Number 12: Hot High School Kid

Number 12: Hot High School Kid (who I shall now call HHSK) had been in the year above me in sixth form, and I thought he was beautiful. I was into blondes back then, but he wasn’t tall and skinny like my first blonde, The Very First One; instead, he was ripped. He had that big ol’ gym physique going on before it was even a thing, and I can remember every girl at school and beyond drooling over him. He really was the most beautiful boy.

Fast forward a couple of years, and HHSK and I bumped into each other in a club. We chit-chatted and caught up for a while, then headed to the dancefloor, and before we knew it, it was last orders and almost closing time.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” he asked.

I couldn’t quite believe he’d asked me. He was so far out of my league that it was actually pretty ridiculous, but I nodded and let him lead me to the taxi rank anyway.

I gasped out loud when we pulled up outside his house. It was a mansion compared to my parents’ meagre three-up, two-down terraced home. He had a double garage, a driveway bigger than my entire home’s plot, rooms upon rooms upon rooms…

I didn’t realise people actually lived that way.

HHSK grabbed a bottle of red Aftershock from the kitchen, and we took it in turns to swig from the bottle as he showed me around his home. I gasped for a second time when he opened the door to the garage, revealing an array of cars that I thought that were reserved for celebrities only: his n’ hers Audi TTs, a Mustang… and an actual Ferrari.

We had a Vauxhall Astra, and it was my Pops’ work vehicle.

“Want to sit in it?” HHSK asked, pointing to the Ferrari and clearly aware of my awe.

“Yes!” I answered, a little too quickly. I couldn’t play it cool back then to save my life. I still can’t, to be fair.

He fiddled around with some keys. The lights on the red car lit up the garage. “In you go,” he said, opening the passenger door and beckoning for me to get in.

I did, giggling out loud, marvelling at the interior despite not really knowing what I was meant to be marvelling at. I was (and still am) more of a bike gal than a car one. My sis was the car chick. Still, I cooed at the things he pointed out and nodded enthusiastically as he explained horsepower to me. By this point, the Red Aftershock had well and truly gone to my head. I could barely hear what he was saying, let alone make sense of it.

I’m not really sure what happened next. He sat in the driver’s side… and then we were kissing. Well, he was kissing me. I was mostly open-mouthed and wondering what the fuck was going on. Was he really… kissing me? The hot guy is kissing me. THE HOT GUY WITH THE FERRARI IS KISSING ME. I could not believe my luck.

He stopped kissing me after a few minutes, then got out of the car.

Where’s he going?

He yanked open my door. “I want you to bend over the car.”

Just like that. No foreplay. No warming me up. No warning me. I suppose the kiss had been some warning. I did as I was told, willingly, booze or not. I wanted him. I’d wanted him for a while. Plus, we were both drunk.

HHSK had a condom ready and waiting in his pocket, and just a few moments later, I was bent over, leaning on the seat with my forearms, and he was fucking me from behind.

Interestingly, he wasn’t as well endowed as I thought. Not tiny, or anything. Definitely not a big’un, though… you know? I’d expected more.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said after a while, slapping my ass.

He pottered off into the house, so I followed him, my jeans still shuffled down to my knees. Oh, the romance. Up the stairs we went, then into a room off a long corridor – his bedroom, I guessed. He threw himself on the bed, then sort of… beckoned for me to fuck him. OH, THE ROMANCE.

I kicked my jeans off and climbed on top of him. I couldn’t have been riding him for more than two or three minutes before my stomach announced that we had a problem. A big problem. A very serious problem. All of that enthusiastic riding had sloshed almost half a bottle of Aftershock around in my stomach, and it was threatening to come back up.

“Oh, god,” I said, holding my mouth.

Unfortunately, neither of us had time to move. I clamped my hand as tightly over my mouth as I could, but streams of red vomit gushed out of the sides, covering me, him, his bed, and even the floor. What a sight. What a disaster.

He ushered me to the bathroom, desperately trying to catch the drips of my red vomit to protect the pale carpet. It was his en suite bathroom. Just his. He had his own bathroom. Even in my pissed and vomit-covered state, I was impressed by that.

Once the heaving and vomiting had finally subsided, I helped him clean the mess. Well, I tried. He was so annoyed and now impatient.

“I think you should just leave,” he said.

And that’s just what I did… walking for one-and-a-half hours to my flat because I had lost my purse and couldn’t pay for a cab and was too afraid to call one of the parentals for help. None of my friends drove yet, and the ones that did, were probably just as pissed as I was, if not more.

It was gone five in the morning by the time I got back to my flat. I fell on my bed, still fully clothed, and slept for five straight hours before waking with a full bladder that was threatening to embarrass me for a second time.

I wish I could say that I never spoke to him again, but there’s a second part to this story… and it is equally as cringe-inducing. At least I don’t vomit on anyone in that one, though.

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Fucking Kate.