Soundtrack: Milkshake by Kelis.
I was heartbroken after The Postman, Grey, and a series of terrible one-night stands in quick succession, so I started walking. I wasn’t heading anywhere in particular; I just walked until I didn’t want to walk anymore. And where did I find myself? That’s right: The Admiral. It’s where my crazy ‘virgin’ story started, and if it’s okay with you lot, I’d rather talk about it just the once, then never think about it ever again. Okay? Okay.
Number 23
I was drinking to get absolutely bladdered rather than tipsy drunk, and to forget about all the boys that had broken my heart. It wasn’t my intention to pick up a guy (or a girl,) but that sort of thing always happens when you don’t want it to, doesn’t it?
“Hello! I’m Ian*, can I get you a drink?”
Ian was cute. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Taller than me; although; that’s not exactly difficult. I reckoned he was about my age, and not completely gormless like every other guy in the bar. What was the harm in entertaining him for a free drink or two?
“Sure,” I said. “Vodka, lime, and soda, please. I’m NotSo.”
He bought me that drink, then three more afterwards (because they were much cheaper back then,) and halfway through the fourth, he kissed me.
Bestie had started working behind the bar at that point, and he pulled me to one side. “He’s not as cute as you think he is. He has a huge monobrow. You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”
He was probably right, but I didn’t much care. That train had started moving, and there was no way that any of us could stop it. That’s what happens when I drink: I get slutty. Well, sluttier than I already am, anyway.
A Virgin
I took Ian home, because of course I did. My self-esteem and confidence were on the floor after all of those sad boy-related dramas, and Ian was boosting them. He showered me with compliments and made me feel good about myself. Plus, what was the harm? I’d already told him that I wasn’t looking for anything serious.
We dived straight into bed and fucked into the early hours. Pretty good fucking, too. First-time fucks with someone are always a little bit awkward, aren’t they? But it was good. I had fun! I didn’t come, but he did. Twice. I was too drunk to come, in all honesty. Not non-consensually drunk, though. Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing, don’t worry.
After the second round, we smoked a cigarette together, chit-chatting about everything and nothing.
“I was a virgin,” he said. Just like that. Like he was talking about dinner, or something.
I sat bolt upright in the bed, scared to even look at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I see what all the fuss is about now.”
“Wait…. How old are you?”
“A year younger than you,” he said.
I wanted to die. Surely, I should’ve known that he was a virgin beforehand? He should’ve told me that, right? It feels like a snippet of information that you’d share with someone before shagging them, you know? YOU KNOW?!?
I should’ve checked his age too, to be fair. I mean, after The Lapdog, I’d made a pretty good point of not dating younger guys anymore. Fuck that. I am, always have been, and always will be an older-man type of girlie. Strictly. I’ve dabbled in the younger pool, and I didn’t enjoy it.
“You’ve gotta get out,” I told him, crawling out of bed and taking the duvet with me. “Out. Now. I’ll pay for your taxi.”
“Wait,” he said, sitting up. “I only live down the road, but why are you kicking me out? It’s three in the morning!”
I shook my head. “Don’t care. Get out.”
To my sheer relief, Ian didn’t argue about it. He got out of my bed, put his clothes on, attempted to kiss me, then slammed my front door on his way out.
“Prick,” I said out loud.
I thought that, would be the end of that.
Sadly not.
87 Missed Calls
The next morning, I woke up with the motherfucker of hickeys across my throat. There were so many of them that they had blended into one big one, and I looked like a strangulation victim. It was quite distressing. I was covering them in toothpaste, hair conditioner, everything and anything else that Bestie’s mum had suggested over the phone. Heck, I even called and begged my own mother for advice – and that was very much a last resort for me at that point.
They were so bad that I called in sick for two days. I worked with food sometimes, so a stomach bug worked nicely.
Over the course of the next day (the day after the night before, so to speak) Ian called me eighty-seven times. Yes: 87. That’s a lot, right? I answered the first call, because I didn’t recognise the number. Also, I didn’t realise that I’d given my mobile number to Ian. That wasn’t something I did regularly. I kicked myself for breaking my unspoken rule for that stupid virgin.
Eventually, after three days, and what felt like ninety billion missed calls and seven thousand voicemails, Ian finally stopped calling. He never came into The Admiral again. I never saw him again. Thank fuck for that. Lessons were learned that night/day.
It took about five weeks for the hickeys to completely disappear, if you were wondering. I wore scarves a lot. Thankfully, they were all the rage amongst alt girlies back then.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Number 24: The Copper.
Thank you so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
You can read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
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