Tag Archives: Brighton

Who’s To Say That’s The Way?

It’s all gone a bit roses on the relationship front. Blondie’s all gooey with her Perfect Match, Flora’s permanently tied to a bed with 8 Inches, and even I am currently on my way to Brighton to give AF another shot.

The thing is, none of these fairytales are particularly run of the mill. Blondie met her guy through a reality TV show, t’was science that declared she and her young vertically challenged fellow were destined for each other, and despite some early doubts (mainly about the fact that she’s facing a lifetime of flats), she’s attempting to be the bigger person* and giving it a go. Reports say it’s going rather well, who knew?

Flora met her guy when she… moved in with him. They became friends, they snogged, she accidentally stumbled and landed on his enormous cock and they’re now so loved up that she has been known to cancel lunch dates at short notice because she just can’t tear herself away from it.

And me… well. After I told AF where to stick it, a week went by and then I got another little email. Basically saying, ‘c’mon Ritzi you muppet, we’ve not actually really even tried the dating thing. Maybe this whole crazy female blow up thing was a tad premature?’ Of course I was immediately put out and declared him a dick, and then both Blondie and CTS pointed out that he had a fair point. Well, can’t argue with that. If I’m going to listen to anyone over the inane ramblings of my own mind, it’s those two. So here I am, hungover as fuck from last night’s gay wedding, on my way to ‘give it another shot’.

I should add that I’ve got a day return. I’m giving it another go but I’m not completely stupid.

And so it’s gotten me thinking. How do any of us know what’s the proper way to start a lasting relationship? I’m not saying either of these three examples will work out (least of all mine) but whether we meet a guy in a bar, at work, on a reality TV show or even in the living room we share, does that have any kind of effect on what happens next?

I’m not sure this thing with AF can ever really be real, purely because I have this ridiculous ideal in my head of what I want my perfect relationship to be, and even how I want it to start, and this uncertain stumble toward each other just isn’t it. That said, a wise person once told me if you don’t get the practice in with the less than perfect men when the opportunities are offered to you, you won’t actually know how to react when the perfect man does show up.

This may be sense, or it may just be a drunken ramble, but heck, I ain’t got any better ideas.

Ritzi out.

RitziCx

*yes, I went there.

Double Whammy Weekend

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,

RitziCx

Ritzi Goes To Brighton… And Gets A Little Bit Laid

So at my birthday dinner last week, Nora called me on the fact that I have never ACTUALLY been to see her amazing band AVENGE VULTURE ATTACK play a gig. This may seem shocking, but to be brutally honest I have not been the sort of person who goes to gigs since I was about mmm… fifteen? When I had bright purple dreadlocks and thought it was a really good idea to draw stars on my face and drink entire bottles of cheap rum.

Nice.

But, considering how many cheesetastic musical’s Nora has sat through for me (as well as the one I wrote that she conveniently starred in rather amazingly many moons ago) I figured I owed her one.

Also, if you remember, I’d text Almost Famous asking if I could use him for a pillow, to which he’d replied ‘Brazen. I’m around. Use me.’

Of course, as fate would have it, 6.30 on Friday rolled round and I was dealing with a MOUNTAIN of super secret casting paperwork and a hysterical producer and didn’t manage to escape until 8pm. I legged it to Charing Cross and finally stumbled (sweaty and gross) onto a train to Brighton at London Bridge at 8.30pm.

Timetable showed an hour to Brighton… Nora’s band was on at 9.

Feck feckedy feck!

I text Nora, begging her to stall, and she managed to sweet talk the next band into playing first and letting them take the 9.30 slot. Then, true to form, she stalled and stalled (I think she peed three times, minimum) until I burst through the door, the sexy beast that is Almost Famous just behind me.

Phew!

By the by, can I take a moment to say how much Avenge Vulture Attack actually do rock. Nora was amazing, as she always is, but I remain amazed and in awe of the staying power of her flimsy tubetop style bra that managed to cover her modesty despite her excessive rocking out. Respect to the bra peeps.

My enthusiasm waned when the next band started and since he knows and has seen every band in the whole of Brighton, Almost Famous joined me for a beer outside on the street. Which I’m not sure is legal… but through double glazing the band didn’t sound half bad.

And do you know what? Despite the lack of success we’ve had in the past in the dating area, AF and I managed a good few hours of idle chit chat before we gave up and wandered back to his house (which, for a house where two 30 something year old rockers live, was pretty clean) and sat down to eat toast (after I realised I hadn’t eaten since breakfast as per usual) and watch Glastonbury on the telly box.

It worries me slightly that I was rather comfortable snuggled up on the sofa with AF, talking about things so insignificant I can’t actually remember them, until we got sleepy and decided to go to bed.

It worries me a lot actually, which is why I’m going to tell you about the sex instead.

Here’s the thing about AF – I just cannot work him out. Despite the fact that I’ve actually used the words ‘lets have sex’ he still seems slightly iffy about whether it’s what I want. To the point that it becomes painfully obvious that he’s not going to make the first move.

So I jumped him.

Now before you get an image in your head of the kind of scrawny Kurt Cobain style rocker with unkempt hair and general greasy appearance, allow me to correct you. AF is mainstream, he ever so slightly commercial and the man is FIT.

Weirdly, I wasn’t that drunk (unusal) which seemed to make it… I don’t know… better? How unsettling. And you know that sweaty, unpleasant feeling you get when you’ve been really full on shagging someone for hours and you wake up the next morning? Wasn’t there. And the snuggly spooning as I drifted to sleep? Not that uncomfortable! And the morning sex that I usually hate…? Enjoyable once I escaped to brush my teeth first. And the unpleasant but necessary swallowing that you have to do from time to time to boost their ego? Didn’t taste that bad!

So essentially, AF and I are perfect for each other. I work all the time, he is always in Europe with his band. He’s tall dark and handsome, gets along with my dad and can play the bass (that means dextrous fingers), lives in Brighton which has a BEACH but works in London quite a bit. We’re great in bed, I get along with his friends, we don’t interfere with each other’s lives… why aren’t we dating again?

Oh yeah, the year of promiscuity… I remember now.

I’m beginning to get a little suspect about all this promiscuous lark and wonder if perhaps it is clouding my vision just a tad so I might be missing more ‘substantial’ opportunities. But then no one can say I’m being less than thorough… try before you buy and whatnot. I don’t know, maybe I should quit the promiscuity for a while and give this thing a go…

…or maybe I should go to Flutey’s cast change party tomorrow night and shag the chap in her cast she intends to pimp me out to for more Ensemble Bingo points. Decisions, decisions…

If you don’t know what I’m going to do, you haven’t been paying much attention to me over the past year.

Til tomorrow’s conquest,

RitziCx