Diary of a Reluctant Virgin: Week 6
This week the rapacious ELLIE SLEE has a bit too much fun at a club and comes to some shocking realisations…
So last night I snogged at least four men. Maybe five. I can’t remember.
The night started like any other night – I was wearing too much make-up, and failing miserably in the pre-drinking game of paranoia. I was voted most likely to get killed during sex. Brilliant.
The next hour or so remains a blur of laughing, drinking, walking, and finally Lola’s. I generously paid for my friends to enter the club, and in return they bought me more drinks. Excellent. I hit the dance floor, but didn’t do much dancing as within seconds an older man had grabbed me and my friend and started grinding on us. My friend quickly escaped and looked around for me, but it was too late. I had started kissing the guy.
After a few minutes I broke away. I think that he thought my mouth was like ice-cream; lots of tongue needed. Well, I already have a tongue, so this did not amuse me. But he clung on to my arm, and said he would only let he go if I gave him my number. I dutifully recited a completely made-up number, before he said that he would ring it and check that my phone was ringing. Damn! In the end I just gave him my number, and ran away with my friends.
I walked over to the bar. A guy bought me a drink. The next two or so hours are wiped from my memory.
I vaguely remember spending time with a guy with dark hair, who I get the impression knew about my article somehow and wanted to get with me to feature in it. Sorry to disappoint. One group of friends said that they saw me with my arms wrapped around a really hot blonde guy (why oh why can’t I remember that?!). Another group said that every time I walked past I was with a different man.
And then I remember kissing a guy named after a Argentine Marxist revolutionary. He was overweight, ginger, and went to a sixth-form college. I kissed him anyway. Actually, I did more than kiss him. I was straddling him on a booth, gyrating so much that a bouncer had to ask me to back off or I would be thrown out. He looked surprised when he saw the bloke I was with, and I vaguely remembered the same thing happening to me earlier with the same bouncer… and a different guy.
Meanwhile my friends had gathered to leave, and went to find me. They stood there watching me, with a couple of bouncers hovering nearby, dithering over whether to interrupt. Suddenly my friends realised that I had slipped my hand down the guy’s trousers (that’s right. I went to second base for the first time in Lola’s).
Just as the bouncers looked like they were going to make a move, a man came along to sit next to us. He had a strange look on his face. He was suddenly sick everywhere. He tried to catch it in his hands, but that only made it spread out, like a fountain of vomit. The sick slid along the seat, covering me and my partner.
My friends were suitably sympathetic. ‘Chunder-job!’ they yelled with glee, dragging me away.
When I woke up the next morning, somehow everyone knew what had happened. Some were amused, some were disgusted. But I didn’t feel entertained, or disgusted, or even ashamed. I just felt sad.
Because in the morning I had woken up to find myself covered in bruises, bleeding from scratches on my legs, with empty chocolate bar wrappers littered around the room. And worse still, I was covered in hair. It was my own hair, which I had torn out of my head during the night, and was now lying all over the bed and the floor. I don’t think my behaviour was funny. I think it was a cry for help.
And to any reader that expects me to end this column with an account of disastrous yet hilarious sex, you should stop reading now. This article isn’t about sex, it’s about life. And life doesn’t have easy, trite endings.