Shit shit shit shit shit.
Us women are complete slaves of our hormones.

French Guy and I chatted quite a lot over the phone last night. It was sexy. Extremely sexy. And it made me want to run all the way back to London out of horniness. For some hormone-related reason, I was even more horny than usual. Guys don't have that excuse, do they? It's pretty much same-old-same-old, if they are, they are for life, and if they're not, well they are a bit less horny for life. Someone tells me if I'm wrong...?

Planning to be back in town tonight anyway, and aroused like I was, I really couldn't say no to his offer of spending most of the week-end in, especially when he mentioned he had the house for himself... Hmmm...

But that's where the multiple "shit" comes in. In the form of my period. Five days early.

WHY???

It felt so unfair, that I came to the conclusion it could only be a sort of punishment from above. Whoever lives above is a f*cking pain in the ass, well, in the lower stomach anyway.

And I'm completely helpless on that one. The only thing I have to do is wait until a miracle happens. The appropriate miracle would be stopping the flow by tonight...

I'm desperate.
Any ideas on how to help that kind of miracle? Anyone out there?

So much for a quiet city-break. Stella and I seem to be getting plastered every single night since we left London. Hmmm...

Bye Oxford, though. We drove away this morning, Stella still covered of green patches she didn't manage to rub off in the shower, me with a black-eye because I've been hit by an over-enthusiastic dancing pumpkin last night!

Appart from those minor drawbacks, our Hallowe'en night in Oxford was fun. First we joined some friends of friends of friends for a pub crawl. Probably not our brightest idea, seeing that the group was mainly made up of very geeky guys who'd shake from head to toe whenever a female was talking to them. Cute, but after an hour passed creating quite a lot of geek-shaking by just opening my mouth, I seriously considered running away with Count Dracula. (After all, we had the Vampire fangs in common!)

Fortunately, we managed to gather quite a big group of people and headed to the students union's Hallowe'en party. It was fun. We danced with Harry Potter, numerous witches, vampires, pumpkins (careful, pumpkins CAN be dangerous!) mummies and cat women. Even a not so good looking Johny Depp in his pirate outfit. Life seems so simple when you're still a student. People certainly lack of communication skills, but on the bright side, they're really not as fucked up as Londonners...

Speaking of Londonners, OG and French Guy both contacted me today. It's funny how they always seem to call me on the same day... (Do they know each other?)
Both want to know when I'm back in the capital, but if French Guy expressed some desire to see me soon, OG said he was still ill and busy. I'll see French Guy when I'm back. As for OG, he can go and fuck himself, at least as long as he's busy. I'll help with the fucking when he "unbusies" himself.

This is so typical! I started talking to that guy in the smoking area outside that Oxford bar/club/thingy, and when I went back in the others had magically disappeared.

Phone battery-less, friends-less and key-less, I somehow managed to walk back to the house, hoping someone would be there to open. Well, no.
Freezing and with no way to contact them, I decided my only option left was to walk back to the bar and ask help to my new "friend". He was very helpful indeed. He brought me back to his flat which was part of a student house, and introduced me to his even cuter friend who gave away his bed for me.

All in all, I was lucky, I didn't have to sleep on a curtain folded in two as a matress, which was the original plan at the house of my-friends-who-ditched-me... And Stella got the curtain all for herself!

Unexpected encounters

This is excatly the kind of thing which sometimes makes me think I'm the unluckiest person in the world.

On our road trip, Stella and I decided to stop by Oxford, to say hi to a few student-friends and secondarily save a few pounds by squatting their sofa instead of paying for a B&B.

Totally blending in the student lifestyle, Stella was still asleep under the radiator this morning (there was a bit of smoking going on last night...). So I decided to go for a walk and some sightseeing before she'd wake up.
I was struggling with my lighter somewhere behing the new theatre when I felt a hand on my shoulder... "Heya! What a surprise!!"

The one man on earth I hold such a grudge against.
My last employer.
The one who had been promising me a promotion for six months, and eventually had my contract cancelled when I expressly said no to sleeping with him, ruining my professional life by the same occasion....

I managed to make small talk without ripping his eyeballs out of his disgusting face, which required a lot of control. But then you never know who you're going to bump into again, litteraly.
As soon as the torture was over, I ran to the first coffee I could find, screamed "Is there a bathroom in there?" at the top of my lungs, and brought last night's chinese back up.

Why why why WHY WHY did I have to bump into the man, miles away from London?

I'm afraid this whole episode made me over-emotional, I almost cried out of recognition when the Sainsbury's lady ask for my ID to let me buy a new lighter.
But I'm cheering myself up now, sat next to a rugby field, watching fit students running around. And there's an internet connexion pretty much everywhere in this town!!

We might as well stay in Oxford at least until Thursday morning; we're invited to the student union's Hallowe'en party tomorrow night... Loads of fresh bloody meet in perspective...

Ex-mess

After a long conversation with Pink-Wig-Girl on the phone last night, I had kind of worked out who was who from Friday night... Only to forget it all about an hour later, when the house got invaded by way too many accointances and exactly as many bottles of wine.

What was the occasion? I can't exactly remember, something probably Halloween-related. At around 11pm, we very-wisely realised it was way too early to pass out in the living room. So I made everyone coffee, (with a shot of Malibu in each, my own -very dull- idea), and, armed with an extra-supply of Red Bulls, we headed out.

Needless to say the rest of the night is a blur.
I reviewed my inbox this morning, and it appears we went to Sosho, in Old Street, one of the rare straight places open until 6am on Monday mornings.

Still according to my inbox, it appears I'm a pathetic drunk-texting junkie. Apparently, last night, I invited about every ex whose number was still in my contacts to join...
...and got various replies going from "Sorry darling, you know I've been living in Berlin for the past 2years" to "Cool hearing from u,sorry cant make it.u know where I can pick up weed?c u soon". Pathetic.

But the worst was still to come.
It came all at the same time (around 3am), in the persons of French Guy, Mark (my last long-term relashionship, that I had to end eight months ago, mainly because he was falling deeper and deeper into hard core drugs, and I didn't want to deal with that kind of mess. Shame, really, he was one of the sweetest guys I had ever met...) and, hilariously enough, the French bloke I had met on the bus back from French Guy's flat. They all showed up in the space of half an hour, right when I was thinking my head was about to explode.

With a "please please please keep them occupied!", I palmed off Bus-French-Boy-Number-Two and his mates to Stella, while trying to deal with the rest of the mess... Our friendship might be slightly compromised...

I introduced Mark to French Guy as "friends". Alone with French Guy, I told him I considered Mark as one of my best mates, but thinking he had a thing for me, wasn't entirely comfortable getting very "touchy" in front of him, "just in case it would jeopardise our friendship". Good Lord...
Alone with Mark, I told him I didn't know what exactly was going on with French Guy, which is actually the truth itself. But, feeling bad, I introduced him to that girl who unsuccessfully tried to sell me pills in the smoking area. Now I feel worse. But he certainly had a good time...

I don't remember much more past that point, appart from hitting the bar far too many times than required. Apparently, French Guy and I came back to my place together. I'm just assuming this from the fact he was in my bed this morning. The good thing about this, is that for the first time in three days, I didn't wake up fully-clothed and with my shoes on...

I'm going to make a fry-up, and start packing, as Stella and I are leaving tonight for a four-days country side break. Exactly what the doctor ordered.

Who's calling?

After writting the last entry, the hungover kicked in.
The kind which doesn't leave you any choice but take up residence on the sofa, with a cushion rolled around your head in a attempt to stop the bumping noise taking place somewhere in between your ears. What was left of my brain wasn't the only noisy item around either; my phone kept ringing, and I just screened everything with great impartiality for the first few hours.

Of course it's the time when you start cursing yourself and asking yourself the timeless question no one found an answer to yet: Why did I drink so much that night?
Now, I'm really wishing I didn't (not that amount anyway). Especially since I keep getting calls from people I don't even remember ever existed, and who didn't see me at my best... Far from it!

Here's the conversation as it's been last night, this morning way too early, and every hour in between:
"Hello??? (me with a sleepy/drunk/unsure voice)
-Hey darling! How are you?
-Good, good... Err... What about you? (=who the heck are you?)
-Great! What are you up to?"

Then you can classify answers in two different categories:

Answer one:
"I'm sleeping/was sleeping/curing my hungover at home. Last night was wicked but my body can't cope with it anymore.

-Oh, I'm so sorry, do want us to come along? I'll bring long-enumeration-of-unknown-names. You live in [...], right?

-Err...(=SHIT! How do they know that?) No! Err, I mean, err... I think I really need some sleep, but we'll catch up later in the week-end, ok? Bye take care! (=and let me get some f*cking sleep!)

Answer two:
"-I'm in Turnmills, wanna come along?
-Yep sure, see you in less than an hour darling, I'll bring along long-enumeration-of-unknown-names.
-Cool, sounds great, say hi to everyone, I'll see you in there then!"
Results of answer two:
At least ten different persons who apparently knew me came to Turnmills last night. Thank God it was packed! I didn't recognise them, and they probably didn't find me, which is for the best because if you can get away on the phone it's an other matter in real-clubbing life, and I'm still unsure about how we're related...

Well, all those people sound like decent fun, but slightly stalker-ish... I wish I could at least assiociate various phone numbers with faces...

Souvenirs...

Things I remember about last night ( in a very approximative order) :

-dragging Mike and the "usual suspects" ( group of male friends so called because they tend to crash at our house in a state far from sobrierety, on a weekly basis, and the next morning I walk around the house sneaking glances under duvets trying to work out who is who ) to a Hallowe'en fancy dress party somewhere in a pub in far north London. A friend of mine's band was organising it, and I tend to behave like a groupie and never miss out on one of their live acts. (they're pretty good!)

-one of the usual suspects curing his recent break-up with his girlfriend of eight months, hence making sure the drinks kept coming...

-dancing around my handbag like a crazy twelve-year old.

-getting into an argument with the bouncer whether the universe was infinite or not ( I think it's not) while smoking half of his cigarettes.

-going to the incredible hulk, or at least someone dressed up as such, and ask him if his privates are green as well...

-trying to down a shot of sambuca but accidentally pour it down my cleavage, when a Amy Whinehouse look alike (hair and make up included!) kicked me on the head in a moment of extreme enthusiasm.

-striping down to the waist in the common part of the ladies, and, armed with toilet paper, try to get rid of the sticky beverage from my upper body, until a girl in a pink wig walks out of the cubicle...

-convincing my friends to follow pink-wig-girl and her creek to an after party "just around the corner".

-having a splif in a room with a guy and keeping asking him: "Sorry, what's your name again?"

-realising all my friends are gone missing, so go to a bathroom in a garden (if that makes sense?), set my alarm in order to control the amount of time I can allow myself to pass out, and take a nap there and then for half an hour.

-getting "really friendly" with pink-wig-girl on a bunk bed of the third house of the night.

-taking a line and plunge into a deep conversation about drug-dealing with a drug dealer, while pretending I sooo knew what I was talking about.

-lie down on the floor and request every human being passing by to "please please please, lay on top of me" as a way to fight the cold.

-get into a cat-fight with a nun-with-horns about how fast a woman can get wet, and if it's got more to do with visuals than pheromones.

-share a joint and a bottle of wine with pink-wig-girl in yet another garden.

-walk alone along what looked very much like Finsbury Park, with my "sexy goth" outfit drenched in mud.

-being waken up at 7:35 by my phone ringing. A random guy asking why I wasn't at the party anymore and where I was. Dunno. Apparently I'm on bus.

-running around Leicester Square like a mad woman in the rising sun, in search of hot food.

-waking up an hour ago, feeling very pleased I'm still alive, but somehow unable to work out how come I was still wearing my coat and shoes, but my top had disappeared...

I'm desperately trying to work out the order and the missing bits now, but it's a bit too much, I've been out for 13 hours...

Conclusion number one: I think I might need to calm down a little bit...

Conclusion number two: I love Hallowe'en!

Conclusion number three: I love even more partying with randoms!

Week-end plans

I never plan my Saturday nights in advance.
Usually, it's on Friday nights -excuse me, on Saturday mornings at some point between 2 and 6am- while freezing my ass off at a bus stop with Stella, that the planning gets done.

"So, tomorrow night, Fabric/Notting Hill/Brick lane/that-thing-in-that-members-club-some promoteur-texted-me-about?
-Yeah, sure! Wait, I've said I would go to that house party. But we could go there first, grab a few free drinks, see who's there, then head off, and when the place closes, we could always go to that other party I told you about?"
And that's more or less what we usually do. Being spontaneous is the way to go.

But then , this week-end is a bit different.
It's the first Hallowe'en week-end, and it looks like whole London is planning to get spookily wasted.
First of all, Stella is back from some job abroad, and it being her first week-end in London in ages, we ought to do something worth it, ideally involving plenty of sambuca-drinking, crazy-dancing, and sexy strangers-meeting.

So far I've been invited to two fancy-dress house parties. A good opportunity to unleash my inner goth/alternative self. (I went through a serious goth phase from the age of fifteen to eighteen, when I realised something needed to be done if I wanted to be taken a bit more seriously in the adult real world...)
They should be both quite happening;
-The first one in a Covent garden flat is organised by that friend of mine who buys his condoms on Ebay, and whose parties "beautiful-hot-young-people-only" famously often turn into soft orgies at around 1am.
-The second one is in Camden. I guess it's the place to be on that particular night. Moreover, according to facebook, the crowd attending is going to be mostly straight guys and lesbian girls, which sound very very appealing.

But then I promised D I would take him out, but that can always be rearranged (here's an idea, why don't I take him out tonight?)

And the most annoying thing (not really properly annoying though...) is that OG asked me if he could stay at mine for an all-night-long fucking session.
I know for a fact that if I decline, I will seriously regret it.

Irritating, I wish I could cut myself in three for the night. Isn't it on Hallowe'en night that they say miracles happen? No, shit, it's Christmas!

Conscience?

I've decided to ditch it. No more conscience. I'll get it back when I'm old and wrinkled.

French Guy never replied to the text I sent him after I left this morning. So I stopped obsessing and very happily opened the door to OG when he came over a while ago... It was fast, straight to the point, and felt amazing.
We had a chat afterwards about the general pros and cons of being in a relationship, and we came to the same conclusion; when it happens, it happens, but it's always lots of trouble and casual sex is a great way to go... Even/especially when it's done by individuals like the two of us: sex-driven, experienced, and heartless. God it sounds so clinical! I'll become a nice girl eventually... Just not now.

While he was on top of me, my phone rang from my bedside table, and I only managed to kick it to the floor with my spare foot. It was D, the guy I met on the bus this morning, asking what I was up to tonight. We'll see...

French National Day

I'm decidedly not an organisation queen. French Guy's flat being at the other end of London, and myself not being entirely sure how to get there, I left home early last night. Way too early.
So, when I had to change buses in Holborn, I decided I could take a little break from public transports.

Another thing I love about London, is that freaks and weirdos are left free to walk around anywhere, day and night. So, no one makes funny faces when yet another freak is sat at a busy bus stop, downing a can of cider from the corner shop, fag in hand, and smiling with contentment.
(Unnecessary precision; said freak=me).

Still with time on my hands, I called my friend Liz, who I knew had just moved around the area. Or so I thought. She invited me over, and -blame the cider- I found myself somewhere at the north end of route 243, in the flat shared by that group of good friends, who I refer to myself as the "shmookin-creek". It says it all.

We had barely found time for a proper chat since our trip to Amsterdam in July, so, an hour and a half later, I was still there, unable to say no to the third joint, and deeply convinced that playing football with a burnt toast across the kitchen was the funniest activity ever practiced in human history. Oh dear...

Somehow, I managed to get my brains back together and remembered I had a date. Late. Actually, "late" isn't strong enough. So I stumbled out and hailed a cab, forgetting behind me bottle of wine, crackers and grapes I had bought. And oh yes, the damn condoms from Boots!
Surely, a night in at your boyfriend's (or in that particular case, at your whatever's, we haven't defined that yet...), should not cost you a penny, but so far I had wasted £25 (cab+ various supplies). Oh dear...

Thank God, French Guy still looked very happy to see me, and didn't seem to notice the state I was in.
Believe me it isn't a legend; the French are really really good kissers. And this isn't a legend either; weed makes us girls really really horny. You do the maths. Should I feel the need to precise that the DVD played itself over and over again whole night in the middle of an empty living room?


I woke up this morning craving food (result of skipping dinner, smoking on an empty stomach followed by much physical activity), and sex. I was dripping wet, again. But he looked so cute fast asleep with his arm around my waist that I couldn't bring myself to wake him, so I lifted the duvet and intended to discreetly finish myself off while he was still unconscious. I think it's my shaking which woke him up... Too late sweetie! I kissed him good morning/good bye, grabbed my clothes and hurried off to the first Pret-a-Manger I could find.
Unspecified expenses: the second pair of socks I've lost at his place in a week (do socks fetishists exist?) plus an earring this time.

When I put down on the counter enough provisions to hold a week-long siege, the man at the till eyed me bizarrely, and asked if it was all for me, or was I being a good girlfriend and bringing breakfast to my man? (Eew...)
"Not my style. All for me, but don't worry, I'll burn it off!
-I bet!" (Eew...)
It wasn't until I went to the loo that I noticed I had eye make-up spread all other my face, and my hair -still the French factor I guess- was very Brigitte Bardot-like in her "bed-head" famous do.


On the bus back home, I was going through my usual routine to safely doze off ( sunglasses on, bag firmly stuck in between my head and the window, alarm set for twenty minutes later - I once woke up in Heathrow and it's not an experience I'm prepared to reiterate), when I was disturbed by a "Eskiuz mee, do you speak Fwench?".
Maybe it was still the effect of all the pot I smoked last night, but I started giggling even before opening my eyes. And when I did open them, damn, he was cute!
So oui, I did speak Fwench! He told me he was freshly landed in London, looking for places to go out and people to go out with, while, as French guys tend to do I noticed, quite obviously hitting on me... So when he asked, I did give him my number, and promised I would show him around.

Apparently, meeting cute French guys on the bus is becoming a new addiction of mine. Like I needed another one!

Time to go though, OG is showing up in an hour...