Honestly, you’d think there’d be some kind of warning or something wouldn’t you? I mean, you come home from work, absolutely knackered after a day of doing, I don’t know, cost accounting or industrial surveying or some such crap, and then the phone rings and it’s someone yelling that what’s-his-face is having a birthday party or something, and what are you supposed to do?

That’s right! You get out of your clothes as quickly as possible and shove yourself under the shower and pray that the water’ll wake you up again. Then you come out of the bathroom and your hair’s sticking up all over the place and you realize you need to have a shave. So in you go again. And the whole time the clock’s tick-tick-ticking away and you know they’re going to pick you up in fifteen minutes and you still haven’t decided what to wear or put your contact lenses in.

So you run out of the bathroom with just the one lens in, because, of course, the other one’s not behaving itself. You rinse it, clean it, rinse it again – and when you put it in your eye, well, you might as well be St. Fucking Sebastian putting the arrows in yourself.

And so it’s into the bedroom – which looks like Beirut, because the fucking cleaning woman hasn’t bothered to come in again – and you’re going through the clothes in the wardrobe, but you can’t see what you’re doing because of the contact lens you couldn’t put in.

And then the phone rings. “Oh,” they say, “we’re coming early because we’ve got to pick up so-and-so’s sister and she lives a hundred and seventy fucking miles away in the opposite direction, so can you come down now? We’re in front of your flat.”

I’m telling you, people are born to drive you crazy. So you just grab the first thing that you can wrench off the hanger and put it on with a pair of jeans, throw some Whiskas at the cat on your way out and pray that you look like a human being.

But, you know, it was fun. Okay, I couldn’t see much, what with the contact lens and all those martinis, but that brother of whatsit’s was so cute, you know. Well, at least, I think he was cute. It was a bit hard to tell, ‘cos the room was a bit dark, and he was a bit blurry, but everyone else was making, you know, appreciative noises about him.

So I went up to him, didn’t I? I’m not proud. If you don’t ask for it, you won’t get it, as that tramp of a mother of mine used to say. Not that the stupid bitch got it even when she was willing to pay, but that’s another story…

Anyway, there I was, hair all over the place, blinking one eye more than the other ‘cos the contact lens I did manage to put in was starting to feel like fucking sandpaper in there – thank God I was at least wearing that Dolce and Gabbana shirt! You know – the green one. It always makes me look slimmer. So, I’m standing there, right, blinking and swaying like a fourteen-year old virgin on marijuana – and you know what happened? He says to me “Take me home with you, I’m bored.”

Jesus Christ on a crutch! I mean, he was the most gorgeous guy there – I’m sure he was. I didn’t see anything better, at any rate. But then I wouldn’t have, would I? So I’m nodding and shaking my hips and smoking a cigarette and the fucking penny hasn’t dropped. It took me at least a minute to work out that he was talking to me! So, I grabbed him. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Never pass up an opportunity, that’s my motto.

He took me downstairs and out to his car and asked me where I live. And I sat there like a complete moron with a stupid grin plastered all over my face before I remembered the street name. Did I tell you I’ve only been here a month? Yeah, that’s right. That place in Knightsbridge was just too fucking expensive, but I got a great deal on this one.

Whatever! He drove us back to here and his hands were all over me like I’m Brad Pitt or something. I’m telling you, I’ve never climbed three flights of stairs so fast! He’s dragging me along and I’m fumbling in my pockets looking for the keys, and then we’re inside and he’s got his hands down my jeans and his tongue down my throat before I can say ‘do you fancy a drink?’

But what the hell! It was great. Valentino and Omar Sharif – eat your balls out, you know. Talk about a gymnast. He had me up the wall and straight into heaven, just like a porn star. And that was it. I’m in love up to my ears and I still don’t know the guy’s fucking name! I mean, we did everything two people can reasonably be expected to do without getting a hernia or a displaced kidney, and I didn’t know his name.

We were smoking a cigarette afterwards. I remember that. And I remember I asked him if he’d like to have lunch tomorrow. Well, today now, I suppose. God I’m such a stupid cow. Who asks that kind of crap anyway?

But still, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And that’s all I remember until I woke up this morning. I’m telling you, I was so happy – alright hung over a bit as well, but bloody happy – and I ran into that kitchen to get him a coffee.

And then you rang the front doorbell and I was standing there with two cups of coffee in my hands, staring at that bloody empty bed and crying my fucking heart out. He must have passed you on the stairs or something, surely?

Prince Louis Richard’s blog


Published in: on July 24, 2006 at 2:33 am  Comments Off on