Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

My sex life is so sporadic, it’s practically non-existent. But, when the opportunity does arise, so to speak, you can guarantee it’s dramatic. I don’t think I’ve had one romantic encounter this year that hasn’t involved some sort of secrecy or surprise. My little black book has turned into a who’s who of freaks and cheats. So, it will come as no shock that the encounter I’m about to tell you about involves burns, bruises and a bout of bat-shit craziness.

One Saturday night, I went out with my American friend, Mr. Y.C., for a few quiet drinks at our favourite bar. Nights out with Mr. Y.C. are always good fun – no drama, great company and lots of dancing. However, although this particular evening started off that way, it certainly didn’t end in the same like that.

After a few drinks, I noticed a group of people turn up at the bar. As always, I had a good look to check out if there were any cute guys amongst them. Unexpectedly, I locked eyes with one of them, and it took me a good few seconds to realise why… It was Mr. P.L. He acknowledged me with a nod and walked past me to the bar. I immediately knew my fairly subdued night out with Mr. Y.C. would be turned on its head. And it was.

I tried to ignore the fact that Mr. P.L. was in the bar, but he made it pretty difficult. Every time I looked away from Mr. Y.C., Mr. P.L. was directly in my eye line. It annoyed me beyond belief. I was so fed up of pretending not to see him, I strode over and asked him what, exactly, his problem was. As always, with Mr. P.L., there wasn’t a normal response. At first he looked at me and smiled, which only infuriated me further. I asked him the question again and he proceeded to tell me to “fuck off”. Eugh. It was his standard response to everything.

Now I was angry. I’m a little hazy about what actually happened, but I think I must have grabbed his arm and given him an earful. Ordinarily, I’d have walked away from a guy at this stage but, no, I just couldn’t let it go. That’s definitely his influence on me. Instead, and I’m not a 100% sure how it happened, I scratched Mr. P.L.’s face. Oh, he was not happy. In fact, he was maaaad! First, he tried telling the bouncers to throw me out but they were having none of it, as I was a regular and they knew me well.

When the bouncers refused to throw me out, Mr. P.L. threatened to call the police, exclaiming to the bouncer that I’d abused him. As much as I’d have liked to have called Mr. P.L.’s bluff, I knew he was mental enough to call the police, even if it did result in the pair of us being thrown in the clink, so I took the opportunity to make my way home.

When I reached my building, I thought I’d text Mr. P.L.. Not to apologise. Not to demand an apology. Nope. I text him to tell him I knew he wanted me. I’m not sure what possessed me or how I could even think it was a remotely good idea, I just did it. His response? “Come”. It was already 3.30am, but I decided I’d make the ten minute walk to his apartment.

When I arrived, I rang the doorbell but he didn’t answer. I knocked. Still no answer. So, I thought I’d see if he was one of these people who left his front door open. Bingo! I let myself in. He wasn’t there, so I thought I’d have a cigarette on his balcony. I really should have just gone home, but sense seemed to escape me.

Mr. P.L. returned, and before I could put my cigarette out and turn around, he had me pinned up against the wall. This resulted in a fairly offensive fag burn on my finger, which is still lingering five weeks later. But I was drunk and taken aback (not sure why) by Mr. P.L.’s force that I barely noticed it until the next morning.

We kissed, we fought and we stripped. It was just as rough as it had been on New Year’s, if not more so. Our conversations were filthy, bordering on pornographic, and our inhibitions were non-existent. Mr. P.L. told me how he wanted me to turn up at his place the next day in nothing but a coat. That request stayed in my mind. I told him I’d planned to do that after our last encounter, but he was a dick and didn’t deserve it.

The sex itself was good, but Mr. P.L. can’t judge the fine line between pleasure and pain. I’m not sure if he pushed it to make me fight back, because every time he hurt me, I’d go wild and attack him, something he obviously enjoyed. He also asked me why I’d slept with one of his good friends, which I refused to answer. Mr. P.L. also took great pleasure in telling me how lucky I was to have him sleep with me. Apparently he’s a very desirable man, a statement I couldn’t take seriously.

I woke up the next morning to snoring that sounded as though it belonged on a farm. It was 7am, so I tip-toed out of Mr. P.L.’s apartment, hearing still intact, and hot-footed it home to get ready for work. It wasn’t until later in the day that I noticed the fingerprint bruises on my arm. My colleagues enquired what had happened to me, joking they could find out who’d done it by taking scans of said fingerprints. They were very prominent. But it wasn’t only my arms that were bruised – my hips, breasts and legs all bore the brunt of my encounter with Mr. P.L.. There was no way I’d be putting a bikini on that weekend.

The following two weeks there was a little bit of banter over text message between Mr. P.L. and I, until one night, I took it too far. That’s right, I’m the one who acted like a nutter. I was in the mood to get laid, and with nobody else on the scene at the time, I thought it appropriate to try and hook up with Mr. P.L.. I text him to find out where he was, but I didn’t get a response. Remembering his little speech about how he wanted me to turn up at his door, I proceeded to tell him I was going to come over anyway. And so I did.

It was 1am and I was intoxicated. Yet again. I rang the bell, to which there was no answer, so I rang again. And again. And again. I knocked. I tried calling. I generally acted like a psychotic desperado. Maybe I am… Mr. P.L. didn’t respond to me, which only infuriated me even more (it’s becoming a pattern). I text him telling him I was happy to sit outside his door all night and ring the bell. Ok, it was a complete lie, I was embarrassed being out there for five minutes, but I thought it might encourage him to open the door. It didn’t.

I continued to text him, but this time I was angry. I insulted him, told him he'd picked the wrong girl and then explained that I’d screwed one of his best friends two months earlier because he was better him. I can’t imagine why I thought that was a good idea, but it seemed so at the time. Then, I told him to look out for the blog. I knew he’d hate that, as my last post about him was the reason we hated each other in the first place. Thirty (yes, THIRTY) minutes later, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be getting laid that night, and so I made my way home.

The next morning, I received a text from Mr. P.L. telling me I was insane and not to contact him again. I had to laugh. Here was a mental guy calling me insane. I’d have been incredibly embarrassed at my previous night’s behaviour had I actually liked Mr. P.L. Truth is, I don’t. In fact, I despise him. He was just a temporary distraction from the guy I do actually want to be with - J. I also knew my behaviour was completely out of character, and I would never have done it had he not requested it!

Needless to say, I’ve not spoken to Mr. P.L. since. When you’re called insane by someone far more mental than yourself, you know it’s time to reign it in. Although, after a few drinks, my sanity may well go out of the window again…