It was not until I was in the cab back to hers that I quite realised how pissed I was. I had chosen the most unique facet of London taxis, the backwards-facing seat on the 25 minute ride to the southern most suburbs of this fair city. By Brixton I had to stop talking so as not to throw up and change my appeal from that of sex to that of charity.
Anyway we arrived, and with the reality of 12 pints of Guinness rapidly overtaking the sentience of my loins, I figured we should set to partners immediately. Sadly, her sister was in the kitchen at the time and, joy of joys, I was soon to learn that her flatmate was sound asleep in the next room. Now the sister being no idiot and knowing precisely that I didn’t live anywhere that could be considered near to this gaff, was under no illusion that my wicked plan involved rogering her sibling. With that in mind, she offered me a drink. Nice hospitality on first inspection, but as clear an attempt at chemical castration when viewed with the eyes of a true fiend. My eyes. Eventually she gave up, being half soused herself and went to bed, leaving her older sibling to her worst act of judgment. Little did she know how it would turn out.
Sister gone, I quickly got her top off and made hay for a sofa in the living room. To my intense delight she had managed to get my trousers down too. Phase one was complete. So far so good. However, as my naked posterior touched the soft cushions of the sofa, nature reared her ugly head. My body, accustomed as it is to fits of alcoholic excess, immediately began to shut down, wrongly assuming that I had taken to my normal routine of booze and involuntary bed. My mind went numb and sadly that wasn’t the only thing that began to go south. Absolutely nothing was happening in the nether regions. Communications had been cut.
When I was starting out on this road of binge drinking and borderline alcoholism, this problem never really afflicted me. In a cruel twist of fate, the delicate pendulum that governs the world of drunken sex usually swung in the favour of not getting any game lass, rather than any faults of a physical nature. Now the tables had truly turned and I sat, only in my socks, staring at a pair of tits, but with a cock consistent of foie gras.
I made my excuses and went to the bog, ostensibly to romantically empty my bladder in order to enhance the sexual experience. I wandered through her house naked as sin, and searching for the bog, which I duly found after much deliberation. I had to be quick. If I spent too long she might think I was taking a shit, which, for some reason, would make the experience worse.
Conjuring up what I could in a toxin-fuelled mind I set about pulling my lifeless prick to and fro, north south east and west, all to little avail. Too much time had passed. I had to go back. I figured if I could get the bloody thing close enough to the end game then a flicker of instinct could just take things over. So it was into the valley of death.
I strode in with what romantic zeal a man reeking of booze, pubs and fags can muster and sweeping her off her feet, tried to make the commitment. Nothing. Kissing, pulling on her tits, mouth clamped tightly to her most intimate parts I could do nothing. Then she grabbed it, and wonder of wonders, like a hit of adrenaline it shot up like Apollo 13. It had taken the best part of an hour.
Aware of the potential imminent drop in cabin pressure we assumed the position. If I could just get it in and begin the rutting then perhaps, however unlikely, I could just about keep going until the end. She told me to be quiet because her flatmate was an extremely light sleeper. Being a man whose sexual prowess probably averages around the 5 out of 10 mark on a glorious day, I decided not to dignify that with any response.
Anyway, flying at half sail would have to go and I went for it. Only to be greeted with the immortal words.
“You’ve got a condom right?”
I could have argued but even the thought of levering the vestiges of my cock into a rubber sheath were too much for the old boy to handle and he crumbled to nothing like drunken Christmas jenga.
My only counter was this:
“I could pull out?”
Could/ would/ should. Just what every girl wants to here. Besides, it was academic. There was no hope of even getting granted access let alone completion. The words meant even less than normal.
We slumped back on the couch and kissed a little. This was mainly in order to avoid discussing the debacle that had happened previously. She got vaguely into it. As I sat their beer-gutted, panting, sweating and looking every inch the 21st century Adonis. Ironically, all her machinations began to bring things back to life in the engine room. Another, fuck you from Mother Nature. So I sat there naked, save for the socks, with a stiffy and the onset of a hangover on the couch of a well-to-do family home somewhere in South-West London.
Then I pissed myself, a bit.
For those that have never experienced pissing with a semi, then let we explain. I assume it is akin to incontinence, because, for one, you are entirely unaware of its onset. The second is that it is fucking impossible to control. So I got up and mumbled that I needed the toilet and legged it to where I figured the bathroom was. Sadly, I figured wrong and pissed mainly all over the kitchen, focusing especially on the fridge area. I got to the bog as my great, golden arc of piss liberally coated the side of the sink but failed to find any drainable receptacles. The romantic part of the night was now truly over.
For the first time sexual blasé-ness became a true friend as my inability to remove my socks became a welcome aid to the sponging up process of my own piss from the parquet floor.
My options were fairly limited now, but the main necessity was flight. I ambled back to the room but declined to turn on the light, in case she saw that my socks were missing and began to ask questions.
I surreptitiously dialed a taxi, while imitating the throws of endearment. As she went to sort herself out for bed I took my opportunity and dashed into the freezing night and straight into a waiting black cab. To my horror the driver was the very same who had but 3 hours previous, ferried me to this exact spot. He fixed me a knowing smile.
“Good night son?”
“Better than usual mate, Clapham Common if you please”
Cover image courtesy of Mohammed Abdullah via Flickr
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