Sex, lies...and a DVD

It took approximately ten minutes after giving Rob my number for the guilt to kick in. What was I thinking? I might have only known John for a couple of weeks but things were going great so why was I set on sabotaging it all?

It was time to backtrack so when the inevitable text arrived from Rob asking me out for a drink, I (perhaps belatedly) told him the truth. Thankfully, he took it in his stride, laughing it off with a quip: ‘I can’t believe I’ve missed out by a fortnight!’ and moving onto the important matter of setting his friend Mark up with my mate Rowan – it was time for us to play cupid – a role I was much more comfortable in than (faux) femme fatale.

Absolved of my guilt, I was all ready to move smoothly onto the next step with John, but there was one more unexpected hurdle coming up…

‘You’re going to hate me’ was the subject line of the email awaiting me on Monday morning. Huh? Was I about to be dumped just when I’d decided to be a one-man woman? With considerable trepidation and a sinking heart, I hit only to find myself snorting in amusement just a few seconds later.

While this was certainly a confessional, it was not one designed to send me on my way. In fact, it was John finally owning up to a little white lie, presumably because it now looked like I could be around for a while. He’d lied about his age - when he told me he was 25, he’d been a little generous – he was 24…almost. There was a month till his 24th birthday making him very nearly 6 years younger than me. An unsurmountabe age gap? Clearly not (well not considering there were 17 and 18 year olds in my back catalogue anyway!) but John was seriously, and very endearingly concerned.

I toyed with the idea of feigning fury but his email was just so sincere that I couldn’t bring myself to do it, letting him off the hook with barely a second thought instead. Hasty maybe? I didn’t think so. I was too excited about our third date to worry about it much…and why? Because this time there was no reason for the date to end with a goodnight kiss. This time, a sleepover was on the cards. Finally.

Come Saturday night, I was in a frenzy – What to wear? Where to meet? What if I’d changed my mind about him? What if he’d changed his mind about me? – fortunately there was just enough time for a quick glass of wine and a calming cigarette before date o’clock. While giving myself a little pre-date pep talk in my head, I was interrupted by my phone – a timely text from Rob asking for Rowan’s number to pass on to Mark and enquiring if there was any chance I’d seen sense and given up on John yet. And don’t ask me why (the wine? The nerves?) but for some strange reason, I found myself telling Rob about John’s little lie.

His response: ‘I’m imposing a new rule in my dating game. If they’re a different category on x factor, they’re out. That excludes under 25s. Seriously though, lying already? That’s how it all starts, you know.’

Realising how stupid I’d been to share that particular nugget, I shook off the seed of doubt Rob had planted and ran out the door. Time to get this show on the road. And prove Rob very very wrong. However, sitting outside the pub with John twenty minutes later, I wasn’t at all sure about things. He seemed younger somehow, he even looked younger to me, and the enthusiasm I’d found so irresistible before now came off as puppy dog keen. Maybe this wasn’t going to work after all. But then he kissed me, and all my doubts evaporated.

The rest of the evening was pretty perfect truth be told. John had miraculously managed to book us a table at one of my favourite restaurants. He made me laugh and he was the perfect gent - holding doors, pulling out my chair, insisting on paying the bill…walking me home. And when I woke up in his arms the next morning, any trace of doubt had disappeared. This was good - six stupid years were not going to change that and neither was Rob.

It was with great reluctance that I kissed John goodbye that afternoon. And when he surprised me by showing up on my doorstep the following morning with coffee and a copy of my favourite soppy film on DVD, I fell in that little bit deeper.

Who was the lap dog now?

Falling off the wagon

So the funny thing about celibacy? It seems when it’s unofficial (ie. when you’re just having a bit of a drought), it’s a damn sight easier to stick to. Conversely when you have made the vow publicly to numerous actual people (I say numerous in the hope that more than just my mum reads my column. Hi Mum.), it suddenly becomes much more of a challenge.

No sooner had I hit send on the email containing last month’s column (and brave assertion that I had transformed into a beacon of virginity), than temptation arrived on my doorstep. And I’m talking literally.

Since I moved into my lovely new home back in January, the house next door has been sitting empty but the other weekend, all of a sudden, there came the distinct sound of someone tramping up and down the stairs heaving boxes. A new arrival in our hood. “Ooh new neighbours!” I proclaim excitedly to my housemate Johnny. “Yeah, I met them earlier and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s three boys - one of whom is apparently just home from touring with his band.” Potential Hot Indie Boy next door - amazing.

Fast forward a few hours, I’m leaving the house to meet Liv for lunch and bump into said HIB on the doorstep. “Oh hi, I’m X, I just moved in ne….” he trails off and we both look at each other incredulously.

I’ve met this particular HIB before. In fact the last time I saw him, we were pretty much in a liplock for the entire evening. Afterwards there was some flirtatious texting but given the fact he lived up North, it seemed pointless to start anything up. I knew I’d see him again at some point as he’d just signed to my friend’s record label - but I wasn’t quite expecting to see him directly outside my front door.

“Eh hi X, this is a bit of a coincidence,” I manage, as a flush creeps up his neck - shy boy this one. “Hi Carrie, I had no idea you lived here. This is mad.” Indeed it is, I agree and approximately 2 and a half minutes of awkward conversation ensues before I make my excuses and we both turn to leave with stunned smiles frozen on our faces.

Since then, I have successfully managed to avoid bumping into him, but the knowledge that he could be laying in bed on the other side of the wall from where I lay my head, immediately unlocked the door in my mind to the kind of thoughts my vow was supposed to quell. ‘Well as long as I don’t act on them,’ I tell myself. Before promptly going out and sleeping with the first man who chats me up. Whoopsadaisy.

The result of that particular encounter was a plethora of embarrassing lovebites, a sore head, and the lingering worry that I may have acted like a wanton hussy (I can‘t be sure as the old memory had been dulled into submission by a cocktail of white wine, brandy, and sambuca). One thing I was sure of - I had no idea what this man’s name was, I wanted him out of my bed sharpish, and I never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

Of course, what with my life being a ridiculous chain of embarrassing events, I bumped into him in the same bar just a few days later. Fortunately I know the bar manager….so I had him barred. Problem solved.

Deciding this was an inevitable slip-up on my path to a virginal existence, I attempted another night of white wine induced drunkenness to test my mettle. To minimise the chance of bad behaviour on my part, I decided to make it a Thursday night out, hoping that the anticipation of work in the morning would stop me going too far, and to take my mate Laura, who promised to ensure we remained civilised.

Sadly, after the nth glass of cheap white wine which they were proffering for free at the 1st birthday of my favourite Camden haunt, things began to go downhill. The process went roughly as follows:

9.30pm: Laura and I are approached by two young men asking for a light.
10pm: Laura and I decide party is lame and head to nearby bar with said young men.
10.30pm: Laura and I are aghast to discover they are just 21 and still live with their parents.
11pm: Laura and I have a tequila and decide to relive our youth vicariously through them.
11.30pm: I am waltzed around a kebab shop, ending in a heap on the floor.
12am: We hail a cab to one of the boy’s houses (or rather parent’s house).
12.30am: Boy breaks out vinyl collection and presence of Leanord Cohen album convinces me he is wise and mature beyond his years…
1am: …he may even be my soul mate.
2am: Laura passes out in the spare room after exhausting game of charades.
2.30am: Boy number two goes home, leaving me and boy number one to discuss the merits of Neil Young’s back catalogue.
3am: Boy tells me I am pretty.
3.15am: I’m pretty sure you can guess.
…
8.30am: “Oh holy crap, I start work in an hour and I have no idea where I am!”

I’ve decided celibacy is like dieting - as soon as you decide to stop indulging, you want to stuff your face with cake constantly.

Behaving like a teenager

It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.

First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.

Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”

Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.

But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”

‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.

“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.

“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.

When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.

The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.

What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.

Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”

What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.

It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.

Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...