The Australian and the Bathroom Window.

At the very, very end of last year I met a nice guy whom I clicked with straight away. I walked away from the first date with doubts but luckily for me I agreed to a second because I was pretty besotted after that. He came in a big muscley Australian package with this smirk that just fucking got me, you know?

I guess the problem was I fell too hard and fast….. actually the problem was I was heavily self-medicating at the time which led me to SAY too many things too hard and fast. But anyway, my lack of sanity and self control is not the point of the story here….

Things escalated fast… Our second date was to the cinema… I am a terrible cinema date. If you ever have the misfortune of accompanying me to the cinema you’ll know that this is not a task that should be taken lightly. After sitting through two hours of Walter Mitty biting my tongue from giving a running commentary I got a third date too and a ton of butterflies too… And of course by the third date things should start to get serious… So fast forward through some date of doing I don’t know what and I end up staying round his house. The next morning arrives and shockingly I have kept my trousers on (metaphorically) throughout the night so I haven’t yet been able to mesmerize (trick) him with my bedroom skills yet… I still have to act cool and awesome. Every cool and awesome day starts with washing yourself so off I go to take a shower in his bathroom. Here I am, looking in the mirror giving myself a pep talk whilst he’s pottering away in the kitchen making freshly squeezed orange juice for the girl that didn’t put out.

“Ooo, it’s a bit chilly,” I think to myself as I try to make my hair look elegantly dishevelled. “Let me just close the window.” And with that I jump into the shower and start using all the shower gels in the bathroom to lather myself up into a bubbly foam to make a foam beard with. Which is when I hear a LOUD BANG. I turn round to see that I did not close the window properly and it has in fact blown open and smashed against the wall outside.

So foamy, elegantly dishevelled and completely and utterly embarrassed I creep out of the bathroom in a towel and have to go fess up to this guy who technically is still a stranger of sorts, that not only did we not have sex but I’ve left you with a hole as a bathroom window and it’s zero degrees outside but thanks for the orange juice and wait you’ve just made fresh coffee too. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Now, clearly that whole relationship all worked out swimmingly because last weekend I found myself out in Shoreditch, kissing an Essex boy (with slicked back hair) and liking it but surprisingly I did get a few more dates out of him before we bombed into the ground and shattered, much like the bathroom window.


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