Oxbridge Blues - Part I

The Oxbridge system is unique to anything in the world. These two institutions have been priming the world's most intelligent people in politics, medicine, literature, and science for over nine centuries. There are all kinds of celebrities around. Cambridge has Lily Cole. Oxford has those blokes from Harvard who invented Facebook. Anyone with a Blue in Rugby or Rowing certainly thinks they're a celebrity - but this is mostly an illusion created by local nightclub owners and harems of undergrad blue-tack.

I haven’t slept with any notorious celebrities, but as I mentioned before there has been the occasional blue. These weren’t your typical one-night stands. Ok one of them was a typical one-night stand, but the other one involved a couple of dates first. Oddly enough it wasn’t after any of these dates that I went home with the Rugby Blue, rather after a night out when I randomly ran into him at a club. I was drunk and he was wearing a suit – I love a man in a suit. One long taxi drive to what would later become the most inconvenient stride of pride (I don’t do walks of shame) ever, we arrived at his accommodation.

Life lesson learned from Rugby Blue: body mass and height is not a direct correlation to penis size, because if that were true Mr. Rugby Blue would have been short and fat. That’s no matter, I’m not prejudice or size-ist. It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean, etc . . . Had he been a tsunami of love that could have made up for it, but it was more like slack tide really. Fairly average in my book of shags, but to be fair he only got once chance because he only had one condom (how pessimistic of him). This is when the inappropriateness ensued.

Because I'm not a huge fan of blow-jobs, or hand-jobs for that matter (pointless, any man will usually agree that they can do it better themselves. They’ve certainly had more practice than I have!), I saw the rest of my night with Rugby Blue going in one direction: sleep. Which we did, until he woke me up in the morning with this wonderful chat: “I don’t have a condom . . . but I want to put it . . . here” he said as he slapped my ass. Really? REALLY? Since when did being out of condoms equal anal sex? I am not going to lie to you, that is a one-way system, my friend. I kindly declined, claimed something about having to go to class and got dressed as quickly as humanly possible while he went back to sleep. On the way out I realised I had no money for a taxi, but spotted Rugby Blue's wallet on the desk.

"Can I borrow some money for a cab?" No answer. "If it's okay just lie there and do nothing." Got the go ahead and grabbed the eight quid I needed for a taxi home.

Maybe it was karma for grabbing some of Rugby Blue’s money as I left, but as I eventually made my way out I realised that I hadn’t a clue where the hell I was. I realised this of course whilst on the phone to the cab company, standing on a corner in a black dress, black jacket and black heels. I knew which college Rugby Blue was at and made an educated guess (I am highly educated after all), after which the cab company said, “We can’t drive through there this time of day, taxis aren’t allowed. If you walk to [disclosed location nearby] we can pick you up there.” Their option B involved walking through the city centre. I went through possible reasons for my attire at noon on a Tuesday and decided it was a perfectly decent outfit for a funeral, as if someone was going to stop me and ask, “Excuse me, are you just coming from a shag with a rugby boy?”

“You must be commenting on my outfit. Well actually, if you must know, my Aunt Mildred has died and I’m just on my way to the service.”

“Oh you poor thing! I do apologise for your loss.”

“Thanks for that . . . Oh and by the way, do you have any paracetemol per chance?”

Entirely likely scenario. One which luckily did not occur, because despite the qualifications on my CV, I had guessed wrong about where I was. After playing some more of the game “Guess Where I Woke Up” with the cab operator and finding some street signs, the operator finally said, “Ah yes I know where that is. That’s way out of town! How did you get there?”

“I teleported.” How do you think I got here?? Don’t judge me! Just take me home! I have a raging hangover and the sun is bright.

Ten minutes, and almost exactly eight quid later, I was finally home at my own college, and managed to make it from the taxi to my bed without anyone seeing my funeral attire. The next time I saw Rugby Blue I apologised for my petty theft and offered to buy him drinks to make up for it, but he kindly refused. What a gentleman. Minus that whole trying to do me up the bum thing. As one of my best male friends said, “no poo poo on the pee pee.” I couldn’t have said it better or more eloquently myself.

To Be Continued . . .

Next time: those guys who put an oar in the water and pull it