“Where did you end up the other night then?” I had been expecting this call since the morning after the other night. It was my best friend, a boy we shall refer to as Lad Boy.
“I ended up staying with your friend, T.”
Lad Boy laughed into the phone. “Ahh, that’s brilliant. So you managed to find a place to stay then?” We had been a bit far out from my college and I had been whinging about the taxi fare home all evening. “Go out on the pulllll,” Lad Boy suggested. “That’s what I’m going to do!”
“Yeah, alright then,” I said jokingly, and then Lad Boy introduced me to his friend, T. T was not the kind of guy who immediately catches my attention. He was carrying on about three different conversations at once, and had been speaking to Lad Boy for about two minutes with me sitting there before he reached his hand out to introduce himself.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t met.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“I’m T.” (Obviously he didn’t introduce himself as “T” – I rarely trust men who only use a letter for their name. Unless their name is Jay – but for the sake of the blog, his name is T.)
“(My name here), nice to meet you.”
And that was the extent of our conversation until approximately an hour later when he would come to the table with a tray of shots and offer me one. “Would you like a shot?” “Yes, please” was all that was exchanged, bar the Sambuca (or “death in a glass” as I call it.)
I spent most of the night with Lad Boy, doing shots and yelling over the music to each other. People would occasionally join in the conversation, but would be bored quickly with our incessant recalling of other nights we’d been out partying, and our outrageous demands that the DJ plug in my iPhone and play my music. I hate people like us.
Eventually we paired off to other conversations and other groups of friends, and somewhere between me deciding to walk to the next club and him jumping in a taxi full of girls, Lad Boy and I were separated.
Jump to half an hour later where I’m talking with Extreme-Sports Boy, another one of my good male friends (I haven’t slept with him, nor Lad Boy). T comes up to us to say goodbye – mostly to ES Boy, he barely knows me.
“Aww, don’t go!” I drunkenly demand. I hate the point in the night where people start to leave. It has quite the domino effect, and I was keen to keep this particular party going.
“I’ll be right back, why don’t you two talk to each other?” ES Boy said, putting a hand on each of our shoulders and pushing us towards each other.
“Wait, no! Don’t leave me!” I yelled to ES Boy, but to no avail. He had disappeared into the sea of fellow clubbers, leaving me with this shot-buying stranger.
His conversational matchmaking failed, unless by “talk to each other” he meant “makeout with each other,” in which case the match was successfully made.
T was a fantastic kisser, and any and all concern that he was somewhat of a stranger flew out the window. If Lad Boy and ES Boy deemed him worthy enough to be their friend, I certainly saw him as worthy of a snog. My desire to keep our party together and dance at the club until closing time soon transformed into a desire to get T into bed. Apparently the feeling was mutual, as after a bit of dancing and kissing on the dance floor he stopped, grabbed my hands and said, “I’m going home, would you like to come?”
We hailed a taxi and the majority of our foreplay for the evening ensued in the backseat. I do feel bad for the taxi drivers who get me as a passenger sometimes. Better than someone who gets sick in the taxi, no?
From taxi (which T paid for, naturally), to front door, to bedroom, to bed is a bit of a blur. I had lost all articles of clothing except my knickers by the time we were in bed though, but even those only saw minimal sheet time.
T was a perfect example of how kissing directly correlates to abilities in bed. He is quite possibly the best kisser I’ve ever had: gentle but firm; not too much tongue; soft lips. I could make out with that boy forever. We kissed for most of the time we were getting it on as well, which made things even better. We had sex twice and then passed out in each other’s arms.
“Are you too hot?” I asked as I began to doze off with my head on his chest and my arms wrapped around his body.
“No, this is perfect. I’m like a baby, I can sleep anywhere.” I momentarily paused to wonder if babies could actually sleep anywhere. Dogs, maybe. But babies? I wouldn’t think that you would want your baby sleeping just anywhere. “The baby’s tired? … Yeah, just put him down anywhere.” These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I lie naked, falling asleep on an attractive man.
T might be able to sleep anywhere, but I for one am a nightmare to sleep with (no pun intended. Is that even a pun?) I steal the covers, roll around, occasionally I’ve been known to talk in my sleep. If I fall asleep on my back I’ll snore embarrassingly. I woke up, sprawled out like a starfish next to T. It was cold that morning, so I rolled over and got back into position on T’s chest, as he hadn’t moved at all. This must have been T-speak for “let’s have sex again” because he wrapped his arm around me, kissed me on the forehead and started stroking my arm. My hand slipped down onto his hip bone and I mindlessly ran my fingers up and down his side as I lay there half asleep. Approximately a minute later he was situated on top of me and some of the best morning sex I’ve ever ensued.
After another hours sleep or so, we both got a bit restless and eventually turned to talk to each other.
“Morning,” he said.
“Where do you live then?” I told him. “Fucking hell, that’s miles away.”
“I know, why do you think I came home with you? No way was I going to make it all the way back there last night.”
He laughed, “I hope it was worth it.”
“Definitely.” I said, winking at him.
“I suppose you want a lift home then?”
“What do I get for being your personal taxi service?”
“Petrol money?” I asked earnestly, then smiled and pulled him on top of me.
Back to the telephone conversation with Lad Boy:
“So you went home with T? Did anything happen?”
“Not really.” I don’t know why I felt the need to lie to Lad Boy. I usually tell him about guys I pull, but seeing as it was one of his friends, it felt a bit more awkward than usual.
“Did you kiss him?” he asked, and I could hear him smiling over the phone.
“Did you sleep with him?” he didn’t sound like he was smiling anymore.
“… Nnno …”
“Why did you say it like that?”
“Well I didn’t sleep with him in the sexual sense, but we did share a bed.”
“Oh!” he was back to his original tone and we carried on with banter as usual, dropping the T thing.
I suspected Lad Boy knew that I had slept with T, but we didn’t talk about it often. If I mentioned I was going towards T’s part of town, Lad Boy would always tease, “To see T??”
“No, you bell end.”
Lad Boy is the closest thing to a boyfriend I have at the moment. A boyfriend without benefits is basically what he is. Why “Lad” Boy? Well, he is your stereotypical lad’s lad. Drinks out of his shoe, gets belligerently drunk, and goes for cute little blondes. I foresee a future as a Banker Wanker, or maybe he’ll work for the Treasury, or be PM. Whatever he does, he will be one successful lad, and I’ll be happy to watch him become the Lad of Lads as one of his best mates. Regardless, I think it’s probably best to steer clear of his mates from here on out. Excluding T of course. I mean, I’ve already slept with him. The damage is done. Besides, I have a date with him next week.