Tag Archives: why men are knobs

Eau de Toilet

the love shack...

the love shack…

So today highlights another day of mortification for the roadcrash existence of Maggie Adams.

So – a few days ago this scaly ridiculous singleton managed to pull at a gloriously debauched house party. My friends have a band – they’re woefully mediocre – guitar based grungy stuff that sounds like a shit nineties support band on a bad day. Despite a lack of musical prowess they’re totally lovely boys who possess an enviable self belief that has them totally convinced that they will be one day’s next big thing. And maybe they will be – I hope so.

A decade of playing small bars and pubs hasn’t got them a record deal but it has got them a throng of groupies. Alas, these girls haven’t exactly come from the top drawer of amorous groupy selection and most of them are, to put it bluntly, nerds – and the rest are ludricously (by which I mean certainly not-legal) young.

So their parties are always stuffed to the rafters with these girls – who when you can get a word out of them are really rather nice. The nicest thing is I always end up feeling almost glamorous and sophisticated at these events. Result.

As well as the girls they always have a reasonable selection of men  – none of them are particularly worth a write home about, but you can often while an evening away with them and grab back at some self esteem while you’re at it.

This particular Saturday night was different – if only for the presence of the raven haired, deliciously brown eyed Alexander. I first spotted him talking to a gaggle of loud voiced teenagers in the galley kitchen. He had a painfully thin smile adorning his ridiculously square jawed face, and he looked like he was going to drop through the floor if he had to survive one of more minute of discussing the finer qualities of Justin Bieber and One Direction. Suddenly I caught his eye, and smiled a complicit smile of sympathy. His own smile brightened and he raised his eyebrows and ever so slightly rolled his eyeballs.

My god he was gorgeous. I’d first seen him earlier that evening – at the gig that necessarily preceded the party – and couldn’t take my eyes off him then. He was tall – probably about 6’3, with thick dark hair that fell in irresistible short curls around his face. Okay – yes – maybe he had a slightly affected head toss, and maybe he enjoyed the luscious bounce of his curls a little too much – but I forgave him that. Looking like he did I’d forgive him a lot of things.

He had a lean, muscly body which was decorated with with dark blue jeans, a crisp white shirt that showed off his winter tan (again a slightly suspicious clue in the vanity stakes – but never mind…) and a close fitting brown leather jacket.

He was a thing of great beauty – and someone I knew full well that I normally probably wouldn’t stand a chance with. But if he had a prejudice against girls who liked Justin Bieber then my chances in this particular room had just shot up.

About ten minutes later whilst I was trying to engage one of the sweet nerdy girls in conversation over and above a few monosyllables I felt a smooth hand touch my elbow and heard a low velvety voice

‘Hi – you’re Maggie aren’t you?’

Dear god, he was standing there, inches away, and he was holding my bony elbow – a strange move – but still one that sent a shiver straight through me.

‘Hi – yes – that was a good guess.’

He chuckled deliciously

‘John told me. I wanted to know who the tall beautiful one was’

Oh god. Oh god. I felt all the blood rush to my face and felt it heat up till I knew it had reached crimson.

“I… I erm – er – well… thank you?’

Oh God Maggie – where’s your sparkling wit? Of all times for words to elude you.

‘I’m Alexander’

I liked that. Alexander. A full throttled four syllable name – no 21st century shortening to Alex or Al. Alexander – in all its drawn out loveliness. There’s a reason why Alexander was great.

We spent the next hour or so chatting squashed up to each other on a sofa and speedily getting more and more drunken. I’m not going to lie – he was no great conversationalist. We talked about him. A lot. But I was happy as long as his beautiful lips were moving and his deep brown eyes were looking into my blue ones – probably made black by the severity of the dilating of my pupils.

Then came the moment of truth. He edged in closer so his nose was millimetres away from mine, and his hand came up to my face to brush a stray stand of hair out of his firing path.

‘You know you’re really pretty Maggie’

His words were only slightly slurring

‘You have, you have lovely…. eyes’, he continued, his hand now stroking my cheek.

‘So have… you’ – I replied, again competing for the crown of  the Queen of Wit.

And then his lips were on mine – gently caressing them open before sliding his tongue over my teeth and into my mouth.

I could barely breathe I was so excited. Things got heated quickly and soon the rest of the party were throwing cushions at us and telling us to get a room.

‘Come with me’ he whispered and tugged me upstairs. We fell into the first door we found, still madly kissing. A moment later I realised we were in the noticably grubby, lynx saturated bathroom of an all male household. Fuck it I didn’t care – just as long as Alexander didn’t stop.

Then he was pulling my dress over my head and unclasping my bra and I was groping around trying to unbuckle his belt and undo his flies.

You’ve never really lived until you’ve had fumbled sex on the dirty linoleum of a bathroom  floor to the soundtrack of hefty doorknocking and jeering from the angry queue rapidly forming outside.

After the heat of passion cooled I did indeed feel a little silly – and walking out through the leg crossed mass of party goers leaving the tell tale smell of sex behind us was more than a little embarrassing.

Still it was also bloody fun. And he was the most gorgeous man I’ve ever been with – or probably will ever be with.

This has all been a slightly delicious memory for the last few days. Delicious that is – until the fall out of today.

I was merrily distracting myself with facebook at work when a status from Alexander popped up in my news feed. That’s odd – I thought – I hadn’t befriended him as I was fully aware that the other night was just the other night, and I didn’t want to look like some desperate stalking cow.

It turned out he’d popped up through one of the perversities of the ‘book: he’d tagged one of my friends (John – band member and party thrower) in his post which had led to him featuring on my own exclusive wall.

Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

My heart sank with a leaden thump as I, against my better judgement, went to John’s page to read on. The conversation went something like this:

John: Yo ‘Xander the man – what was that with you and my friend the other night?! You dirty whore!

Alexander: Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

John: Awwwh what? That’s not fair, she’s a great girl. Anyway you looked like you were going for it.

Alexander: Yeah well you know – desperate times. Next time you invite me to one of your gigs I expect some better specimens! LOL!

LOL. LOL. I’ll give you fucking LOL.

First off – do not publicly slag off someone that you had sex with just a few nights ago. Second – do not, DO NOT do it on bloody Facebook where she can read it and any other number of people can read it FOR ALL TIME. Third – get a personality and some sense of class you total egotistical self loving wanker.

I had a little cry and have spent the rest of the day trying to scrub the memory from my big soapy brain.

I also sent John a private message asking him to take the posts down – just for my own sense of ill gotten pride. He replied instantly saying how sorry he was and that Alexander was a ridiculous tosser and he wasn’t going to be invited to anything ever again and he thought I was lovely and gorgeous and not to listen to nasty minded toads. Thanks John.

Horrid boys. Maybe it’s time to give them up all together. Or at least go easy on romantic trysts in toilets.

M xx

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