Dear Readers and fellow sex-havers (or non-havers in some cases – Sexless@Oxbridge you know who you are, and thank you for ceasing to proposition me),
I have lied to you. Why, might you ask, would I bother lying to a group of anonymous followers who have no idea who I am or who I’m actually talking about? That in itself is a good indication that deep down I knew what I was doing was wrong. I had sex and did not tell you. It wasn’t the kind of ‘ha-ha he has a small willy’ sex or ‘ha-ha we fell off the bed in the middle of it’ sex. It was ‘I had sex with Dill/Wes/Whatever the hell I call him/still has a girlfriend’ sex. There’s no ha-ha here.
February
Dill was the most unsuspecting of the Underground Gang. Arguably the most attractive (depends on your type, T3 is quite easy on the eyes as well), Dill was the one I knew the least until a couple months ago when he kissed me out of the blue.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” he stammered.
I had always thought he was attractive and that it was rather unfortunate that he had a girlfriend, and even more unfortunate that I actually liked her. A lot. Not in the ‘I’m not gay, but if I were …’ kind of way, but in the ‘If I weren’t utterly and completely into your boyfriend we would probably be quite good mates’ kind of way.
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” He immediately did it again, and not one for resisting a snog with an attractive boy I suddenly found myself in a dark corner in college, kissing my friend. Ironically enough we were at a Valentines Day party.
Our kissing was interrupted only by momentary flashes back to reality and “No, we can’t.” Or, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m such a dick.” “No, it’s my fault I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I have this effect on all men.” Okay, not that last part.
For whatever reason, we justified him walking me home, which led to more kissing and eventually lying down in bed together and having a fully-dressed cuddle. Scandalous, I know. I woke up with his arm around me at about 2 am and got up to use the toilet. I came back and saw him there, in his suit, passed out in my bed, his arm limp and sprawled across the area of bed I had previously occupied. An immediate wave of guilt came over me at the thought of his girlfriend, in bed, wondering where her boyfriend was. I leaned over and poked him in the shoulder. “Dill …” I whispered. Nothing. I leaned my head closer to him, my mouth hovering over his ear. “Dill!” I yelled. He woke up, startled.
“Fucking hell!” he grumbled.
“You need to leave.”
“Uh, um, yeah. I’m so sorry,” he grumbled some more incoherencies. He got up and I walked him to the door. “Really,” he said, eyes closed, shaking his head, “I’m being such a dick, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dick.” He looked me in the eyes for a moment and then kissed me goodbye.
The door clicked shut. “Fuck.” I whispered to myself. Nothing good was to come of this, I knew it then as clearly as I know it now.
This morning I had to go through our text messages, all stored in one long list, one after the other, his then mine, on my iPhone. I was looking for some trivial piece of information in one of them for Briony. I made it to the beginning of them all, having skimmed passed the one I was actually looking for. I laughed at most of them, then reached the beginning.
Me, 2:28: ‘Hey hope you made it home okay x x’
Dill, 8:35: ‘I’m so sorry about last night. Feel so guilty. And I feel like such a dick. Sorry again’
Me, 9:01: ‘I think we’re both in agreement that we acted like complete idiots, so I think we should just forget everything and do the healthy thing, which is to bury it deep inside and never talk about it again :)’
Dill, 11:22 am: ‘Agreed. We were both just really drunk I guess. I can remember trying it with Foster as well! Have a good day, later x x’
(Six days later) Dill, 20:53: ‘What you up to tonight? Foster and I are down the pub if you aren’t up to much x’
To be able to pinpoint the exact moment when things shifted from in my control to completely and utterly out of control is an interesting discovery. I remember exactly where I was when I got the last text. Walking down the street, away from a bar where I’d been on a date, which clearly didn’t go spectacularly as I was with the said date who was on his way back to the library instead of back to my room. Nerd. I looked at the text as it flashed on the screen of my iPhone and my heart jumped a bit. ‘Fuck.’ I thought again. None of that, heart. I kissed my date goodbye, texted Dill to find out which pub, and hopped in the first taxi I saw.
March
Dill and I texted each other everyday. To the extent that I was grateful for my unlimited text services when I saw my bill which outlined how many texts came from and were sent to each number. He was the only one to break into the triple digits. Nothing sexual, just banter and jokes. He’d take the piss out of me, I’d take the piss out of him, all banal inside jokes which would bore the hell out of anybody else.
We were going to a party for the friend from the Underground gang who didn’t warrant a name at first, but does now as he’s come out of his engineering shell. We shall call him Temple, Temp for short, for his temporary status as one of the gang. He’s still in trial-mode. It was Temp’s birthday and I was running late so I called Dill to see if he would pick up some alcohol for me. No answer. Bugger. It was a surprise birthday party and with my luck I’d run into Temp in the stairway on the way to the surprise if I risked going to the off-license for some booze.
My phone rang, it was Dill. “Hey,” I answered.
“Hi, it’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.” She didn’t really say that, but it was Dill’s girlfriend. “Dill left his phone at mine, he’s just off to the shop to get some stuff for Temp’s party.”
“Ah, I see.” I said as casually as I could. “I was going to see if he could pick up some beer for me because I’m running really late.”
“Oh, I know. I still have to straighten my hair and put on my makeup. Dill wants to leave as soon as he’s back which should be about now.” Damn her and her ability to relate!
“Ha, yeahhhh … just remembered I’m not wearing any makeup, better go put some on. See you soon!”
“Yeah, see you. Bye!”
Fuck, she’s nice. Really nice. Like I want to be friends with her and tell her about all my boy-troubles nice. Oooh, yeah about that last part.
Easter Monday
I was on my way back from visiting the parentals over Easter and texted Dill to see what he was up to and if he wanted to grab a pint when I returned.
Me, 15:37: Alright, chav? I’m on my way back now, wanna swoop me up from the station and go for a pint afterwards? xx
(One of Dill’s many redeeming qualities is that he has a car and thus is used as my personal chauffer at my discretion).
Dill, 16:00: Fucking hell (my name here) I’m not a taxi service, get someone who actually makes a living driving you around xx
Me, 16:03: Train gets in at 16:45 xxxx
Dill, 16:11: Yeah alright then xx
He was late, but it was no matter because it meant I didn’t have to carry my bags to the taxi stand and actually pay for a ride. “You’re so lazy,” he said in his south-London speak.
“Don’t even pretend like you don’t like having the privilege of seeing me.”
“Whatevuh. It’s only because no one else is in town. To be honest I forgot about you completely while you were gone.”
“That’s blatantly a lie.”
“Whatev-uh! Get in the car.”
We drove to mine, dropped off my bags, drove to his, parked the car, then walked to the pub.
“Alright?” he asked, about an hour too late really.
“You should really stop using that in the middle of conversation.”
“What? ‘Al-right’? It’s a completely acceptable thing to say.” He said, the speed of his speech increasing towards the end of his sentence.
“Yes, it’s completely unnecessary and should be saved for greetings.”
“Whatevuh.”
“Yep, nice one.”
“Shaddup. What do you want to drink?”
“Cider.”
“Tramp.”
“Fuck off and get my drink!”
We sat in the pub, I bought the second round. He had cider as well, I’ll have you know. So we sat in the pub like a couple of tramps with our pints, catching up and just chattin breeze for the most part.
“I’m hungry, you have dinner yet?”
“Yes, in between you picking me up and us being here I snuck in a lamb roast.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Always.”
“Do you want dinner or not?! God.”
“Alright, alright, calm down. I could eat. What do you want?”
“Should we go to the store and cook at yours?”
At mine, eh? I had hoped that by confining our one-on-one get together to a public sphere that it would discourage any inappropriate activity, but it seemed that this was not going to be possible.
“Yeah go on then.” I caved. We went to the first shop we saw, but discouraged by the food selection and shameful lack of alcohol walked to a bigger brand name shop which would most certainly have the pizza and beer we required.
Back in my kitchen we burned our food and drank our beer. This kitchen is not for my use exclusively, and someone else came in wanting to cook something. “Want to go watch a film in my room?”
“Sure,” he answered without hesitation.
Back in my room I pulled out my DVDs and moved my laptop to my bed, which was the only logical place to sit, obviously.
After rejecting every DVD title I offered, Dill finally said, “I don’t actually want to watch a movie.”
“Alright, what do you want to do then?” I asked in the most naïve voice I could muster.
He started kissing me, and this time there were no interruptions or sudden glimpses of guilt for what we were doing. Without knowing it we had been in a pseudo-relationship, and the progression from texting every other minute to sexing in my bed was seamless.
That’s not entirely true, there was a moment when he stopped and said, “I don’t even have any Johnny’s.”
“I do.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.”
The sex was unremarkable really. A bit ordinary, and nothing to blog about. Size was average, foreplay was average, sex was average. Not mindblowingly awesome enough for me to immediately demand that he dump his girlfriend and take up residence in mine as my personal sex slave. We fell asleep, him wrapped around me, suffocating me. As he breathed down my neck I couldn’t help but wonder how I went from waking up in a panic every morning wondering whether or not my (ex)boyfriend was cheating on me to being the other woman. I stared at the wall, his arm wrapped tightly around me, thinking about how I use to hold the Other Women of the world in contempt. ‘I would never!’ I use to claim. Never say never I guess.
We didn’t text the next day. But like clockwork on the day after that he sent me one of his sarcastic texts taking the piss out of some aspect of my name. The texting carried on, and the next couple of times we saw each other was with friends, but it was obvious that without knowing it we were acting like a couple. Sitting together, ordering food to share, arguing about trivial things.
“Get a room.” Someone said, after witnessing one of our many arguments. It was then that I realised just how inappropriate things were.
April
We were at Shoreditch’s house drinking beer and playing poker and one by one the Tubestops left, until it was myself, Dill and Shoreditch.
“I want to be in bed by midnight.” Shoreditch had announced to everybody. It was quarter to one and Dill and I were still there. We eventually got out of Shore’s hair and walked out together.
Unconsciously I began walking with him, in the opposite direction of my place. Dill put his arm around me, “You can stay over if you want.”
“Yeah, alright.”
We argued over his lack of desirable outfits for me to wear to bed and I settled for one of his t-shirts and my pants. When he invited me to his I assumed his bed would be suitable for two. Not the case. The only possible way to sleep was with close and constant contact. We started to kiss at one point but I stopped and excused myself to the toilet. Looking in the mirror I knew I didn’t want to be there. Dwarfed in his shirt, I stood there on the cold tile, contemplating what to do. Go back to bed with him and wake up to more apologies? No, thanks.
I went back to his room and put a pillow over his head. To shade the light I was about to turn on, of course. ‘Placed’ would be more accurate than ‘put.’ As I began to dress, he lifted his head, the placed pillow falling to the floor. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Wha-where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“I’ve gotta go, my house is on fire.”
“I can sleep on the floor if you want.” He rolled onto the floor, lying on the fallen pillow.
“No, that’s not it. Get up.”
“No, no. I’ll sleep here.”
I finished dressing and went over to where he had already fallen back to sleep. “Dill, get up.” No response. “Get. UP.” I said, trying to heave him up by his arms. He was too heavy, and I almost collapsed on top of him when he fell back into his makeshift bed, still holding onto his wrists.
I tried a different tactic, hooking my arms under his and clean lifting his torso off the floor. “Get back into your bed!” I demanded. His housemates were most likely quite confused. I persisted until he was tucked in. I placed a swift kiss on his cheek and walked out into the streets of the early morning, filled only with people who, like me, were sneaking back from places they shouldn’t have been. ‘Fuck!’ I shivered in the cold of the morning.
Later-in-April
Tuesday
Me, 10:24: Hey, do you want to go to dinner this Thursday with Foster, Goodge and I? We’re going to formal hall at Jesus but we have to book tickets now x x
Dill, 11:20: Na, I better not ta. Didn’t see the missus all weekend so I’m going to put in some time with her this Thursday since I’m busy tonight and tomorrow. Try and get Foster some btw, he’s counting on you x x
How fucking dare you.
I’m generally quite relaxed and avoid drama at all costs, but honestly – was it actually necessary to let me know that the reason you did not want to spend time with me was because you felt guilty about not spending enough time with your girlfriend? No, it most certainly was not.
Why did I feel like a jealous girlfriend? I put an end to this incessant texting and realised that those who cheat with you will cheat on you. Even if he was to split up with his very nice and funny girlfriend, who I would otherwise be best friends with, I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Okay, I’d probably sleep with him again, but he’s far from the realm of relationship-worthy men I know.
Saturday
Dill, 9:51: Hey, are you going to this thing at T3’s? I’m going to be a bit late, but hopefully see you there.
Saturday 21:00
I’m at T3’s having a perfectly decent time with the gang. Foster is hitting on me again, but it’s more endearing than annoying. Goodge is explaining to us why he thinks he’s dying, the hypochondriac. Shoreditch is trying to get us to listen to the CD he’s made, some dub-stepper who is playing at Glastonbury or something. T3 is holding my attention mostly with his entertaining commentary on anything and everything. His new favourite saying is, “Umm, really?” in the brattiest, girliest voice he can put on, whilst still maintaining a brilliantly foreign and hilarious accent. I laughed so hard that I almost cried when he replied disbelievingly with this to Goodge’s statement, “I’m dying.”
Dill is late, as promised, and walks in with his girlfriend. Everyone carries on as normal, but there are plenty of nervous glances between the gang. People aren’t blind, they have assumed the worst I imagine. Which would be the truth. Dill’s girlfriend sits next to T3 and Dill walks up to me.
“Alright?”
“Been better.”
“What’s up?”
“I think you can probably figure out why I’m upset.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Fine, I won’t.” I walked out of the room towards the toilet and he followed me out. I pushed the door to T3’s room open and Dill closed it when he followed me in.
“Why are you upset?”
“Why would you bring her after texting me earlier to make sure I’d be here?”
“She’s my girlfriend, I had to bring her!”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s really not up to me, is it? You have clearly made your choice. I don’t want you to break up with her so I can be your girlfriend, I want-“
The door opened and Dill’s girlfriend walked in. “Is this the line for the toilet?”
“No, I’m done, go for it.” I said, and made a move for the door.
She went into the toilet and Dill called after me. “Hey!”
“What?” I hissed.
He gestured as if to say, ‘Where are you going?’
I gestured as if to say, ‘Fuck you.'
My only wish is that T3 had been there to say, "Umm, really?"
I have lied to you. Why, might you ask, would I bother lying to a group of anonymous followers who have no idea who I am or who I’m actually talking about? That in itself is a good indication that deep down I knew what I was doing was wrong. I had sex and did not tell you. It wasn’t the kind of ‘ha-ha he has a small willy’ sex or ‘ha-ha we fell off the bed in the middle of it’ sex. It was ‘I had sex with Dill/Wes/Whatever the hell I call him/still has a girlfriend’ sex. There’s no ha-ha here.
February
Dill was the most unsuspecting of the Underground Gang. Arguably the most attractive (depends on your type, T3 is quite easy on the eyes as well), Dill was the one I knew the least until a couple months ago when he kissed me out of the blue.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” he stammered.
I had always thought he was attractive and that it was rather unfortunate that he had a girlfriend, and even more unfortunate that I actually liked her. A lot. Not in the ‘I’m not gay, but if I were …’ kind of way, but in the ‘If I weren’t utterly and completely into your boyfriend we would probably be quite good mates’ kind of way.
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” He immediately did it again, and not one for resisting a snog with an attractive boy I suddenly found myself in a dark corner in college, kissing my friend. Ironically enough we were at a Valentines Day party.
Our kissing was interrupted only by momentary flashes back to reality and “No, we can’t.” Or, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m such a dick.” “No, it’s my fault I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I have this effect on all men.” Okay, not that last part.
For whatever reason, we justified him walking me home, which led to more kissing and eventually lying down in bed together and having a fully-dressed cuddle. Scandalous, I know. I woke up with his arm around me at about 2 am and got up to use the toilet. I came back and saw him there, in his suit, passed out in my bed, his arm limp and sprawled across the area of bed I had previously occupied. An immediate wave of guilt came over me at the thought of his girlfriend, in bed, wondering where her boyfriend was. I leaned over and poked him in the shoulder. “Dill …” I whispered. Nothing. I leaned my head closer to him, my mouth hovering over his ear. “Dill!” I yelled. He woke up, startled.
“Fucking hell!” he grumbled.
“You need to leave.”
“Uh, um, yeah. I’m so sorry,” he grumbled some more incoherencies. He got up and I walked him to the door. “Really,” he said, eyes closed, shaking his head, “I’m being such a dick, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dick.” He looked me in the eyes for a moment and then kissed me goodbye.
The door clicked shut. “Fuck.” I whispered to myself. Nothing good was to come of this, I knew it then as clearly as I know it now.
This morning I had to go through our text messages, all stored in one long list, one after the other, his then mine, on my iPhone. I was looking for some trivial piece of information in one of them for Briony. I made it to the beginning of them all, having skimmed passed the one I was actually looking for. I laughed at most of them, then reached the beginning.
Me, 2:28: ‘Hey hope you made it home okay x x’
Dill, 8:35: ‘I’m so sorry about last night. Feel so guilty. And I feel like such a dick. Sorry again’
Me, 9:01: ‘I think we’re both in agreement that we acted like complete idiots, so I think we should just forget everything and do the healthy thing, which is to bury it deep inside and never talk about it again :)’
Dill, 11:22 am: ‘Agreed. We were both just really drunk I guess. I can remember trying it with Foster as well! Have a good day, later x x’
(Six days later) Dill, 20:53: ‘What you up to tonight? Foster and I are down the pub if you aren’t up to much x’
To be able to pinpoint the exact moment when things shifted from in my control to completely and utterly out of control is an interesting discovery. I remember exactly where I was when I got the last text. Walking down the street, away from a bar where I’d been on a date, which clearly didn’t go spectacularly as I was with the said date who was on his way back to the library instead of back to my room. Nerd. I looked at the text as it flashed on the screen of my iPhone and my heart jumped a bit. ‘Fuck.’ I thought again. None of that, heart. I kissed my date goodbye, texted Dill to find out which pub, and hopped in the first taxi I saw.
March
Dill and I texted each other everyday. To the extent that I was grateful for my unlimited text services when I saw my bill which outlined how many texts came from and were sent to each number. He was the only one to break into the triple digits. Nothing sexual, just banter and jokes. He’d take the piss out of me, I’d take the piss out of him, all banal inside jokes which would bore the hell out of anybody else.
We were going to a party for the friend from the Underground gang who didn’t warrant a name at first, but does now as he’s come out of his engineering shell. We shall call him Temple, Temp for short, for his temporary status as one of the gang. He’s still in trial-mode. It was Temp’s birthday and I was running late so I called Dill to see if he would pick up some alcohol for me. No answer. Bugger. It was a surprise birthday party and with my luck I’d run into Temp in the stairway on the way to the surprise if I risked going to the off-license for some booze.
My phone rang, it was Dill. “Hey,” I answered.
“Hi, it’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.” She didn’t really say that, but it was Dill’s girlfriend. “Dill left his phone at mine, he’s just off to the shop to get some stuff for Temp’s party.”
“Ah, I see.” I said as casually as I could. “I was going to see if he could pick up some beer for me because I’m running really late.”
“Oh, I know. I still have to straighten my hair and put on my makeup. Dill wants to leave as soon as he’s back which should be about now.” Damn her and her ability to relate!
“Ha, yeahhhh … just remembered I’m not wearing any makeup, better go put some on. See you soon!”
“Yeah, see you. Bye!”
Fuck, she’s nice. Really nice. Like I want to be friends with her and tell her about all my boy-troubles nice. Oooh, yeah about that last part.
Easter Monday
I was on my way back from visiting the parentals over Easter and texted Dill to see what he was up to and if he wanted to grab a pint when I returned.
Me, 15:37: Alright, chav? I’m on my way back now, wanna swoop me up from the station and go for a pint afterwards? xx
(One of Dill’s many redeeming qualities is that he has a car and thus is used as my personal chauffer at my discretion).
Dill, 16:00: Fucking hell (my name here) I’m not a taxi service, get someone who actually makes a living driving you around xx
Me, 16:03: Train gets in at 16:45 xxxx
Dill, 16:11: Yeah alright then xx
He was late, but it was no matter because it meant I didn’t have to carry my bags to the taxi stand and actually pay for a ride. “You’re so lazy,” he said in his south-London speak.
“Don’t even pretend like you don’t like having the privilege of seeing me.”
“Whatevuh. It’s only because no one else is in town. To be honest I forgot about you completely while you were gone.”
“That’s blatantly a lie.”
“Whatev-uh! Get in the car.”
We drove to mine, dropped off my bags, drove to his, parked the car, then walked to the pub.
“Alright?” he asked, about an hour too late really.
“You should really stop using that in the middle of conversation.”
“What? ‘Al-right’? It’s a completely acceptable thing to say.” He said, the speed of his speech increasing towards the end of his sentence.
“Yes, it’s completely unnecessary and should be saved for greetings.”
“Whatevuh.”
“Yep, nice one.”
“Shaddup. What do you want to drink?”
“Cider.”
“Tramp.”
“Fuck off and get my drink!”
We sat in the pub, I bought the second round. He had cider as well, I’ll have you know. So we sat in the pub like a couple of tramps with our pints, catching up and just chattin breeze for the most part.
“I’m hungry, you have dinner yet?”
“Yes, in between you picking me up and us being here I snuck in a lamb roast.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Always.”
“Do you want dinner or not?! God.”
“Alright, alright, calm down. I could eat. What do you want?”
“Should we go to the store and cook at yours?”
At mine, eh? I had hoped that by confining our one-on-one get together to a public sphere that it would discourage any inappropriate activity, but it seemed that this was not going to be possible.
“Yeah go on then.” I caved. We went to the first shop we saw, but discouraged by the food selection and shameful lack of alcohol walked to a bigger brand name shop which would most certainly have the pizza and beer we required.
Back in my kitchen we burned our food and drank our beer. This kitchen is not for my use exclusively, and someone else came in wanting to cook something. “Want to go watch a film in my room?”
“Sure,” he answered without hesitation.
Back in my room I pulled out my DVDs and moved my laptop to my bed, which was the only logical place to sit, obviously.
After rejecting every DVD title I offered, Dill finally said, “I don’t actually want to watch a movie.”
“Alright, what do you want to do then?” I asked in the most naïve voice I could muster.
He started kissing me, and this time there were no interruptions or sudden glimpses of guilt for what we were doing. Without knowing it we had been in a pseudo-relationship, and the progression from texting every other minute to sexing in my bed was seamless.
That’s not entirely true, there was a moment when he stopped and said, “I don’t even have any Johnny’s.”
“I do.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.”
The sex was unremarkable really. A bit ordinary, and nothing to blog about. Size was average, foreplay was average, sex was average. Not mindblowingly awesome enough for me to immediately demand that he dump his girlfriend and take up residence in mine as my personal sex slave. We fell asleep, him wrapped around me, suffocating me. As he breathed down my neck I couldn’t help but wonder how I went from waking up in a panic every morning wondering whether or not my (ex)boyfriend was cheating on me to being the other woman. I stared at the wall, his arm wrapped tightly around me, thinking about how I use to hold the Other Women of the world in contempt. ‘I would never!’ I use to claim. Never say never I guess.
We didn’t text the next day. But like clockwork on the day after that he sent me one of his sarcastic texts taking the piss out of some aspect of my name. The texting carried on, and the next couple of times we saw each other was with friends, but it was obvious that without knowing it we were acting like a couple. Sitting together, ordering food to share, arguing about trivial things.
“Get a room.” Someone said, after witnessing one of our many arguments. It was then that I realised just how inappropriate things were.
April
We were at Shoreditch’s house drinking beer and playing poker and one by one the Tubestops left, until it was myself, Dill and Shoreditch.
“I want to be in bed by midnight.” Shoreditch had announced to everybody. It was quarter to one and Dill and I were still there. We eventually got out of Shore’s hair and walked out together.
Unconsciously I began walking with him, in the opposite direction of my place. Dill put his arm around me, “You can stay over if you want.”
“Yeah, alright.”
We argued over his lack of desirable outfits for me to wear to bed and I settled for one of his t-shirts and my pants. When he invited me to his I assumed his bed would be suitable for two. Not the case. The only possible way to sleep was with close and constant contact. We started to kiss at one point but I stopped and excused myself to the toilet. Looking in the mirror I knew I didn’t want to be there. Dwarfed in his shirt, I stood there on the cold tile, contemplating what to do. Go back to bed with him and wake up to more apologies? No, thanks.
I went back to his room and put a pillow over his head. To shade the light I was about to turn on, of course. ‘Placed’ would be more accurate than ‘put.’ As I began to dress, he lifted his head, the placed pillow falling to the floor. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Wha-where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“I’ve gotta go, my house is on fire.”
“I can sleep on the floor if you want.” He rolled onto the floor, lying on the fallen pillow.
“No, that’s not it. Get up.”
“No, no. I’ll sleep here.”
I finished dressing and went over to where he had already fallen back to sleep. “Dill, get up.” No response. “Get. UP.” I said, trying to heave him up by his arms. He was too heavy, and I almost collapsed on top of him when he fell back into his makeshift bed, still holding onto his wrists.
I tried a different tactic, hooking my arms under his and clean lifting his torso off the floor. “Get back into your bed!” I demanded. His housemates were most likely quite confused. I persisted until he was tucked in. I placed a swift kiss on his cheek and walked out into the streets of the early morning, filled only with people who, like me, were sneaking back from places they shouldn’t have been. ‘Fuck!’ I shivered in the cold of the morning.
Later-in-April
Tuesday
Me, 10:24: Hey, do you want to go to dinner this Thursday with Foster, Goodge and I? We’re going to formal hall at Jesus but we have to book tickets now x x
Dill, 11:20: Na, I better not ta. Didn’t see the missus all weekend so I’m going to put in some time with her this Thursday since I’m busy tonight and tomorrow. Try and get Foster some btw, he’s counting on you x x
How fucking dare you.
I’m generally quite relaxed and avoid drama at all costs, but honestly – was it actually necessary to let me know that the reason you did not want to spend time with me was because you felt guilty about not spending enough time with your girlfriend? No, it most certainly was not.
Why did I feel like a jealous girlfriend? I put an end to this incessant texting and realised that those who cheat with you will cheat on you. Even if he was to split up with his very nice and funny girlfriend, who I would otherwise be best friends with, I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Okay, I’d probably sleep with him again, but he’s far from the realm of relationship-worthy men I know.
Saturday
Dill, 9:51: Hey, are you going to this thing at T3’s? I’m going to be a bit late, but hopefully see you there.
Saturday 21:00
I’m at T3’s having a perfectly decent time with the gang. Foster is hitting on me again, but it’s more endearing than annoying. Goodge is explaining to us why he thinks he’s dying, the hypochondriac. Shoreditch is trying to get us to listen to the CD he’s made, some dub-stepper who is playing at Glastonbury or something. T3 is holding my attention mostly with his entertaining commentary on anything and everything. His new favourite saying is, “Umm, really?” in the brattiest, girliest voice he can put on, whilst still maintaining a brilliantly foreign and hilarious accent. I laughed so hard that I almost cried when he replied disbelievingly with this to Goodge’s statement, “I’m dying.”
Dill is late, as promised, and walks in with his girlfriend. Everyone carries on as normal, but there are plenty of nervous glances between the gang. People aren’t blind, they have assumed the worst I imagine. Which would be the truth. Dill’s girlfriend sits next to T3 and Dill walks up to me.
“Alright?”
“Been better.”
“What’s up?”
“I think you can probably figure out why I’m upset.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Fine, I won’t.” I walked out of the room towards the toilet and he followed me out. I pushed the door to T3’s room open and Dill closed it when he followed me in.
“Why are you upset?”
“Why would you bring her after texting me earlier to make sure I’d be here?”
“She’s my girlfriend, I had to bring her!”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s really not up to me, is it? You have clearly made your choice. I don’t want you to break up with her so I can be your girlfriend, I want-“
The door opened and Dill’s girlfriend walked in. “Is this the line for the toilet?”
“No, I’m done, go for it.” I said, and made a move for the door.
She went into the toilet and Dill called after me. “Hey!”
“What?” I hissed.
He gestured as if to say, ‘Where are you going?’
I gestured as if to say, ‘Fuck you.'
My only wish is that T3 had been there to say, "Umm, really?"
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