I’ve been talking about love lately, so time for change of topic – back to sex. See, much less cringy already. Safe territory. No emotions involved. So, let me share with you this highly amusing story, that is, in fact real. I can’t believe it happened, but then a lot of things happen to me, or I happen to them, in ways that are rather incredible.
I had just broken up with my ex boyfriend (or, rather, he had just dumped me, which I am, thankful for now, but I wasn’t too thrilled at the time, even though I realized it was a good idea) and I had heard that you should write down lists of what you wish for in life and magically it will appear. I was willing to give it a try – I mean, why not? So still in this state of tears and heartache I wrote a list of what I wanted in a man. I wasn’t necessarily very clear sighted at the time. OK, so I was potentially out of my mind. Anyway, I wrote: brown curly hair, brown eyes, great dancer, filmmaker, fit as a fiddle (six pack), traveler, speak fluent French or at least love La France and sometimes wear glasses (for that intellectual look). (You now understand why I was mad – what has hair color and being a filmmaker got to do with love? Just saying.)
So, to try to cure heartache and the confusion of not spending 24/7 with someone else, I went clubbing with one of my friends two weeks after the break-up. If nothing else some music would remove the soundtrack that was going round and round in my head. It was only two snippets really – one was “it’s gonna take a little time, a little time to think things over” the other from a Robbie Williams song where he sings “I hope you choke on your Baccardi and coke” (my ex drank whiskey and coke).
At the nightclub I remember telling my friend I did not have a clue of how to flirt. The few flings I’d had before my boyfriend just happened. And I had not been single for a startling three and a half years. I did not know how to do single. I felt like I was trying to dance on ice, without my skates on. My friend told me, whilst in the club, that I should look men in the eye and keep eye contact for a while. Apparently this was the sure fire way of getting their attention and checking if they were interested. (Of course it is…unless, of course, you shake your booty in their direction…lol…I can’t believe how naive I was back then, but I was.) I felt like I was 15 years old again and walking around the corridors in school checking out cute guys, that now, suddenly, I was allowed to check out.
I remember finding one cute guy who looked like a hobbit, but he was apparently not interested. Besides, he wasn’t all that cute. Then another guy walked in. I believe I actually saw him entering the place. Now he was hot. For real. Somehow we ended up dancing next to each other (by magic and all that) and when my girlfriend went to the bathroom and they, believe it or not, played Edith Piaf (I love this club, they play a mixture of just about anything, but normally not Edit Piaf), we got talking to each other. He was fit as a fiddle, danced like a God, worked as a filmmaker, traveled the world, spoke fluent French, had lived in France and loved it, wore glasses sometimes, had black curly hair and brown eyes. The last song was one of Bob Dylan’s. There is nothing more perfect than Bob Dylan (and a few other things…).
I went on a date with him the following week. It was one of those all night dates that start at six and end at three am. Of course it didn’t really end there though.
I was staying with my best friend and her boyfriend at the time, in their living room, as I had had to leave the flat I shared with my ex. Now, they lived in what looked like a converted factory building. There were a few problems with this building. Let me give you the pros first: it was a one minute walk from school, it had an enormous roof terrace, the rent was ridiculously low, the whole flat had been done up by my best friend and looked decent enough – London standards it even looked good…well, almost. I still think of that flat as home, because it was my only point of return during all my years in and out of London town. Anyway, the flat also had a few flaws. One was that everyone thought it was a factory and peed on the front door. The entrance stank. Another was that pigeons loved it and whenever they could flew in, nested on window sills, etc. The greatest one was the mice and the occasional rat.
Now, my best friend had just about had enough of mice so she had called rentokill and that day they had come and put traps all over the place. The traps were sticky pieces of paper with peanut butter on them. They were everywhere in the flat.
I had pre-warned my friend that we were coming and she had happily gone down and poured bleach in the entrance, so by the time we arrived it smelled like chlorine and pee. Great combination….but better than just pee.
What I did not know when arriving was that my friend’s boyfriend, stark naked, had got stuck with one mousetrap on each foot and had escaped into the bathroom to try to get them off, leaving my friend in the hallway with…a mouse stuck in one of the traps. We entered. My friend apologized for the mouse stuck in the trap and my date consequently took the mouse and went outside. Needless to say I was so embarrassed I wanted to sink through the floor. I was very thankful that about 90% of all households in London fight mice on a daily basis.
The guy came back inside, not seemingly very upset about the mouse (praise the Lord). He laid down on my bed whilst I went to brush my teeth. When I came out, he was half asleep on the bed and I decided this was a great time to get out of the horrible tights I was wearing (due to London weather) underneath my extremely sexy dress and above my extremely sexy underwear. So I stepped into the wardrobe, which was actually a room. I then proceeded to get my tights off. As I stepped out again, I ended up with one foot each on mousetraps. I did not panic. I PANICKED. Trying to avoid waking up the guy, I shuffled around with one piece of sticky paper with peanut butter on each foot. And let me tell you, when I say sticky, I MEAN STICKY. This shit does not keep mice stuck on it for no reason. Needless to say – I was a comedy show in action. I did, however, manage to get rid of it before he awoke and turned my attention to…other things.
This story has had me laughing till I cried about fifty times over and my best friend, maybe sixty times. She thinks this story has invented a new sex position: the mousetrap (in Sweden we say mouse instead of beaver). As my ex and my best friend’s now ex, were best friends they went for drinks whilst I was still seeing this guy. My best friend’s ex told my ex that I was seeing someone. My ex choked on his Baccardi and coke. (Just for the record – we are now friends, but at the time, it made my day.)
These are things that only happen to dizzy blondes right? The moral lesson that I always have to mix with the sex? Watch your step and what you put (and do not put) on lists and walk around singing about. So now, I am off to play in the waves in Malibu and sing about good, good vibrations….