This week’s guest post is a scorcher from a lady who wishes to be known only as Nicola.
Romantic success through an app is an urban legend. I will never believe that your cousin’s best friend’s sister met the love of her life on her first Tinder date, got married a week later and is now the princess of a small but wealthy principality. In Real Life is the only way I can conceive of finding someone long-term, despite my distinct lack of recent success. My success in cattle market pubs is significantly better, however, if only for a few hours at a time, and it does give me hope that I’m still able to connect with men by swirling sinuously around a packed, sweaty dance floor to unsigned bands singing covers of Wonderwall.
Old-school house parties are, of course, an unrivalled opportunity to meet new people in a boozy yet familiar and cosy environment with plenty of dark corners. However, given the fact that the vast majority of my friends are encumbered with children and are quite frankly rubbish as wingmen, my latent inner house-partier has rarely cracked an eyelid or stirred in her slumber for the last few years. Until, that is, Hallowe’en 2018… *crack of thunder/flash of lightning*
One of my oldest, most married friends, who’s working herself into an early grave as an accountant, had been invited by a colleague to his house party. Unusually, given he’s in his thirties, he lives in a large house share with lots of other single people of the same age. Yay! Not only would this mean new, exciting, single people all crammed into a house together and lubricating their, ahem, inhibitions… they’d be in fancy dress. And if there’s one thing I love, it’s fancy dress.
So I took a jaunt to sarf London, dressed as a witch (a cute, 60s-inspired frock/broom/spiderweb stockings ensemble) with my friend who had applied 18 layers of grey face paint in an attempt to evoke the Grim Reaper. We arrived at the house, my friend knowing perhaps three people and me knowing only her, and had a couple of vodka jellies, after which she promptly fell into a catatonic state through sheer work-related exhaustion and had to be put to bed in the spare room.
Now, when abandoned at a house party where you know not a soul, you have only one option: knock back a couple of drinks and make a beeline for the hot guy who was eyeing you up when you arrived. That guy’s name was James and I have absolutely no memory of what his costume was, so it can’t have been great. Before long, my witch’s hat knocked askew, we were kissing, making out, whatever you want to call it. His technique needed some work, which is often a problem. During my formative years I’d never experienced really bad kissers but since meeting a couple of dozen guys through the dreaded apps I’ve come to understand that not all men innately understand how to use their tongues. He wasn’t terrible, though, and was picking up my rhythm quite quickly, so we disappeared into a bathroom and things got a bit sweaty, although not far beyond first base.
I should remind you that I was 34 last Hallowe’en, despite this story so far sounding like the regular Saturday night of a 16 year old. I just really enjoy kissing. The desire to go further whilst holding back; mouth and tongue intimately connected but keeping hands above clothes (for the most part) is intensely exciting.
After a while I thought I should check on my comatose friend (she was fine, just sparko) and, as is the way with parties when everybody is a bit smashed, James and I drifted apart to other areas of the house. I wandered downstairs into the dining room where a shouty game of beer pong was underway. On one team was a guy dressed as a hotdog. He was from Yorkshire, had dark hair and molten brown eyes. And that, my friends, is exactly my type. He couldn’t have been more my type if I’d drawn him. He also had a quick sense of humour, was very smart, a bit moody and sexily confident. I was immediately smitten. We sat on the sofa and chatted. For ages. I could feel the instant attraction that I knew was mutual. Then, catastrophically, he mentioned he had a girlfriend who wasn’t at the party so, disappointed but keeping my moral compass firmly in hand, I said that I’d be moving along. This guy had clearly only made token mention of his girlfriend, however, because we ended up talking in the kitchen for hours. Then we moved to a couple of adjacent chairs in the living room, hidden behind the dancers bopping along to Thriller and Everybody (Backstreet’s Back). I had seen James clocking me talking to the Hotdog every so often but by then I was absolutely in his thrall and brushed the occasional dusting of guilt over my defection away. James tried to interrupt the conversation a few times, but I obtusely refused to be diverted. Soon the Hotdog and I were sat next to each other on the sofa, shuffling fractionally closer together until our legs were pressed against each other and our hands were gently entwined, his thumb lightly rubbing my palm.
At some point James left the party, but it barely registered. By 4am most people had gone, my sleeping friend had woken up refreshed, having missed most of the night, and was keen to get going. As I collected my coat from the empty dining room the Hotdog pulled me decisively towards him, kissed me and… what a kiss. Soft and dominant, hard and confident. His mouth fitted mine perfectly. The moral compass fell out of my hand and smashed on the sticky parquet flooring. My shoulders dropped and I relaxed into the perfection of the kiss. He left with me and we jumped on the tube, kissing constantly and with our hands everywhere. These things just don’t happen that hard or that often to me, and I let it completely take over. Any allegiance I had to the sisterhood was quickly disappearing and all I wanted was to get this man into my bed. We reached Bethnal Green and it was decision time: would he carry on with me out into the sticks, or would he get off and go home?
I got off the tube with him, ostensibly to say goodbye, and this was when my dignity disappeared. We were kissing madly on the street, feet from the subway. I’d been able to feel his erection pressed against me as we leaned into each other on the train and I had to touch him, I couldn’t not. His cock was absolutely hard and I wrapped my fingers around its length so I could revel in the effect I was having on this man. His warm fingers ran lightly against my damp underwear, and my clit burned. His fingers circled gently and he tucked my knickers aside. He moaned against my mouth at how wet I was. My long coat had hidden most of what we were up to until that moment, but I ducked down and quickly took him in my mouth, just for a moment, the whole length of that incredible cock. Anybody walking past would have known exactly what I was doing, although if anyone was nearby I didn’t notice. My fingers squeezed and stroked, and with every gasp he made I had to tighten what little control I had left over myself not to fuck him, on that tiny residential street called Paradise Row.
Dignity started to fight back against the miasma of lust dulling my synapses, and the hot wetness running down my inner thighs. I wanted him, yes, but I wasn’t going to do this in the street, and my last shred of common sense was reminding me that if I took him home and fucked him all night, and probably all the next day, I’d regret it knowing that he was another woman’s boyfriend. I also knew men don’t generally leave their girlfriends for one night stands, and that as he had cheated on his girlfriend seemingly so easily he probably wasn’t that great a guy. As a wise woman once said: once a cheater; always a cheater. So I walked away and got back on the tube alone. And to this day, I regret it. Good party, though.