…I’m not amazingly sure…
Hello dear readers! Have a guess, just have a guess what this week’s post is about. I did have a fun little ditty about jealousy planned but I suppose that will have to wait. The strange thing is I have the audacity to call this a ‘dating advice’ blog when ninety percent of the time I illustrate the wrong thing to do. Anyway, let’s get on with it guys, what did Sam fuck up this week?
To get into the mood I have a song which perfectly captures my confusion tinged shamelessness, I’m beyond regret now:
For everyone pretending to work, it’s an inexplicably Mandarin version of “Anything Goes” by Cole Porter. Why this song? Well, it’s all about falling standards, something I can relate to, plus it’s incomprehensible, much like I was. Weirdly it seems to tonally reflect my emotions of the night. It begins with a strong feeling of foreboding which transitions into a good minute of fabulousness. Then we are sadly lead into a poor dance routine swiftly cut short by a rushed ending (I think I had bad sex if that metaphor was lost on you).
“How did this all occur?” I hear you ask. As usual, with all stories which end with someone waking up naked, it began with Vodka. Whorey Invited me for drinks with a side order of “can I borrow some money?”. Our friendship has been mildly taxed recently (money pun fully intended) as I’ve become the nemesis of his AA sponsor. For reasons unknown to me, Whorey is M.C. Hammer broke, with no sugar daddy to fund his liver abuse I’ve graciously stepped in. As much as I hate mixing friends and money, Whorey needed to drink and I needed to have a fun evening.
We met at the bar which housed many of my sexual conquests and I promptly began drinking, I’d been invited to a small talk warzone. Sat around our small booth were Whorey, his latest victim, a friend who I know purely through my relationship with tequila shots and his best friend Pablo. For newbies to my laundry list of reasons to remain celibate, Pablo is a lovely fellow who found me naked in his bed one morning. I think we attempted to have sex but like Amy Winehouse’s final performances, we were too intoxicated to get past the first five minutes.
Top Tip #564: It’s not sexual assault if no one remembers.
I attempted to look cool, calm and collected, just because I was sat opposite a recent walk of shame shouldn’t mean I’m not empowered. Simultaneously I drank with a dedication usually possessed by entitled trailer trash who request to see the manager, I may have betrayed my cool facade. Despite my night beginning with the cruelly ironic torture of forced talk to someone I knew mainly through shameful actions, I was determined to have fun. My conviction to enjoy myself was cut short. After meeting last month’s carnal leftovers I bumped into the Ghost of Slutmass past, Hank. Again for new readers, Hank is a guy I knew, sorry blew, under a table in his own restaurant no less.
I put on a brave face and became lithe and sensual, Hank may be dead to me but his compliments certainly live on. After allowing more physical contact than the average commuter on the central line is expected to endure, I finally got to the bar. I brought him a drink, I’m a black hole for introspection but I’m definitely not a gold digger. Although I arrived with the intention of being carefree and frivolous, meeting two men I used and ignored devolved me into a remorseful hooker. Feeling sad for myself I joined the cult of tequila slammers, it’s a small group which praises shots and one of them wants to fuck me, perfect.
I danced, shot tequila and danced some more. My saviours/enablers made me see Jesus in salted hands and satan in chilli-tinged Jose Cuervo (honestly, it’s time they sponsored me), I became the patron saint of forgetting your issues. Lady fate wasn’t finished with my public shaming though. After suffering two men who had a better understanding of my dick than my feelings, Mr Kitten Sheets was thrust upon me. It was the awkward trinity sex, the man I left cold, the man I blew and the guy who fucked me too.
Mr Kitten Sheets, who will now be known as Blake (it’s easier to write), tried to put on the moves. I get so annoyed at men who’ve seen me naked and try to be “smooth.” We’ve already seen each other dress awkwardly, why bother? I’d be much more impressed by a man who said;
“Let’s go back to mine…”
Then someone who coyly asked how I was getting home…
I wanted to be desired, I want a man to push my arms back and tell me I’m salacious whilst making my body powerless. Sadly I’m faced with three disappointments that call themselves tops. Hank will freely flirt and touch me up yet finds public sex acts embarrassing. Pablo gets bashful by waking up naked and runs towards his day job. Blake will laugh and make fun of me but can’t respond to any of my messages which directly talk about sex. What happened to fifties candour and a slap on the bum?
After my night of dancing, I awoke naked and lonely in someone else’s bed. I took one look at the sheets and knew it was Blake. The ugly kittens were still there and by some miracle, I was too. Apparently, I have less respect for myself then 2007 Paris Hilton. I tried to stitch together my night between feeling disgust at these weak these men and waking up in one of their beds. Nothing came. My memories had entered the event horizon and I remembered nothing of getting home, getting naked and getting slutty. Between searching for my pants and my dignity I came across a neatly folded pile clothes. Blake was clearly all bravado, he may act like the Hulk but he’s secretly cleaning like Mary Poppins. I slunk my tight top back on and pictured my dating future with him, none. I love a broken insecure guy and I adore a strong and forceful personality, what I cannot abide is someone who tries to be both. Why act like you can handle casual sex when your clearly want to care for me? To make sure I wasn’t emotionally boomeranging after a night of repeated character shots (it’s difficult being called a whore, getting touched up, getting calling whore again then waking up naked), I sent a candid message…
As you can see, my fun answers were met with sad introspections. I’ve finally come to terms with my sluttiness and although I sincerely regret losing all recollection of the night I don’t regret my body. What I do hate are the guy’s reactions, why act so coy? We’ve already been naked together, it’s not a travesty that you were pissed, why so many sad emojis? In a grim attempt to avoid these conversations. I tried to slink out of his house silently. alas, he heard me trying to escape and awoke. He walked downstairs and unlocked the door for sober me. I had a cigarette in my mouth, a phone with the police on speed dial in one hand, and a beer in the other, a solid look. There is nothing worse than being a self-aware slut than trying to sneak out of a house and having the man open the door for you. I was released back into the wild like a troublesome fish caught by an intrepid hunter, he clearly couldn’t handle my, me.
What lessons can you glean from my sorrow dear readers? If a guy acts dominant, fuck him to make sure? Don’t go to clubs where you might bump into men you may have slept with? No, the lesson here is to own your body. You will wake up strangers, you will embarrass yourself but never let that affect your view of your identity. A man may know you for a night but you have to sleep in your bed for forever, make it comfy. I refuse Blake, Hank or whoever I sleep with to sully my opinion of myself. Ultimately it’s yourself you have to impress to be happy and no one should be allowed to affect that decision. I’m a bit of a slut, I’m clever and I look great. What do you love about yourself?