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…
Showing posts with label drinks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drinks. Show all posts
Friday, 13 May 2011
Friday, 8 April 2011
Mysterious Man - Part One
One warm, sunny day in March, some of the world's top DJs descended upon a beach in Dubai. It was set to be a fabulous night at an amazing location, and so many groups of friends gathered at the beach to drink heavily, dance like they'd never danced before and have a whale of a time.
My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.
Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.
Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.
Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.
Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.
As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.
Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.
It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.
When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.
Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.
Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...
My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.
Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.
Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.
Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.
Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.
As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.
Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.
It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.
When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.
Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.
Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...
Monday, 21 February 2011
Gone with the Bullfrog
If you want to know how to fuck something up before it begins, make sure you come to me, as I'm a pro. I’m like an emotional bulldozer, knocking down any feelings that are still standing. Yep, I bulldozed my way through anything that might have been with Mr.W.S and I feel like shit.
The other day, I had a little chat on the phone with Mr.W.S, and I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he was doing that evening. He told me he was going for dinner with friends so, when I mentioned I’d be in our favourite bar, he said he might see me in there around midnight. Of course I was looking forward to it, I love being around him and I enjoy my nights out so much more when he’s there.
That evening, at the bar, my friends and I were knocking back the free bullfrogs. It was the perfect pastime whilst waiting to see Mr.W.S. In fact I was having such a blast that when I looked at my phone, it was already half past midnight. I did a quick scout around the bar to see if he had already arrived, but when I didn’t see him, I thought I’d give him a call to tell him to hurry up.
Back in the bar, my friend had slipped off home but I decided to hang out and wait for Mr.W.S to turn up... He didn’t. I think it was then it dawned on me that he just wasn’t interested. And so I burst into tears. There I was, in the middle of the bar, alone and bawling my eyes out. The only comfort I had was being offered tissues from drunk strangers.
Mascara running down my face, I text Mr.W.S. Having read the messages back, they didn’t really make much sense, nor did they really portray how I felt. At all. I remember being so drunk, I was struggling to send text messages, so I called him instead. I really don’t remember what I said, I just remember crying uncontrollably and wanting to see him. I also recall thinking he must think I’m crazy. I’m not.
The only other part of the conversation I have a vague recollection of is him telling me to get in a taxi and then my phone battery dying. I sobbed all the way home. I felt so needy that I decided the only way to stop that would be to distance myself from Mr W.S. So, when I got home, I hit the delete button next to his name on Facebook. I didn’t want to but, in my drunken stupor, I thought it’d be for the best – for me and for him.
The next morning, not only did I wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I also looked a complete wreck and felt incredibly embarrassed. As soon as I opened my eyes, I turned on my Mac and typed his name into Facebook. I cringed when his wall didn’t appear. I wanted to kick myself. Great, now not only does he think I’m a complete lunatic, he probably also thinks I hate him. Fabulous. Just the scenario you want to be faced with on a Monday morning.
I stewed over it all day and wondered whether I should call or text him, but I couldn't imagine he’d want to hear from me. I’d been a massive twat and I was pretty certain there was no way of redeeming myself.
Luckily for me, Mr W.S called me that evening. And whilst I was completely mortified, I was so relieved that he didn't think I was a total idiot. Even if I do think so.
But, as always with me, I never receive good news without some bad news... Yep, he finally told me he's just not that into me. So, yes, some of you can now say "I told you so" and feel all smug that I've, once again, been flung onto the rejected pile. However, I'm cool with it. The way I see it is that I don't want to be with someone who isn't into me any more than I'd want to be with Frank Gallagher. So, as Rhett Butler once said, "frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn".
The other day, I had a little chat on the phone with Mr.W.S, and I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he was doing that evening. He told me he was going for dinner with friends so, when I mentioned I’d be in our favourite bar, he said he might see me in there around midnight. Of course I was looking forward to it, I love being around him and I enjoy my nights out so much more when he’s there.
That evening, at the bar, my friends and I were knocking back the free bullfrogs. It was the perfect pastime whilst waiting to see Mr.W.S. In fact I was having such a blast that when I looked at my phone, it was already half past midnight. I did a quick scout around the bar to see if he had already arrived, but when I didn’t see him, I thought I’d give him a call to tell him to hurry up.
Back in the bar, my friend had slipped off home but I decided to hang out and wait for Mr.W.S to turn up... He didn’t. I think it was then it dawned on me that he just wasn’t interested. And so I burst into tears. There I was, in the middle of the bar, alone and bawling my eyes out. The only comfort I had was being offered tissues from drunk strangers.
Mascara running down my face, I text Mr.W.S. Having read the messages back, they didn’t really make much sense, nor did they really portray how I felt. At all. I remember being so drunk, I was struggling to send text messages, so I called him instead. I really don’t remember what I said, I just remember crying uncontrollably and wanting to see him. I also recall thinking he must think I’m crazy. I’m not.
The only other part of the conversation I have a vague recollection of is him telling me to get in a taxi and then my phone battery dying. I sobbed all the way home. I felt so needy that I decided the only way to stop that would be to distance myself from Mr W.S. So, when I got home, I hit the delete button next to his name on Facebook. I didn’t want to but, in my drunken stupor, I thought it’d be for the best – for me and for him.
The next morning, not only did I wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I also looked a complete wreck and felt incredibly embarrassed. As soon as I opened my eyes, I turned on my Mac and typed his name into Facebook. I cringed when his wall didn’t appear. I wanted to kick myself. Great, now not only does he think I’m a complete lunatic, he probably also thinks I hate him. Fabulous. Just the scenario you want to be faced with on a Monday morning.
I stewed over it all day and wondered whether I should call or text him, but I couldn't imagine he’d want to hear from me. I’d been a massive twat and I was pretty certain there was no way of redeeming myself.
Luckily for me, Mr W.S called me that evening. And whilst I was completely mortified, I was so relieved that he didn't think I was a total idiot. Even if I do think so.
But, as always with me, I never receive good news without some bad news... Yep, he finally told me he's just not that into me. So, yes, some of you can now say "I told you so" and feel all smug that I've, once again, been flung onto the rejected pile. However, I'm cool with it. The way I see it is that I don't want to be with someone who isn't into me any more than I'd want to be with Frank Gallagher. So, as Rhett Butler once said, "frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn".
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Drink Dating
Alcohol: the maker and breaker of my entire love-life. Since J walked out of my life, I depend on the stuff to have my animal urges satisfied. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I hooked up with a guy for the first time without being, at least a little bit, tipsy. It’s like some kind of confidence-boost potion that brings out my don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.
There’s very little chance I’d come onto a guy if I’m not intoxicated; quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. But a little bit of Dutch courage and I’m unstoppable. And if I’ve had a big night, I’ve been known to make some very daring and, what some might call, stupid decisions. I enjoy the feel good factor that comes with drinking, which is why most of us enjoy a drink from time to time I suppose, but I’m also becoming more and more concerned that I only get lucky when I’m wasted.
I’m by no means a wall flower when I’m sober, so why is it that I can’t approach a guy I’m interested in without a couple of drinks? Has society shaped me into being a twenty-something binge drinker or am I the only one that suffers from this dependency? Don’t get me wrong, I can go without booze for a fair amount of time but, when I’m off the wagon, I quite often take it too far. Perhaps I try too hard to keep up my party girl image… Health issues, puking in my handbag and stumbling around in 5 inch stilettos aside (although I am much better at managing the heels these days), binge drinking is a personality disorder in many ways, yet most of us are guilty of it.
Who hasn’t been drunk and thought it was a good idea to bed their friend or colleague? And why do TV programmes promote it? In the TV show Friends, Monica was drunk when she and Chandler first got together, something which she wouldn’t have done had she been sober. Ok, their story (yes, I’m aware it’s fictional) ended up being a happy one but, in reality, how many of us end up living happily ever after with our drunken one night stand? My guess is very few.
Instead, I suppose most of us have ended up in messy situations – waking up the next morning, realising you’re naked and the man next to you is your best friend’s boyfriend or your boss. Then comes that sinking stomach feeling and you wrack your brains trying to figure how the hell you’re going to get out of the situation. You pray that nobody saw you go home together and that the other person won’t mention it to anyone else. It’s embarrassing, it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever. So why do we do it? Personally, I think I crave the risk, the secrecy and the drama. At least that’s the only explanation I really have, otherwise it’s just crazy, irrational behaviour.
Maybe it’s just the way we roll in Dubai. After all, in London, I could go internet dating, saving me from being publicly humiliated when rejected. Yes, I definitely have a fear of rejection; who doesn’t? I guess when I’m drunk I can laugh off being rejected or proceed to throw insults at the guy in question and then cringe about it the next day, blaming it on the booze. And that’s exactly what alcohol has become – a barrier, a safety net, protecting my feelings.
I’m worried what all of this says about my personality. I also worry that one day I’m going to end up doing something I shouldn’t and hurting people around me, which I really, really don’t want to do. It’s bad enough waking up with a hangover, let alone waking up with a hangover and guilt. But how do I get out of this vicious cycle? Or am I just over-analysing something that’s a bit of fun? Something tells me this could be a case for a shrink…
There’s very little chance I’d come onto a guy if I’m not intoxicated; quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. But a little bit of Dutch courage and I’m unstoppable. And if I’ve had a big night, I’ve been known to make some very daring and, what some might call, stupid decisions. I enjoy the feel good factor that comes with drinking, which is why most of us enjoy a drink from time to time I suppose, but I’m also becoming more and more concerned that I only get lucky when I’m wasted.
I’m by no means a wall flower when I’m sober, so why is it that I can’t approach a guy I’m interested in without a couple of drinks? Has society shaped me into being a twenty-something binge drinker or am I the only one that suffers from this dependency? Don’t get me wrong, I can go without booze for a fair amount of time but, when I’m off the wagon, I quite often take it too far. Perhaps I try too hard to keep up my party girl image… Health issues, puking in my handbag and stumbling around in 5 inch stilettos aside (although I am much better at managing the heels these days), binge drinking is a personality disorder in many ways, yet most of us are guilty of it.
Who hasn’t been drunk and thought it was a good idea to bed their friend or colleague? And why do TV programmes promote it? In the TV show Friends, Monica was drunk when she and Chandler first got together, something which she wouldn’t have done had she been sober. Ok, their story (yes, I’m aware it’s fictional) ended up being a happy one but, in reality, how many of us end up living happily ever after with our drunken one night stand? My guess is very few.
Instead, I suppose most of us have ended up in messy situations – waking up the next morning, realising you’re naked and the man next to you is your best friend’s boyfriend or your boss. Then comes that sinking stomach feeling and you wrack your brains trying to figure how the hell you’re going to get out of the situation. You pray that nobody saw you go home together and that the other person won’t mention it to anyone else. It’s embarrassing, it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever. So why do we do it? Personally, I think I crave the risk, the secrecy and the drama. At least that’s the only explanation I really have, otherwise it’s just crazy, irrational behaviour.
Maybe it’s just the way we roll in Dubai. After all, in London, I could go internet dating, saving me from being publicly humiliated when rejected. Yes, I definitely have a fear of rejection; who doesn’t? I guess when I’m drunk I can laugh off being rejected or proceed to throw insults at the guy in question and then cringe about it the next day, blaming it on the booze. And that’s exactly what alcohol has become – a barrier, a safety net, protecting my feelings.
I’m worried what all of this says about my personality. I also worry that one day I’m going to end up doing something I shouldn’t and hurting people around me, which I really, really don’t want to do. It’s bad enough waking up with a hangover, let alone waking up with a hangover and guilt. But how do I get out of this vicious cycle? Or am I just over-analysing something that’s a bit of fun? Something tells me this could be a case for a shrink…
Saturday, 1 January 2011
Festive Flirting
The festive period - dreaded by all singletons. Let's face it, it's a time for smug couples to thrust their public displays of affection in your face. It's also an excuse for retailers to remind you how imperfect your life is, with countless adverts of loved-up couples, grinning inanely next to the Christmas tree, exchanging gifts. It all makes me want to gauge my eyes out, and it's even more difficult to stomach when you're so far away from your best friends and family. To be honest, I'm surprised I survived this year.
I usually make it through the season by surrounding myself with my single friends, using "it's Christmas" as an excuse to binge drink and partying until all hours. This year was a bit different; with barely any single friends in town and having been struck down with a nasty case of flu, Christmas was, in a word, shite. Christmas eve was spent in bed, reading everyone's festive facebook updates whilst trying to cuddle a kitten who couldn't wait to escape my embrace. Christmas day was spent coughing and spluttering, at the other end of the table from my friends, whilst staring longingly at my Christmas dinner, which I couldn't stomach eating. That left New Year's Eve as my only festive saving grace...
A White Party, on the rooftop of a Dubai hotel, with the Big Sis and some other media luvvies saw me bringing in 2011. After a shocking 2010 in terms of my love-life, I wasn't really expecting to get so much as a midnight peck, but if my New Year's Day is anything to go by, that all looks set to change...
As most of my friends know, I love a bit of flirtatious banter; I'm sure it releases all sorts of feel-good endorphins. So what started as some harmless flirtation with Mr. PL, turned out to be some harmful fun. The good kind.
It was all a bit aggressive, but oh so hot. I can be feisty, but Mr. PL definitely brought out my more mental side, which was really very liberating. He annoyed me, but in a I-want-to-rip-your clothes-off way. And so I did.
There was something about Mr. PL that was incredibly intriguing. I'm not sure if it was his lack of charm, his almost-mental state of mind or his ability to handle my feistiness. Whatever it was, after scratching the surface, it was evident Mr. PL was quite an interesting character. I love being in the company of anyone who's well travelled, which he most definitely was. And to then see a bookshelf in his apartment, stacked with books I'd love to get stuck into, well, it turned me on.
In the bedroom, Mr. PL hit the spot. Three times to be exact. And after barely any passion all year, it was gratefully received. He totally took control and whispered obscenities into my ear. It was quite erotic, and he definitely left his mark; bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over my arms. In return, he was left with scratch marks.
Mr. PL did give me his business card, albeit ripped in half. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it yet; I think a business card is a little impersonal when you've just been intimate with someone, although for some reason, on some level, I do feel compelled to know more.
Whatever does or doesn't happen, I'm hoping 2011 goes on as it started...
Happy New Year!
I usually make it through the season by surrounding myself with my single friends, using "it's Christmas" as an excuse to binge drink and partying until all hours. This year was a bit different; with barely any single friends in town and having been struck down with a nasty case of flu, Christmas was, in a word, shite. Christmas eve was spent in bed, reading everyone's festive facebook updates whilst trying to cuddle a kitten who couldn't wait to escape my embrace. Christmas day was spent coughing and spluttering, at the other end of the table from my friends, whilst staring longingly at my Christmas dinner, which I couldn't stomach eating. That left New Year's Eve as my only festive saving grace...
A White Party, on the rooftop of a Dubai hotel, with the Big Sis and some other media luvvies saw me bringing in 2011. After a shocking 2010 in terms of my love-life, I wasn't really expecting to get so much as a midnight peck, but if my New Year's Day is anything to go by, that all looks set to change...
As most of my friends know, I love a bit of flirtatious banter; I'm sure it releases all sorts of feel-good endorphins. So what started as some harmless flirtation with Mr. PL, turned out to be some harmful fun. The good kind.
It was all a bit aggressive, but oh so hot. I can be feisty, but Mr. PL definitely brought out my more mental side, which was really very liberating. He annoyed me, but in a I-want-to-rip-your clothes-off way. And so I did.
There was something about Mr. PL that was incredibly intriguing. I'm not sure if it was his lack of charm, his almost-mental state of mind or his ability to handle my feistiness. Whatever it was, after scratching the surface, it was evident Mr. PL was quite an interesting character. I love being in the company of anyone who's well travelled, which he most definitely was. And to then see a bookshelf in his apartment, stacked with books I'd love to get stuck into, well, it turned me on.
In the bedroom, Mr. PL hit the spot. Three times to be exact. And after barely any passion all year, it was gratefully received. He totally took control and whispered obscenities into my ear. It was quite erotic, and he definitely left his mark; bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over my arms. In return, he was left with scratch marks.
Mr. PL did give me his business card, albeit ripped in half. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it yet; I think a business card is a little impersonal when you've just been intimate with someone, although for some reason, on some level, I do feel compelled to know more.
Whatever does or doesn't happen, I'm hoping 2011 goes on as it started...
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Single Satisfaction
Despite the announcement of several engagements and pregnancies this year, I still have a number of fabulous, single girlfriends. They’re the kind of girls that are probably a bit too comfortable being single – independent and strong-minded. Saying that, every girl loves a bit of attention, doesn’t she?
So, amidst all the uncertainty surrounding Mr. A.P, I decided to host a singles dinner. The concept was simple – invite all my single girlfriends in Dubai to dinner, get each one of them to bring a single guy friend, meet at a restaurant with a set price all-you-can-eat-and-drink and let carnage ensue. I was hoping the night might appease some of my single girlfriends’ appetites… In the run up to the dinner, some of my girlfriends moaned how they knew of no eligible bachelors to bring. At first I couldn’t believe that such intelligent, gorgeous and outgoing women didn’t know any eligible men but then I realized that I’d have struggled if my only option hadn’t said yes. Were Dubai’s men really that bad?
There was no need to worry in the end, as like true troopers, they pulled it out of the bag. Although, admittedly, a couple of them had scraped the barrell! But as it was a pilot run, we’ll gloss over that on this occasion.
On the night, eight girls and eight guys turned up at the bar for pre-dinner drinks, in hope of finding their Romeo or Juliet. It was an optimistic thought, but everyone was so curious about how the night would turn out, it didn’t matter. But, as the hostess, there were moments where I felt a little awkward and wished I’d planned it better.
Dinner went well, and people automatically adopted the boy-girl-boy-girl seating plan, which saved us all from the embarrassment of having place-cards that I’d not made! Everyone chatted amongst themselves and there were no issues with the bill, which was an absolute God-send.
Some people dwindled off home but those who wanted to continue the party went on to one of Dubai’s swanky cocktail bars. I left everyone to their own devices and chatted to the eligible bachelor I’d brought along… S.
After a few too many Cosmopolitans, I talked at him about the Mr. A.P situation. Yes, I know… again! He listened though, and he didn’t complain, which was very sweet. In the end, after God knows how long I’d been rambling on about it for, S said he had to go. We hugged goodnight, but it was one of those hugs that went on for just a little bit longer than it should have. Next thing I knew, we were kissing.
At that moment in time, all sorts of things went through my mind - namely visions of bare skin and bed sheets. The visions didn’t materialise, and I can honestly say I’m glad they didn’t. It would have been way too easy. This story has been dragged out for over two years, if it’s going to be done at all; it’s going to be done well.
You know what, here I am; two guys I know I shouldn’t be attracted to, both of whom are telling me they don’t want it, yet things just keep on happening. Could it be that I’m actually enjoying playing this game? Could it be that I don’t want them either? I know they’re both emotionally unavailable, so why would I keep going there unless I’m emotionally unavailable too?
Am I pressured by friends and family into feeling that I want a relationship when really I don’t want one at all? Do I want to conform to society’s expectations of finding a man with whom I should have a monogamous relationship with, or do I want to rebel…?
I know the answer; it’s you that needs to work it out.
So, amidst all the uncertainty surrounding Mr. A.P, I decided to host a singles dinner. The concept was simple – invite all my single girlfriends in Dubai to dinner, get each one of them to bring a single guy friend, meet at a restaurant with a set price all-you-can-eat-and-drink and let carnage ensue. I was hoping the night might appease some of my single girlfriends’ appetites… In the run up to the dinner, some of my girlfriends moaned how they knew of no eligible bachelors to bring. At first I couldn’t believe that such intelligent, gorgeous and outgoing women didn’t know any eligible men but then I realized that I’d have struggled if my only option hadn’t said yes. Were Dubai’s men really that bad?
There was no need to worry in the end, as like true troopers, they pulled it out of the bag. Although, admittedly, a couple of them had scraped the barrell! But as it was a pilot run, we’ll gloss over that on this occasion.
On the night, eight girls and eight guys turned up at the bar for pre-dinner drinks, in hope of finding their Romeo or Juliet. It was an optimistic thought, but everyone was so curious about how the night would turn out, it didn’t matter. But, as the hostess, there were moments where I felt a little awkward and wished I’d planned it better.
Dinner went well, and people automatically adopted the boy-girl-boy-girl seating plan, which saved us all from the embarrassment of having place-cards that I’d not made! Everyone chatted amongst themselves and there were no issues with the bill, which was an absolute God-send.
Some people dwindled off home but those who wanted to continue the party went on to one of Dubai’s swanky cocktail bars. I left everyone to their own devices and chatted to the eligible bachelor I’d brought along… S.
After a few too many Cosmopolitans, I talked at him about the Mr. A.P situation. Yes, I know… again! He listened though, and he didn’t complain, which was very sweet. In the end, after God knows how long I’d been rambling on about it for, S said he had to go. We hugged goodnight, but it was one of those hugs that went on for just a little bit longer than it should have. Next thing I knew, we were kissing.
At that moment in time, all sorts of things went through my mind - namely visions of bare skin and bed sheets. The visions didn’t materialise, and I can honestly say I’m glad they didn’t. It would have been way too easy. This story has been dragged out for over two years, if it’s going to be done at all; it’s going to be done well.
You know what, here I am; two guys I know I shouldn’t be attracted to, both of whom are telling me they don’t want it, yet things just keep on happening. Could it be that I’m actually enjoying playing this game? Could it be that I don’t want them either? I know they’re both emotionally unavailable, so why would I keep going there unless I’m emotionally unavailable too?
Am I pressured by friends and family into feeling that I want a relationship when really I don’t want one at all? Do I want to conform to society’s expectations of finding a man with whom I should have a monogamous relationship with, or do I want to rebel…?
I know the answer; it’s you that needs to work it out.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Stick, twist or bust?
Let it be known that, when it comes to dating, I am a complete masochist. I continually torment myself by trying to work out if a guy I’m into is into me, and if he is will anything ever happen between us. I’m a total glutton for punishment.
To be frank, I think underneath all the agonising, I secretly enjoy the drama of it all. I love waiting and watching it all unfold. Every touch, every kiss… it’s like I’ve been blindfolded and my senses have been heightened. Everything that happens is magnified a hundred times because I’m just so eager to know. To know if he likes me the way I like him. To know if he desires me the way I desire him…
The other night, all those feelings reached fever pitch and I was running on a high. After not having seen Mr A.P for two weeks, I so desperately needed a fix. So when I received an invite round to his new place, I knew I had to take it.
To be honest, I was surprised to receive the invitation in the first place. Only a day or two earlier Little Miss LC had mentioned that Mr. A.P had never made the effort to make any plans with me, and that it was a bit pathetic should he actually like me. She was right, and I almost resigned myself to the fact that it just wasn’t happening. But lo and behold, as if he’d heard our conversation, up pops the invitation to his new pad.
After my previous blog about what constitutes a date, I wondered if this was one. I needed to check and so posed the question to a few of my male friends, most of whom confirmed that it was, indeed, a date. You can imagine my delight. I’d been waiting for this for almost four months and the moment had finally arrived!
Over the few days leading up to the date, some of my friends tried to bring me down to Earth by telling me it wasn’t a date, and that there may be other people there. For a moment, I considered not going. But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was a date. After so many texts between myself and Mr. A.P over the past couple of months, I knew well enough that, if it wasn’t a one-on-one, he’d have made reference to inviting other people.
Sure enough, when I arrived at Mr. A.P’s place, it was just me and him. As we sat by the pool, listening to music, drinking wine and having one of our conversations where time stands still, I wondered how the evening would go. Would we both be too chicken-shit to make a move? Would he spurn my advances? Or would we end up in a state of romantic ecstasy?
As the evening progressed, our inhibitions dwindled (thank you alcohol)! I laid my cards on the table. I told Mr. A.P I liked him. I didn’t need to say anymore, he knew exactly what I meant. I braced myself for the inevitable let down but it never came. Instead, he took me by surprise and told me he liked me too.
That was it. Now I knew. I didn’t need to analyse anything anymore, I’d heard it from the horse’s mouth and that was all I needed. I didn’t need to ask anyone for their opinion and I didn’t need to work out what happened that night. It was black and white. There were still hurdles but, esentially, there’s a mutual attraction.
We moved from the patio table to the pool, and I think we both knew what would happen at that point. The playful splashing led to dunking, the dunking led to kissing, the kissing led to… well, I'll leave that to your imagination. It was perfect. Eveything I hoped it would be and more.
Ahh, the kissing. So soft yet still so passionate. They're all consuming and take me far away, out of this world. Picture this; in the pool, my legs are around his waist, his hands on my back and neck, I cup his face and run my fingers through his hair whilst the water lapped around us. It felt like I was in a movie scene but better – it was real.
When we woke up the next morning, we snuggled skin-on-skin. On a regular day, I stress about making it to the office on time but, that day, I couldn’t have cared less. I was so content I could have easily stayed there, in his arms, all day. I can’t put how I felt into words, no words would do it justice.
As the day went on, my state of bliss subsided. I think my friends were so used to giving me their opinions, that I didn’t even need to ask them this time round. Thing is, on this occasion, I didn’t want to hear any opinions. I don’t care if I’m going to get hurt. I don’t care if he’s only after what he can get. I just don’t care about any of that. Let me momentarily bask in this state of bliss. Let me reap all the feel-good factors before you bring me down. Let me fantasise about what could be, lose myself in the reverie, drift ethereally…
Back to reality and I do have to question Mr A.P’s motives. He may well like me, but if he doesn’t know what he wants i.e. me, then I’m not sure I can wait to find out. At the moment, he’s in a win-win situation as I’ve not been the primary reason for our meetings. Aside, perhaps, from the last one. I, on the other hand, am pining after him. Every time I see him or someone mentions his name I get butterflies in my stomach.
So, do I suck it up and wait? Do I make an effort to see him again one-on-one? Do I knock it on the head? Or do I bang my head against a brick wall?
Answers are appreciated but please be gentle.
To be frank, I think underneath all the agonising, I secretly enjoy the drama of it all. I love waiting and watching it all unfold. Every touch, every kiss… it’s like I’ve been blindfolded and my senses have been heightened. Everything that happens is magnified a hundred times because I’m just so eager to know. To know if he likes me the way I like him. To know if he desires me the way I desire him…
The other night, all those feelings reached fever pitch and I was running on a high. After not having seen Mr A.P for two weeks, I so desperately needed a fix. So when I received an invite round to his new place, I knew I had to take it.
To be honest, I was surprised to receive the invitation in the first place. Only a day or two earlier Little Miss LC had mentioned that Mr. A.P had never made the effort to make any plans with me, and that it was a bit pathetic should he actually like me. She was right, and I almost resigned myself to the fact that it just wasn’t happening. But lo and behold, as if he’d heard our conversation, up pops the invitation to his new pad.
After my previous blog about what constitutes a date, I wondered if this was one. I needed to check and so posed the question to a few of my male friends, most of whom confirmed that it was, indeed, a date. You can imagine my delight. I’d been waiting for this for almost four months and the moment had finally arrived!
Over the few days leading up to the date, some of my friends tried to bring me down to Earth by telling me it wasn’t a date, and that there may be other people there. For a moment, I considered not going. But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was a date. After so many texts between myself and Mr. A.P over the past couple of months, I knew well enough that, if it wasn’t a one-on-one, he’d have made reference to inviting other people.
Sure enough, when I arrived at Mr. A.P’s place, it was just me and him. As we sat by the pool, listening to music, drinking wine and having one of our conversations where time stands still, I wondered how the evening would go. Would we both be too chicken-shit to make a move? Would he spurn my advances? Or would we end up in a state of romantic ecstasy?
As the evening progressed, our inhibitions dwindled (thank you alcohol)! I laid my cards on the table. I told Mr. A.P I liked him. I didn’t need to say anymore, he knew exactly what I meant. I braced myself for the inevitable let down but it never came. Instead, he took me by surprise and told me he liked me too.
That was it. Now I knew. I didn’t need to analyse anything anymore, I’d heard it from the horse’s mouth and that was all I needed. I didn’t need to ask anyone for their opinion and I didn’t need to work out what happened that night. It was black and white. There were still hurdles but, esentially, there’s a mutual attraction.
We moved from the patio table to the pool, and I think we both knew what would happen at that point. The playful splashing led to dunking, the dunking led to kissing, the kissing led to… well, I'll leave that to your imagination. It was perfect. Eveything I hoped it would be and more.
Ahh, the kissing. So soft yet still so passionate. They're all consuming and take me far away, out of this world. Picture this; in the pool, my legs are around his waist, his hands on my back and neck, I cup his face and run my fingers through his hair whilst the water lapped around us. It felt like I was in a movie scene but better – it was real.
When we woke up the next morning, we snuggled skin-on-skin. On a regular day, I stress about making it to the office on time but, that day, I couldn’t have cared less. I was so content I could have easily stayed there, in his arms, all day. I can’t put how I felt into words, no words would do it justice.
As the day went on, my state of bliss subsided. I think my friends were so used to giving me their opinions, that I didn’t even need to ask them this time round. Thing is, on this occasion, I didn’t want to hear any opinions. I don’t care if I’m going to get hurt. I don’t care if he’s only after what he can get. I just don’t care about any of that. Let me momentarily bask in this state of bliss. Let me reap all the feel-good factors before you bring me down. Let me fantasise about what could be, lose myself in the reverie, drift ethereally…
Back to reality and I do have to question Mr A.P’s motives. He may well like me, but if he doesn’t know what he wants i.e. me, then I’m not sure I can wait to find out. At the moment, he’s in a win-win situation as I’ve not been the primary reason for our meetings. Aside, perhaps, from the last one. I, on the other hand, am pining after him. Every time I see him or someone mentions his name I get butterflies in my stomach.
So, do I suck it up and wait? Do I make an effort to see him again one-on-one? Do I knock it on the head? Or do I bang my head against a brick wall?
Answers are appreciated but please be gentle.
Monday, 28 September 2009
Can't cook or won't cook?
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I know this to be true having witnessed this from an early age. Watching my mother slave away in the kitchen to appease the hunger pangs of my father, brother and I. There are very few occasions I can recollect where my father had left food on his plate. In fact, the most vivid memories I have of family meals consist of jars of pickled onions, mango chutney and green peppers taking up the table, and my father’s dinner plate strewn with olive pips. Homer Simpson springs to mind.
I also recall my mother painstakingly preparing dinner for a number of guests my dad had invited to our home. As an Arab, my mother would never be satisfied with just serving a simple dish. There would be salads and dips, followed by meat and then a sweet she had baked. All this activity would take place whilst my father was in the living room entertaining guests, smugly knowing they were about to be blown away by the food on offer.
Perhaps naively, I wanted to recreate the satisfaction that I remember from my parents’ dinner parties, however I was so unprepared for the amount of effort it would take…
With Ramadan in full swing and dinner parties seemingly the new going out, I invited a few friends over for a casual dinner party. I only intended on inviting around six people (the capacity of my dining table) but this soon became nine, ten, eleven and then twelve. Yep, I’d set myself the mammoth task of cooking for twelve! Not something I’d seen my mother, whom I consider a culinary genius, do! As the big day edged closer, I found beads of sweat forming at my temples every time I thought about it.
Shopping for the ingredients was a chore in itself – why is it next to impossible to find Ricotta cheese in this city?! What hadn’t crossed my mind is where I was planning to seat everyone. With only a small dining table for six, I soon realised I better purchase a fold out table and some extra chairs.
As I struggled through the aisles of Carrefour, bumping into children on trainers with wheels, clinging to the fold out table I was about to purchase whilst pushing a trolley with three fold out chairs hanging from my forearm, I prayed hosting this dinner party would be worth it. I mean, could I really pull this off? I can barely cook for myself, let alone twelve people! Or is it that I won’t cook for myself?
I watched as the Filipino checkout lady swiped the barcodes of my purchases. The end result was a bit of a shocker, something my plastic credit card was definitely not expecting, but I perservered.
Luckily I’d bagged myself a parking spot close to the mall entrance, so the trolley journey to my car would be to painful. I loaded my car with the goods, leaving the table until last… To my horror, it wouldn’t fit in my car! I turned the table around, attempted to take the roof of my car down, stripped the table of it’s packaging, making it vulnerable to scratches and scrapes. Nothing worked. I pushed and pulled and after 20 minutes of struggling, finally managed to wedge the beast in. I was sweating. It felt like I’d just wrestled with a grizzly bear in the 45 degree heat and 80% humidity, only then to go home and slave away over a hot stove for two hours!
Despite the odd setback, I actually enjoyed preparing for my dinner party and found that I have a talent for baking cakes. Perfect wife material. I was in the kitchen until 2am, having completely forgotten to eat myself. I opened the fridge in the hope of finding a midnight snack to gorge on before bed… Nothing. Nothing but the ingredients for my dinner party. I was tempted to scoff some of the cheese but knew it was too important to sacrifice. And so I went to bed hungry, having fasted all day and knowing I’d be fasting all day the following day. At least I’d appreciate the meal I was cooking!
The day of the dinner party arrived and I rushed home from work to complete my task. All was going well and I was slightly comforted by the fact my flatmate, a former chef, would soon be returning home and could help me out. But before I knew it there was a knock at the door… E and Mr A.P had arrived. Arrrggghh! I looked a mess – lack of make-up, strapless dress with bra straps protruding… not a good look.
I gave them simple instructions on the small tasks left and went to spruce myself up. As my guests trickled through my front door, I began to feel a sense of self-pride. Is this how my mother felt when cooking for my father and his friends? Or was this a deeper satisfaction as I was cooking for people I’d invited?
I’d already laid the table out and decorated the room with candles and so there was nothing left to do except dish up. I hoped that my guests had had enough wine on an empty stomach to not notice any flaws in my lasagne… As we all huddled around the table, I began to wonder what would be said of my attempts at a feast. Would my friends be polite and pat their stomachs as they winced and swallowed another bite? I guess I’ll never really know what they thought, although I think the coffee cake I’d baked went down pretty well.
Is it even the food that matters? I hate to lessen the worth of my mother’s dedication in the kitchen all those years ago, but I can’t help but wonder if it really is just the company that makes or breaks a dinner party. Afterall, I was surrounded by my nearest and dearest and everyone at the dinner table that evening was worth the hours of effort. Or perhaps it’s the entertainment? If that’s the case, I recommend to anyone hosting a dinner party to purchase electrocution games, post it notes and porn!
All in all, the evening was a success and I was up until all hours playing electrocution roulette with the boys whilst they drank… tequila and coke!! I think the reason behind hosting the dinner party was achieved. It was definitely one of those nights I won’t forget. For so many reasons…
I also recall my mother painstakingly preparing dinner for a number of guests my dad had invited to our home. As an Arab, my mother would never be satisfied with just serving a simple dish. There would be salads and dips, followed by meat and then a sweet she had baked. All this activity would take place whilst my father was in the living room entertaining guests, smugly knowing they were about to be blown away by the food on offer.
Perhaps naively, I wanted to recreate the satisfaction that I remember from my parents’ dinner parties, however I was so unprepared for the amount of effort it would take…
With Ramadan in full swing and dinner parties seemingly the new going out, I invited a few friends over for a casual dinner party. I only intended on inviting around six people (the capacity of my dining table) but this soon became nine, ten, eleven and then twelve. Yep, I’d set myself the mammoth task of cooking for twelve! Not something I’d seen my mother, whom I consider a culinary genius, do! As the big day edged closer, I found beads of sweat forming at my temples every time I thought about it.
Shopping for the ingredients was a chore in itself – why is it next to impossible to find Ricotta cheese in this city?! What hadn’t crossed my mind is where I was planning to seat everyone. With only a small dining table for six, I soon realised I better purchase a fold out table and some extra chairs.
As I struggled through the aisles of Carrefour, bumping into children on trainers with wheels, clinging to the fold out table I was about to purchase whilst pushing a trolley with three fold out chairs hanging from my forearm, I prayed hosting this dinner party would be worth it. I mean, could I really pull this off? I can barely cook for myself, let alone twelve people! Or is it that I won’t cook for myself?
I watched as the Filipino checkout lady swiped the barcodes of my purchases. The end result was a bit of a shocker, something my plastic credit card was definitely not expecting, but I perservered.
Luckily I’d bagged myself a parking spot close to the mall entrance, so the trolley journey to my car would be to painful. I loaded my car with the goods, leaving the table until last… To my horror, it wouldn’t fit in my car! I turned the table around, attempted to take the roof of my car down, stripped the table of it’s packaging, making it vulnerable to scratches and scrapes. Nothing worked. I pushed and pulled and after 20 minutes of struggling, finally managed to wedge the beast in. I was sweating. It felt like I’d just wrestled with a grizzly bear in the 45 degree heat and 80% humidity, only then to go home and slave away over a hot stove for two hours!
Despite the odd setback, I actually enjoyed preparing for my dinner party and found that I have a talent for baking cakes. Perfect wife material. I was in the kitchen until 2am, having completely forgotten to eat myself. I opened the fridge in the hope of finding a midnight snack to gorge on before bed… Nothing. Nothing but the ingredients for my dinner party. I was tempted to scoff some of the cheese but knew it was too important to sacrifice. And so I went to bed hungry, having fasted all day and knowing I’d be fasting all day the following day. At least I’d appreciate the meal I was cooking!
The day of the dinner party arrived and I rushed home from work to complete my task. All was going well and I was slightly comforted by the fact my flatmate, a former chef, would soon be returning home and could help me out. But before I knew it there was a knock at the door… E and Mr A.P had arrived. Arrrggghh! I looked a mess – lack of make-up, strapless dress with bra straps protruding… not a good look.
I gave them simple instructions on the small tasks left and went to spruce myself up. As my guests trickled through my front door, I began to feel a sense of self-pride. Is this how my mother felt when cooking for my father and his friends? Or was this a deeper satisfaction as I was cooking for people I’d invited?
I’d already laid the table out and decorated the room with candles and so there was nothing left to do except dish up. I hoped that my guests had had enough wine on an empty stomach to not notice any flaws in my lasagne… As we all huddled around the table, I began to wonder what would be said of my attempts at a feast. Would my friends be polite and pat their stomachs as they winced and swallowed another bite? I guess I’ll never really know what they thought, although I think the coffee cake I’d baked went down pretty well.
Is it even the food that matters? I hate to lessen the worth of my mother’s dedication in the kitchen all those years ago, but I can’t help but wonder if it really is just the company that makes or breaks a dinner party. Afterall, I was surrounded by my nearest and dearest and everyone at the dinner table that evening was worth the hours of effort. Or perhaps it’s the entertainment? If that’s the case, I recommend to anyone hosting a dinner party to purchase electrocution games, post it notes and porn!
All in all, the evening was a success and I was up until all hours playing electrocution roulette with the boys whilst they drank… tequila and coke!! I think the reason behind hosting the dinner party was achieved. It was definitely one of those nights I won’t forget. For so many reasons…
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Waiting for a bus out of Singledom
Men are like buses… you wait around for one for ages and then three come along at the same time. Question is; which one will I ride? What’s the final destination? What happens if I get the wrong bus? How will I know I’ve taken the wrong bus until it’s off course and then it’s too late to change? Is it all about the destination or is it the journey that matters most?
Right now I’m bus-hopping, not quite sure upon which bus I should embark before they pull out of the station. There are delays and sometimes I wonder if the drivers want to switch destinations or, worst of all, create diversions. Or will they just shut the doors and drive on?Such has been my musings of late.
I feel like I’ve been in a waiting room for eternity. I was hoping for a clincher with Mr. A.P the other night, but he didn’t come out with us in the end. Neither did K. And S is still away, prolonging my suspense. So, instead, I drank myself into oblivion. Free drinks really don’t help my situation and I ended up in a karaoke bar, sans mon amies, being possessive over the microphone and puking on my own feet because I missed the target of the toilet basin. Hardly the girl Mr. A.P, K or S would want to be seen with!
Not knowing when to stop, I ended up meeting an old school friend for a drink at the other end of town. Not any drink though. Nope, that’d be silly. I went in all guns blazing and ordered a tiki puka puka. For those of you reading this outside of Dubai, a tiki puka puka is one of the drinks you only order when you want to be found in a pool of your own sick. Unfortunately, I wasn’t found…
I wish I hadn’t drank so much, I’d quite have liked to have had a proper catch up with my old school friend rather than overwhelm her with drunken ramblings! Poor lass. It was still great to see her though. It’s always nice to see someone you haven’t seen for so many years, to see the direction they’ve taken in life even though they pretty much started at the same point as you.
Anyway, after a night of drunken rampaging, I was woken up at 8.45am by my colleague waiting to pick me up to go to work. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!! Pyjamas off, work clothes on, brush teeth and out the door. Luckily, my friend drove so I could put on some make-up in the car but I was so hungover, my face was a blur. I definitely didn’t look my best. Or smell it.
I always thought it took litres of water, a fry-up and some panadol to cure a hangover, but do you know what cures it best of all? A text from a guy you’re lusting after. Mr. A.P sent me a message in the morning and it totally perked me up. In fact he text me a few times, and a couple of them even included a kiss at the end! Not sure why the letter x at an end of a text really makes all the difference, but oddly it does. I mean, is that like a peck-on-the-cheek x or is a grab-me-and-kiss-me-passionately x? I’m hoping the latter!
But still, with all this stuff with Mr. A.P going on, I’m waiting for S. He’s finally confirmed when he’s coming back and when we can hang out, but the only thing is it’s during Ramadan. I’m no devout Muslim, not by a long shot, but if I say I’m going to do something, I like to stick to it. It’s all about willpower for me and pushing myself that little bit further. And yes, even if that means abstaining for a month from both alcohol and sex.
I think I might buckle. I’ve been waiting for so long that I don’t think I can possibly hold out for another month. In fact thinking about another week is tough enough. I’ve been listening to Paula Cole’s Feelin’ Love on repeat, which probably hasn’t helped my desires, and I’m not a big believer in suppressing feelings. In fact the only feeling I suppress is anger, but I’m not sure I even suppress that. I guess I’m just not an angry person.
So, I have a whole week to continue fantasizing about what will happen with S and, yes, I will let my imagination get carried away. I’ve always been a dreamer, my parents told me that so many times, and they’re totally right. So why change old habits? In terms of reality, I’m hoping to see Mr. A.P tonight and for something to progress there. Something happen!! Please!!
Right now I’m bus-hopping, not quite sure upon which bus I should embark before they pull out of the station. There are delays and sometimes I wonder if the drivers want to switch destinations or, worst of all, create diversions. Or will they just shut the doors and drive on?Such has been my musings of late.
I feel like I’ve been in a waiting room for eternity. I was hoping for a clincher with Mr. A.P the other night, but he didn’t come out with us in the end. Neither did K. And S is still away, prolonging my suspense. So, instead, I drank myself into oblivion. Free drinks really don’t help my situation and I ended up in a karaoke bar, sans mon amies, being possessive over the microphone and puking on my own feet because I missed the target of the toilet basin. Hardly the girl Mr. A.P, K or S would want to be seen with!
Not knowing when to stop, I ended up meeting an old school friend for a drink at the other end of town. Not any drink though. Nope, that’d be silly. I went in all guns blazing and ordered a tiki puka puka. For those of you reading this outside of Dubai, a tiki puka puka is one of the drinks you only order when you want to be found in a pool of your own sick. Unfortunately, I wasn’t found…
I wish I hadn’t drank so much, I’d quite have liked to have had a proper catch up with my old school friend rather than overwhelm her with drunken ramblings! Poor lass. It was still great to see her though. It’s always nice to see someone you haven’t seen for so many years, to see the direction they’ve taken in life even though they pretty much started at the same point as you.
Anyway, after a night of drunken rampaging, I was woken up at 8.45am by my colleague waiting to pick me up to go to work. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!! Pyjamas off, work clothes on, brush teeth and out the door. Luckily, my friend drove so I could put on some make-up in the car but I was so hungover, my face was a blur. I definitely didn’t look my best. Or smell it.
I always thought it took litres of water, a fry-up and some panadol to cure a hangover, but do you know what cures it best of all? A text from a guy you’re lusting after. Mr. A.P sent me a message in the morning and it totally perked me up. In fact he text me a few times, and a couple of them even included a kiss at the end! Not sure why the letter x at an end of a text really makes all the difference, but oddly it does. I mean, is that like a peck-on-the-cheek x or is a grab-me-and-kiss-me-passionately x? I’m hoping the latter!
But still, with all this stuff with Mr. A.P going on, I’m waiting for S. He’s finally confirmed when he’s coming back and when we can hang out, but the only thing is it’s during Ramadan. I’m no devout Muslim, not by a long shot, but if I say I’m going to do something, I like to stick to it. It’s all about willpower for me and pushing myself that little bit further. And yes, even if that means abstaining for a month from both alcohol and sex.
I think I might buckle. I’ve been waiting for so long that I don’t think I can possibly hold out for another month. In fact thinking about another week is tough enough. I’ve been listening to Paula Cole’s Feelin’ Love on repeat, which probably hasn’t helped my desires, and I’m not a big believer in suppressing feelings. In fact the only feeling I suppress is anger, but I’m not sure I even suppress that. I guess I’m just not an angry person.
So, I have a whole week to continue fantasizing about what will happen with S and, yes, I will let my imagination get carried away. I’ve always been a dreamer, my parents told me that so many times, and they’re totally right. So why change old habits? In terms of reality, I’m hoping to see Mr. A.P tonight and for something to progress there. Something happen!! Please!!
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Que Sera, Sera
Well, it's amazing what can happen in the space of a few weeks. From being in a dead end relationship, to realising how much I missed J and pining for London, to wondering who I'll be dating next in Dubai.
Another Cosmo filled night, another scenario. This time, out with the gang at Apres. The post-ski, or ski-shy, hang out. Remember, I'm writing this after 6 cosmos... enough to give a girl a hangover!
This evening, Miss LC and I tagged along to the apres ski drinks (actually, we were there almost two hours before the skiers turned up, but who's counting)! Anyway, Mr A.P is there, as I knew he would be after Thursday night's delightful conversation.
It was all light-hearted chit-chat over drinks with friends, just the way a Sunday night should be. As the evening progressed, it dawned on me that I do rather like Mr A.P. He's a very sweet and seemingly genuine guy. Plus he's cute. Not in a drop-dead-gorgeous-Brad-Pitt way, but in a your-smile-is-to-die-for way. Does that make sense? I'm sure most of you girls know what I'm talking about.
However things didn't get very raucous for a Dubai night out, it was all quite subdued. That's probably a good thing, I've been having too many crazy nights since I've been single, so it was quite refreshing just to have post-work cocktails for a few hours. Plus I didn't particularly want to make a drunken fool out of myself. Nope, I was gonna be c-o-o-l, cooooool.
Anyway, when E left, Mr A.P gave myself and Miss LC a double cheek-to-cheek and swiftly followed E. I must admit I was a little disappointed. I didn't really get the opportunity to put the feelers out and he wasn't exactly obvious, one way or the other, whether he liked me or not. I don't mind that, in fact Miss LC is right, it's all part of the fun and the chase. But my god, do you want to know. I want to know. I want to know what's going to happen. How is it going to happen, if it happens?
It's one of those things where your mind works overtime and over analyses everything. Who said what, the eye contact, the body language. Everything. It's all very exciting. With suspense killing me, I text E to put the feelers out for me. Hell, if I can't do it, someone has to help me out! After a few minutes, high on suspense, E texts back saying the feeling may well be mutual. Errmmm... YAY!
So, now what? There's only one thing... yep, another night out. Tomorrow. Ouch. I have to blow off seeing the ex and his new apartment for potential new love. Harsh, but it has to be done. So tomorrow is potentially the fourth meeting with Mr. AP but I don't think it'll end up as one of those where we slope off for some dirty action, but it could well be that we swap numbers. Which is a joy in itself. I mean, it may lead to a date. Oh my god, a date. I've not been on one of those since... well, since before I met X!
I love that feeling - deciding what to wear, suggesting a location, it's all exciting stuff. I'm looking forward to finding out how it unravels. There's just one factor that is playing on my mind... S.
It's weird, because whilst things develop on the Mr A.P front, I'm still thinking about S. I don't know what it is about him. It's driving me crazy. It feels like I've been waiting forever to see him, and to be honest, I can't wait. Maybe it's got to the point where I literally can not wait. Arghhh! Confused.com.
I've been in a similar situation before. Two years ago. Things were developing between me and X but I also liked P. As it happens, things didn't develop quickly enough with P, and I ended up dating X. In hindsight, I'm not sure if that was the right decision on my part but I can't cry over spilt milk.
Thing is, I can't let other potential dates pass me by in the hope things will happen with the guy I'm too into for words. I mean, if I pass by Mr A.P, only to find out S has no interest whatsoever, I'd kick myself. But then I know I'm too much of a wuss to end things with Mr. A.P if S is interested. These are all scenarios in my head of course. It could be that neither S or Mr A.P actually give a shit. Well, that'd be a blow to a girl's ego. But oddly, I'm still used to that rejection.
Then again, they both have an equal running. S should be back in the next few days (at least I hope he is) and I don't even have Mr A.P's number yet and I don't think he's the type to jump in at the deep end. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is what will be, will be.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Single girl etiquette
Ladies, if a 'gentleman' at a bar sends drinks over to you and your girlfriend, what do you do?
a) Nod and mouth 'Thank you'
b) Invite him over to chat
c) Take him to the dance floor
d) Fuck him
This weekend, Miss LC and I performed a little social experiment to find out exactly what a girl is to do...
Whilst drinking at one of Dubai's trendy clubs and eyeing up any potential eligible bachelors, Miss LC and I were handed another round of drinks by the bar staff. With the look of confusion on our faces, the bar staff, who were all lined up at the bar with equal space between each of them, immediately pointed to a man at the bar. Far from it being a sexy, smouldering man in a suit as it always is in American series', we were a little disappointed to see a nerdy blonde guy drinking at the bar on his own.
Unsure of which of the above options we were obliged to do, we asked our quintessentially English friend R on what we should do. Being no help at all, R suggested 'd' as the best option as it was 'the rules'. Clearly R is often the guy at the bar who sends over drinks to the ladies and expects to get laid. This is because it probably works for him, but no doubt it's the suave dress sense (as long as they don't look at his mismatched shoes), his schoolgirl laugh and the irresistible English charm that helps him win the ladies over, rather than the free cocktails. Mr. R, is that how you get so much gash?
Having ruled out option d, we decided we should probably invite him over for a chat. After all, he was on his own, staring at his drink and we thought what he did took balls. Feeling sorry for him, we agreed we'd invite him over for a chat. Earlier in the day I'd said to Miss LC that we really should make an effort to chat to more guys, even if they were minging, because they might have hot friends. That was a mistake, as this guy didn't have any friends, let alone good-looking ones!
Once he'd taken his eyes off his drink and looked up at us, I beckoned him over. I knew immediately that I'd made a mistake, but a minute later he sauntered over. Making polite conversation with him - what's your name, where are you from, what do you do - it became evidently clear that he was somewhat trashed. Swaying and knocking into us as he spoke, his alcohol breath was making us gag.
We established his name was Trinko, that he was Austrian and that he lived in Ajman. When asked where is friends were, he held out his arms towards me and Miss LC. Did he really constitute a three-question conversation as a friendship? Was he really that much of a loner that we were the closest people to him to be called friends? It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case.
As we sipped our drinks in an effort to finish them quickly, so that we could make our excuses and leave, the bar staff were all giving us the knowing look. Do you know the one I mean? The one where they're sympathetic but they're also kind of laughing too? They could see Trinko was was worse for wear and that we had just been polite in inviting him over, not expecting him to be so much of a tool.
Not long into the conversation, Trinko walked off. We were relieved to say the least. By now, the bar staff were all laughing, and as I glanced at where Trinko had been standing, I noticed a bottle of Captain Morgan rum that had been mostly consumed already. Around the bottle were more drinks. This would have been a perfectly acceptable scene should it have been a group of friends at a bar or two big Russian guys coming to a business agreement, but this was one weedy Austrian guy all on his own.
As he trundled back to the bar, I asked him if he enjoyed drinking on his own. In reply, he managed to slur "I don't like alcohol". As much as I wanted to believe the swaying, rum-fume breathing loner, I couldn't contain myself and simply retorted "It sure doesn't smell like it". Miss LC and I couldn't contain our laughter. It was a sorry situation; two single girls drinking at a bar having only been able to pick up a half-cut, no make that totally-cut, lone ranger. Eugh.
Trinko didn't appreciate us laughing at him, but no sooner had we clocked him looking upset than he was propped up at the bar having a snooze. Yep, he was asleep. This was our opportunity to escape! We downed our drinks in an attempt to make a run for it but we were stopped in our tracks by the woken beast. Being the well-mannered girls that we are, we made our excuses, said goodbye and bolted. Like lightening.
So, the moral of the story is - if a guy sends over a drink to your table, stick to option a. Anything more is heading for disaster. Unless he's a quintessential Englishman, of course.
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