One of my girls, someone who I view as a very good friend, calls me weekly for shop talk but we always end up going over her extra curricular social life – some of her exploits outside the bedroom have me howling with laughter. So I asked her to keep a diary, just bullet points of key events. This is how the last week in February panned out for her:
I have decided that as it’s summer I should set up a few dates to ring out the holiday season.
So I get online, onto OKStupid (real name: obvious). I end up talking to a bozo that wants me to talk dirty via IM at 1am on a Monday night; hey I can do this at work so I wrap it up before it’s even started. Then I get on Tinder – turns out that I know at least 4/5 guys on there, including the married guy who I bedded last week for the agency. Christ, this is bad – I am going to have to leave the house!
Wednesday – I hit an art gallery launch in east London, with my friend Alf. It’s the usual art crowd; people are either bloated on too much red wine, on something and some, quite frankly, just require a bath! I talk to a guy called Charlie – ‘mixed-media painter’ – whatever the hell that is. We make-out in the smoking area and he takes my number. He texts the next day and surprise, he wants to sex text – again, I’m not on a busman’s holiday and so give him the swerve. This girl don’t work for free!
Thursday – I wind up at a party for Erotic Review; I know, right? Moonlighting again! I keep a low profile and am dressed demurely and yet… someone mistakes me for one of the pole dancers. This guy wouldn’t let up so I made my excuses, by inventing a limp – telling him that since birth I’ve had a skeletal deformity, I hobble out of there before my lie is uncovered. A single girl’s life in London is not without moments of hilarity, the tragedy of which we keep to ourselves.
Friday – I decide to go dancing at a gay bar in Dalston. The basement dancefloor is hot, sweaty fun and yet again I’m a hit with the trannies – think god is trying to tell me something. Wind up making out with a guy called Jonjo, as we’re leaving (for separate taxis, I’m a good girl!) he tells me he’s not really bi and made an exception for me as I look like Kristen Stewart. Well, he was no R-Patz and I guess being totally gay he doesn’t fulfil the tag: ‘man of my dreams’.
Saturday – I go out dancing at a Mayfair members’ bar, I wind up dancing suggestively in front of the rotund owner and being invited back to his pad with a select few. Back at his luxe Mayfair pad I continue to get my groove on and lo’ I do get hit on – by a girl! She’s smoking hot, and wants to come back to mine, which freaks me out a little. I do like some lady-love from time to time but this girl is so drunk she’s foaming at the mouth. I wind up putting her in a cab and taking the bus – good grief!
Sunday – last day of the week, and I’m pretty desperate to be honest. How does a girl get a date in this town?! Some girlfriends and I decide to go bowling. We venture down to Bloomsbury and grab our lane; some of us are decked in hot pants to make the boys wink. We wait and see who shows up in the lane next door while whooping it up on Pimms, despite it being 5pm. Well, we needn’t have bothered as a group of older ladies wearing their best M&S walk in and take the spot. Turns out they’re members of the Women’s Institute out on an away day… I rest my case. Later, I go to my local in Hampstead for a drink and get talking to the cute barman – just as I’m leaving he asks for my number.
Result. Moral of the story: if you go looking, you might just find what you’re looking for on your doorstep!