Of course I chose bingo points over potential smush. What kind of a girl do you think I am?!?!
(Apologies it’s taken a week to get round to writing it, luckily it was a good fuck so the details have stayed with me)
It’s a strange feeling being pimped out to someone who is fully aware you intend to only use him for sex. When I dragged my ass back to London from Brighton, hastily showered to remove the beach residue (and other things) I was a bit knackered and not too keen on the idea of another night of no sleep.
However, in true Cortez fashion, I sucked it up and carried on, slipping on some ridiculously high fuschia KGs and a fabulous dress (I’d been advised that ‘pins out’ was a good move) and less than 2 hours after staggering through the door, I dashed back out again.
The purpose of this evening’s celebrations was a West End cast change. Flutey’s cast change, to be specific, and she was leaving forever and ever amen, so sex or no sex, I was going.
I clacked into town and met Flutey at her Stage Door, where she was joined by her partners in crime – the Ginger Guitarist and the Romeo, who was to be my partner in a different sort of venture that night – and along with the rest of the cast (a few of which I know, a few of which I’ve not given recalls to – awkward!) we headed to Hospital (it’s a members bar, not an actual hospital) to a private room, plugged in the nearest person’s ipod and rocked out to the sounds of the 50s. As if they haven’t had enough of THAT for the past year.
The Romeo – he assured me he’s off to do some Shakespeare now, and doesn’t make a habit of cheesey musicals, proving this by chopping off his quiff the moment he stepped off stage – made eye contact from across the room as he ducked down to say something to Flutey, who grinned and nodded in my direction as I was pretending to listen to the Ginger Guitarist’s woes (he’s unrequitedly in love with Flutey, geez). A few minutes later, I’d been dragged away from GG, a cocktail thrust into my hands and was being expertly chatted up by the Romeo.
At about quarter to one, after he’d respectably flirted non stop for an hour and a half, I thought I’d put him out of his misery and told him I was blatantly going to sleep with him anyway, so why didn’t we just go?
Add another half hour of tearful goodbyes from drunken actors (I waited patiently at the bar with another tequila cocktail) and at last I was in a taxi on the way back to the Proper Actor’s cute little house in the docklands.
On the way from the cab into the house I noticed… the man has a vintage mini, the kind with no aircon and the kind of boot you have to turn a handle to open. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was a proper actor, was he? Did I stumble into Withnail and I or something?
Anyway, the sex. Inside, sat down on the couch for ten mins under the crazy delusion that some kind of actual conversation was going to happen, before I got accosted on the couch. It was quite fun! However, when it looked like I was actually going to get shagged right there and then I remembered his comments in the cab about his moody female flatmate and pieced this together with the fact that I’m a bit of a screamer… and suggested we go upstairs. So we did.
Once there… well, I wonder if it’s totally fair (in a karmic sense) that one person can have 2 bouts of fantastic sex in one weekend. Well, I’m young, free and single so to hell with it, I totally can. And totally did.
Comparison time… well, Almost Famous certainly had a bigger cock, but then again the Romeo was a bit hammered so may not have been able to perform so well. The Romeo was certainly more forceful, which is good, although at times it was apparent that he was more than a little bit keen to act out what was essentially a rape fantasy… which is not so good. Almost Famous is more snuggle-able, mind you this doesn’t bode well for the year of promiscuity. All in all, it’s kind of tricky to compare these two fantastic shags I’m afraid, which is weird because I’m usually quite fussy.
So back to the Romeo. Well, for a guy who’d done two energetic shows that day and had quite a bit to drink, he sure wasn’t lacking in energy. Rather expensive knickers practically torn off and thrown across the room, I managed to save the clasp on my bra by indoing it myself, I soon found myself on my back, legs akimbo, getting a good old fashioned ravishing. It was fucking fabulous. I do pity his poor flatmate, as the house was not that well soundproofed and I have a habit of making my feelings known rather audibly. Yikes.
One good thing about fucking an actor, is that they’re generally quite verbal, and the dirty talk is often pretty profound. This guy’s dirty talk was almost Shakespearean. Not that I’m knocking his sexual prowess but that might have had more of a hand in my two shattering orgasms than the actual shagging itself.
Bless Almost Famous, his best line of the night was; ‘Why are boobs just so awesome?’
Now, lets remember the bad thing about fucking an actor. All through the night, the Romeo was all about how beautiful I was and how this wasn’t going to be ‘just a one night thing’, to the point of continuing this crazy talk the next morning when he dragged himself out of bed at about 8.30 am to drive me to the station.
Yes, I know it was stupidly early – but I’m not one for hanging around on a Sunday. Sex or no sex, my Sunday was a jam packed schedule and I didn’t intend to miss it.
Cute conversation on the way to the station, no awkward silences, a stonker of a goodbye kiss when before I ascended the stairs to the dreaded DLR platform (I hate the DLR, never trust a train without a driver) and a demand that I text him straight away so he didn’t spend too long without my number.
Sunday happened – brunch with the girls, art exhibition in the afternoon, annoying transport disruption due to a Sunday Suicide (FFS) and a late afternoon tea/wander with Irish before the obligatory house cleaning. I didn’t text him that night, as it got pretty late, but instead I dropped him a text on my way to work in the morning.
Lunchtime comes round… no response. Well, it’s his first day of rehearsals for his new job, that’s gotta be hectic, right? Mind you, in the midst of my 14 hour work day I didn’t stop once, but still managed to text Almost Famous a couple of times, and arrange a few theatre trips, and update Nicole on my exploits. End of the day… no response. Next day… still nothing. Until Wednesday, when I spotted he was on facebook chat late one night.
‘Evening’ I said, casual and not at all pissed off.
‘Hey you!’ the patronising git replies. Here follows a conversation about rehearsals, work and whatnot, and about the hell of a hangover we both had on Sunday.
‘I had a lot of coffee’ I informed him, ‘I was fine’
‘Coffee was a good idea’ he replied, adding an annoyingly cryptic ‘just like you’ to the end.
I’m sorry? You’re comparing me to coffee? Well, with my own personal appreciation for caffeine I suppose I should be flattered…
And here we are, one week later, and still no word. This, my friends, is why you do not get involved with actors. You see, they can act, and they will, if you let them. It’s just a fancy word for lying, quite frankly.
But no matter, because – lo and behold – it was exactly what I expected, and at the end of the day I got a hell of a good shag out of it. A week later and Almost Famous is still texting as always, although today I did reward him with a lil bikini bathing pic, just to shut him up for a while.
I get the feeling that rather fabulous fuck might not have been our last. (Almost Famous, that is. The Romeo is not reading from this script again)
Back to sunbathing now, clad in the teeny weeny bikini I wish I’d had on hand last weekend in Brighton. Cripes, it was toasty last week. At least now I can fix this tan line situation!
Til next time folks,