Can You Handle My...Truth?
Disclaimer: this story is not for the faint of heart. If you are pregnant, epileptic, suffer from heart disease, or are a human being with a soul and morals, please read only at your own risk.
So, Friday night. My friends Harriet and Sarah have a houseboat, and as a whole load of university friends have just arrived in London they decide to throw a spontaneous barbeque / drinks / reunion thing.
I arrive after work, bearing three bottles of wine and a bag full of make up on the off-chance there will be someone new there for me to fail to sleep with so I can write about it in the Diary of Doom. (I have since christened it thus, as clearly the gods have decided my involvement in this Guardian thing deserves some kind of karmic retribution, as you will soon see.)
First to arrive is a vague friend called Anthony - someone I know but not well. He is however the best friend of James, aka the University Unrequited Love of My Life. (Oliver being the Hometown Unrequited Love of My Life.) I question Anthony on James, who I discover is currently creating a course for the university for another friend to teach, because not being content with being tall, gorgeous, Scottish, sexy and holding a BA and an MSc despite being 3 years younger than me, he must also apparently be a certified genius.
Anyway, next, Anthony's brother Jeremy turns up. He is quite the hottie, which is unfortunate for Anthony who is quite the nottie. I proceed to engage in instant flirtage, which Jeremy thankfully reciprocates, and there is general banter, and if I didn't have good reason (um, girl stuff, if you catch my drift) not to drag him off the boat and have sex with him there and then, I would have done.
(It was that kind of start to the party - sunshine, boat, water, everyone together again, funny drunken giggling partying.)
So, the party was fun. I hadn't seen some of the people in a year and it was awesome to reconnect and chat and generally engage in the same university drunkenness over again. Jeremy the Hottie disappeared on to another party at some point in the evening, probably ne'er to be seen again, so I missed a trick there. Oh well.
At some point in the evening Harriet wanders off to pass out, and other people head home, and gradually the party reduces to a few of us lolling about in the sitting room talking, except I am barely awake at this point and end up repeatedly falling asleep on Anthony. In hindsight, I think he thought this was a come-on, whereas it was actual genuine falling asleep after working all day and generally being knackered, so I refuse to be held responsible for what then happened.
Eventually we all start finding beds - Harriet is passed out in her bunk; Fliss takes Sarah's bunk as Sarah is taking the third flatmate's bed (the only non-bunk, luckily the flatmate's not at home) along with the one other cute guy at the party (damnit!). I end up sharing the sofa with Anthony - for my part this is because I always take the sofa, and the single bunks in Harriet and Sarah's rooms are wicked uncomfortable when you're drunk. For Anthony's part I drunkenly assume it's because a shared sofa beats a cold floor.
As we're all grown-ups now, it doesn't concern me when he strips down to his boxers to sleep, as no-one wants to sleep in their jeans and shirt. Anyway, I am in the classic hands-off outfit of baggy pyjama bottoms and a giant hoodie, and we're friends and have never had a single spark of sexual attraction ever, so it doesn't cross my mind that there would be any...funny business. Especially since I'm about three seconds from passing out from tiredness, which I promptly do.
...
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I wake up, dazed, disoriented, still drunk, and wondering where I am. You know when you wake up gradually on someone else's sofa after a party, and your head is fuzzy and it's dark, and you only vaguely know where you are, and your hand is resting against someone's stomach, and after a few minutes you're wide awake enough to realise that there is a rogue penis in it?
My left hand is pinioned to Anthony’s stomach by his erect penis, which has somehow sprung free from its underwear moorings and sailed into my open hand.
This is obviously the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
Ever.
I briefly contemplate whether this is accidental, a sort of bizarre comedy of errors - a dirty dream combined with loose, magically disappearing underwear, an innocently coincidental placement of my hand that unfortunately put it in the path of the rogue penis - when I realise from the heavy breathing in my ear, and the hand that suddenly clamps down on top of mine (well, not directly on top of mine, what with the ERECT PENIS sandwiched in between) and tries to coax my fingers into moving, that he is Very Much Awake.
Does he think I'm awake? Does he think I'm asleep?
I'm not sure which is worse.
This is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
It's just horrendous. I would totally expect this if I was 15, because the unwritten law of teenage parties is whomever ends up sharing a bed ends up making out. It's almost obligatory, because the dizzy combination of drugs, alcohol, bed sharing and being a 15-year-old walking hormone bomb sort of dictates the behaviour. When you're friends, and grown-ups, is it too much to ask that people don't go putting their penises in your hand while you sleep?
My choices are limited. I can:
This really is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
Eventually I manage to retrieve my hand and instantly pass out again into sleep (I refuse to consider what my hands might have been coerced into whilst I was actually asleep), and when I wake up in the early morning he's gone, thank fuck.
I stagger around bleary eyed and wonder whether to throw up from the hangover, but get distracted by Harriet and Sarah giggling in their boatmate's room. Sarah is naked beneath the covers, completely unable to remember anything except she thinks she probably slept with the guy. Harriet can't remember anything past about midnight.
I happily inform them of the stealth penis attack, and the laughter combined with the hangovers and the boat rocking in the water nearly causes us all to throw up, so we quickly scamper off the boat for hangover brunch and discussion of just what the hell inspires someone to whip out their penis and thrust it at unsuspecting people. Everyone concludes that I was hand-raped.
I swear this random penis-in-hand moment is among the grossest things to ever happen to anybody, ever.
Also, they joyously point out that Anthony used to date a Cheeky Girl (no-one is sure which one), which means I am two degrees of separation from a Cheeky Girl and probably have some horrible disease and will have to suffer from skank hand for the rest of my life.
***
Anyway, I spend Saturday night with my friend Catherine, nursing our hangovers with diet cokes in our local pub, and spying on one of Oliver's extremely gorgeous friends, who if he wasn't friends with Oliver I would totally try it on with, except for the fact that I am never speaking to any boys ever again because they are disgusting depraved penis waving perverts, obviously.
***
Today is my mother's birthday so I made her a cake (vanilla sponge with vanilla buttercream filling with toasted almonds, and a thin glacé glaze with more toasted almonds on top, for those that care about such things) and we went out to lunch where I was forced to endure two hours of cricketing discussion, so I tuned out and gawped shamelessly at the foppish posh hottie at another table, who was terribly Brideshead Revisited.
(Sometimes I wonder if I would achieve more if I spent as much time on my writing, college applications and work as I do in staring at cute boys, but then generally I get distracted from such wonderings by another cute boy, and the whole cycle starts again. Except obviously now I am aware of the hideola dark side to the male species and must announce my resolution of absolute chastity in response to the whole penis debacle.)
***
This is the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to anyone. Stop laughing! I keep having penis attack* flashbacks and my hand keeps clenching in horror at what it had to endure.
*I can’t decide what to refer to the incident as, so here’s a poll to decide:
Poll When Throbbing Manhoods Attack!
So, Friday night. My friends Harriet and Sarah have a houseboat, and as a whole load of university friends have just arrived in London they decide to throw a spontaneous barbeque / drinks / reunion thing.
I arrive after work, bearing three bottles of wine and a bag full of make up on the off-chance there will be someone new there for me to fail to sleep with so I can write about it in the Diary of Doom. (I have since christened it thus, as clearly the gods have decided my involvement in this Guardian thing deserves some kind of karmic retribution, as you will soon see.)
First to arrive is a vague friend called Anthony - someone I know but not well. He is however the best friend of James, aka the University Unrequited Love of My Life. (Oliver being the Hometown Unrequited Love of My Life.) I question Anthony on James, who I discover is currently creating a course for the university for another friend to teach, because not being content with being tall, gorgeous, Scottish, sexy and holding a BA and an MSc despite being 3 years younger than me, he must also apparently be a certified genius.
Anyway, next, Anthony's brother Jeremy turns up. He is quite the hottie, which is unfortunate for Anthony who is quite the nottie. I proceed to engage in instant flirtage, which Jeremy thankfully reciprocates, and there is general banter, and if I didn't have good reason (um, girl stuff, if you catch my drift) not to drag him off the boat and have sex with him there and then, I would have done.
(It was that kind of start to the party - sunshine, boat, water, everyone together again, funny drunken giggling partying.)
So, the party was fun. I hadn't seen some of the people in a year and it was awesome to reconnect and chat and generally engage in the same university drunkenness over again. Jeremy the Hottie disappeared on to another party at some point in the evening, probably ne'er to be seen again, so I missed a trick there. Oh well.
At some point in the evening Harriet wanders off to pass out, and other people head home, and gradually the party reduces to a few of us lolling about in the sitting room talking, except I am barely awake at this point and end up repeatedly falling asleep on Anthony. In hindsight, I think he thought this was a come-on, whereas it was actual genuine falling asleep after working all day and generally being knackered, so I refuse to be held responsible for what then happened.
Eventually we all start finding beds - Harriet is passed out in her bunk; Fliss takes Sarah's bunk as Sarah is taking the third flatmate's bed (the only non-bunk, luckily the flatmate's not at home) along with the one other cute guy at the party (damnit!). I end up sharing the sofa with Anthony - for my part this is because I always take the sofa, and the single bunks in Harriet and Sarah's rooms are wicked uncomfortable when you're drunk. For Anthony's part I drunkenly assume it's because a shared sofa beats a cold floor.
As we're all grown-ups now, it doesn't concern me when he strips down to his boxers to sleep, as no-one wants to sleep in their jeans and shirt. Anyway, I am in the classic hands-off outfit of baggy pyjama bottoms and a giant hoodie, and we're friends and have never had a single spark of sexual attraction ever, so it doesn't cross my mind that there would be any...funny business. Especially since I'm about three seconds from passing out from tiredness, which I promptly do.
...
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I wake up, dazed, disoriented, still drunk, and wondering where I am. You know when you wake up gradually on someone else's sofa after a party, and your head is fuzzy and it's dark, and you only vaguely know where you are, and your hand is resting against someone's stomach, and after a few minutes you're wide awake enough to realise that there is a rogue penis in it?
My left hand is pinioned to Anthony’s stomach by his erect penis, which has somehow sprung free from its underwear moorings and sailed into my open hand.
This is obviously the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
Ever.
I briefly contemplate whether this is accidental, a sort of bizarre comedy of errors - a dirty dream combined with loose, magically disappearing underwear, an innocently coincidental placement of my hand that unfortunately put it in the path of the rogue penis - when I realise from the heavy breathing in my ear, and the hand that suddenly clamps down on top of mine (well, not directly on top of mine, what with the ERECT PENIS sandwiched in between) and tries to coax my fingers into moving, that he is Very Much Awake.
Does he think I'm awake? Does he think I'm asleep?
I'm not sure which is worse.
This is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
It's just horrendous. I would totally expect this if I was 15, because the unwritten law of teenage parties is whomever ends up sharing a bed ends up making out. It's almost obligatory, because the dizzy combination of drugs, alcohol, bed sharing and being a 15-year-old walking hormone bomb sort of dictates the behaviour. When you're friends, and grown-ups, is it too much to ask that people don't go putting their penises in your hand while you sleep?
My choices are limited. I can:
- Whip my hand away, quick like a cat, quick like a cat! This would obviously reveal that I am awake and there would either be a horrendously awkward confrontation, or I would have to run away and throw myself into the Thames.
- Accidentally-on-purpose fall off the sofa - followed by an "ow, I fell off the sofa and JUST WOKE UP" (cunning, eh) or a "what happened? I'm on the floor, I HAVE AMNESIA" (doubly cunning). I quickly spot the potential danger of this scenario - that, my hand trapped beneath a penis as it is, might remain there if I don't get this just right; or worse - I yank said penis with me.
- Perform the, ugh, handjob that is clearly being requested of me. This is not even an option, because firstly, ew, and secondly, I just want to go to sleep. I don't want to get repetitive strain injury and sticky.
- Continue to pretend to be asleep and gradually try and slip my hand away from beneath his erection, hoping I can do so in an asleep-type manner to avoid confrontation. The only downside being I have to remain in contact just that little bit longer, and frankly my hand is already grossed out enough.
This really is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
Eventually I manage to retrieve my hand and instantly pass out again into sleep (I refuse to consider what my hands might have been coerced into whilst I was actually asleep), and when I wake up in the early morning he's gone, thank fuck.
I stagger around bleary eyed and wonder whether to throw up from the hangover, but get distracted by Harriet and Sarah giggling in their boatmate's room. Sarah is naked beneath the covers, completely unable to remember anything except she thinks she probably slept with the guy. Harriet can't remember anything past about midnight.
I happily inform them of the stealth penis attack, and the laughter combined with the hangovers and the boat rocking in the water nearly causes us all to throw up, so we quickly scamper off the boat for hangover brunch and discussion of just what the hell inspires someone to whip out their penis and thrust it at unsuspecting people. Everyone concludes that I was hand-raped.
I swear this random penis-in-hand moment is among the grossest things to ever happen to anybody, ever.
Also, they joyously point out that Anthony used to date a Cheeky Girl (no-one is sure which one), which means I am two degrees of separation from a Cheeky Girl and probably have some horrible disease and will have to suffer from skank hand for the rest of my life.
***
Anyway, I spend Saturday night with my friend Catherine, nursing our hangovers with diet cokes in our local pub, and spying on one of Oliver's extremely gorgeous friends, who if he wasn't friends with Oliver I would totally try it on with, except for the fact that I am never speaking to any boys ever again because they are disgusting depraved penis waving perverts, obviously.
***
Today is my mother's birthday so I made her a cake (vanilla sponge with vanilla buttercream filling with toasted almonds, and a thin glacé glaze with more toasted almonds on top, for those that care about such things) and we went out to lunch where I was forced to endure two hours of cricketing discussion, so I tuned out and gawped shamelessly at the foppish posh hottie at another table, who was terribly Brideshead Revisited.
(Sometimes I wonder if I would achieve more if I spent as much time on my writing, college applications and work as I do in staring at cute boys, but then generally I get distracted from such wonderings by another cute boy, and the whole cycle starts again. Except obviously now I am aware of the hideola dark side to the male species and must announce my resolution of absolute chastity in response to the whole penis debacle.)
***
This is the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to anyone. Stop laughing! I keep having penis attack* flashbacks and my hand keeps clenching in horror at what it had to endure.
*I can’t decide what to refer to the incident as, so here’s a poll to decide:
Poll When Throbbing Manhoods Attack!