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.