Vulnerable at Midnight

In the early hours of Monday morning, I wake needing to pee, but even after I do, I still feel uncomfortable.

Fearing a UTI, I run a shallow bath and climb in. The flat is cold and hostile and the rain is clattering against the single-pane glass windows. I went to bed earlier in the night, as I always do after an ill-advised night with a boy. I had been sexting the Politician for comfort until I fell asleep around ten thirty. Shortly after I had fallen into a hazy, gin-induced sleep, Hot Richard had replied to my drunken message of the night before (which I had sent before Will the Designer arrived, and just read “I miss you”) with a picture of a dog and the caption “At the pub right now.”

At three in the morning, alone in the bath, I feel vulnerable, and this causes me to cry. It is illogical, but I’m so confused by him and I’m not able to deal with it when my defence falters. I don’t reply to the message, because I know that he will read my message, I will see that he has seen it, and discarded it. I recognise that this is for the best, but when I think about it, all I can remember is the way he used to hold me, the whisperings of endearment, the way he looked at me.

I am vulnerable when I’m alone in my flat, facing another night in an empty bed. Will the Designer benefitted the most from this the night before…

A rainy Saturday night in my flat, alone. I’m writing my blog and drinking too much gin and tonic. The notes I’m making in my notebook become more and more illegible, the music I listen to becomes sadder and I’m texting Hot Richard because it’s his birthday. This is a toxic combination.

Then Will the Designer texts me to tell me he’s in my area. He’s almost literally on my street, and he asks if he can drop by and “bring treats.”

Well, I’m not really in a fit state, but rarely do booty calls make things better. That being said, the only alternative is to turn him down and then go to bed. I’ve drunk too much gin, so I text him the address and just have time to shave my legs before he arrives.

True to his word, Will the Designer brings a bottle of prosecco, a bag of Kettle Chips, Maltesers and a carton of Ben and Jerrys. I’m too drunk to eat, and he’s certainly lost at least part of his night not only to drink but also (I suspect) some white powder or other. We appear to be pretty well matched.

It’s only the second time I’ve met Will the Designer. It’s pouring with rain outside, and his parka is soaked through to his tshirt, so I remove it and put it on the radiator. Wrapping him in a blanket instead, we pour the wine and begin to chat. Two spoons in the icecream, nestled on the sofa with the rain pouring outside, we begin to kiss. It’s not romance, it’s a combat. I love that.

We spar, both verbally and physically. He’s taller than me, but not above six feet, so we can wrestle and we’re quite well matched. I take off his tshirt, he’s not well built, but not unattractive. It get’s heated pretty quickly and he ends up taking off my jeans and pushing himself into me whilst I’m pressed up against the wall in the living room. Drunk, horny and tired, I lead him to bed, where we fumble with each other throughout the night.

While Will the Designer sleeps, he holds me close to him. I remember remarking,

You’re so cuddly!

I love that in a man. I hate when you’re in bed with someone but not touching.

The next morning, I shower, dress and get ready to meet a friend early in the morning. He gets ready to leave with me, but he’s been in my flat for so little time that his coat is still damp. He kisses me goodbye full on the lips outside my flat, and tells me he’ll see me soon.


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