Serious people, the moment I get a glass of Rioja in my hand someone should forcibly remove my blackberry from the other and refuse to give it back for 24 hours or so.
Friday night the theatre folk were out in force to bid Maxie G farewell as she prepared to bugger off on an Austrian adventure. At 7.30 I bought a bottle of Rioja to share with a man sporting the most amazing moustache I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously, I think it has it’s own passport.
An hour later another bottle seemed like a good idea, but soon after the moustache man had to leave so instead of finding someone else to share it with, it seemed like a reeeeally good idea to just drink it myself.
So, by the time the pub kicked our rowdy bunch out and I declared I absolutely had to go and catch the last train because I was leaving at 8.30 the next morning (to roadtrip to my mum’s house) and promptly disappeared like a good girl, I was well and truly bladdered.
On the train, I did at least try to sit quietly and read my book, but with that much wine in my brain I couldn’t manage to decipher actual words and resorted to badly spelt text messages instead. First of all… to The Hobbit.
Why? I don’t know. What a fool. It was a general kind of; ‘soooo, we had sex last week, how’s it going?’ to which he did not respond. Feeling unloved, I thought it would be a good idea to text Almost Famous.
Almost Famous is in a band, and is very hot. He is so hot that I would like of like a lifesize cut out of him to stare at every now and then when I feel lonely. Obviously, someone this hot was definitely on my to do list (back in my pre-tvboy single days when I was searching for ‘true love’ in the entertainment industry… idiot) and we have engaged in a bit of after-dark fumbling in the past. We went out for a drink, went to see a show, stayed out late so he would have to either get a night bus or crash at mine, and then ended up in bed. Obviously.
Sadly, as I had discovered through the evening, Almost Famous and I have very little in common. In fact, we have nothing in common. All we could talk about was the industry, and because he’s in a band and I am in theatre, even that doesn’t give us much common ground. In the end, there was some making out, some second base action, and that was about it. Completely sizzle-less evening.
So why did I think it was a good idea to sext him after all this time? Because I was off my face on the red stuff, that’s why. Sigh.
Conversation was trivial at first, until I decided to ask;
‘Are you famous enough for me to shag you and sell my story yet?’
to which he replied;
‘You could give it a go.’
to which I replied;
‘Shame you’re all the way in red light land’
Then conversation went all dull again, despite my best efforts, until he said;
‘Just out of interest, was I supposed to fuck you last time? Because I found your signals mixed’
Um, yes Almost Famous, you were.
For some horrendous reason, when I got home I continued the sexting and felt the need to tell him I was in bed and wearing nothing but my knickers. I was actually wearing bright pink sweat pants and couldn’t find the t-shirt that matched them so drunkenly decided that I’d go topless instead, but I didn’t think telling him that would have the desired effect.
He requested a photograph. I have checked – I did not take one. Thank fuck for that.
He (after cracking one off I would imagine) then left me hanging and sent a simple ‘night then’ message, to which I responded a little too explicitly. Then, when he didn’t reply, I got a little more sordid. Shameful! I then informed that I’d satisfied myself regardless.
The next day, when I was chatting away with my dear old nan and remembered little of the night before, he texted back a single word;
Oh cripes, does he think I’m going to shag him when he gets back to the UK? And how much did it cost me sexting Amsterdam? Should I give it another go and aim for a meaningless shag?
At this point my nan interjected with a wartime romance story about a good looking yank. I hate it when she does that. Ew. Although I am beginning to see where I get it from…
It took Nora, who’d been reading my barely intelligible tweets the night before, to remind me that I’d also texted The Hobbit. He texted back the next day when I’d turned my blackberry off to shun work for 24 hours, asking how things were. At least this one seems to understand the ‘no-strings attached’ nature of our shagathon… for now.
I have not responded to the last texts of either of them. Perhaps I’ll see what Nicole has to say on the matter over lunch time Las Iguanas and Margaritas.
Oh, and the SUN is SHINING in London today! I’m so ridiculously impressed by that and left the house in summery clothes and a teeny bit of knitware to keep the arms from getting goosebumps. Sunglasses on. Good to go. Awesome.