I was naughty on a school night last night. Was egged on by the person i was with -he even paid for it- and then we went back to his place and drank port, of all things. The two don’t go well together. Got home at about half-three, and as a result called in sick today. I did feel sick, i tell you. So nauseous i asked the other half not to touch me for fear i would throw up. Gawd. You’d think i was old enough to know better.
The dealer who wants to wait around, have a drink, have a conversation, is a pain in the proverbial. My dealer in London was never like this, but then again, i used to wait on the street for my man in London and when he arrived i’d leap into his car and we’d do a lap around the square and as soon i’d paid and received i’d be only too keen to get the hell outta there. Now, the dealer does home deliveries and he wants a beer, a soft drink, some apple juice i’ve you’ve got it, and he wants to chat. Sometimes he’s there for close to an hour. Give me strength.
People can be cruel. Take the 25 year old who was making eyes my friend from the edge of the dancefloor. She indulged him by making flirtatious eyes, amping up the dancemoves, writhing against me. I didn’t stop her. It was about five a.m. by this stage and i couldn’t have cared less if she wanted to toy with a stranger.
The older guy i’d struck up a conversation with a couple of hours ago had returned. He must’ve managed to refresh his stash. Now he made a grab for my hand, tried to kiss it. Trouble! Before he’d run off to his dealer he’d said something along the lines of “wanting you so bad.” I’d responded by saying that i didn’t do that sort of thing, waved the wedding ring in his face, said i’d only started talking to him because i thought he was gay. I thought i’d managed to offend him then, but clearly not enough.
The 25 year old sidled over. He introduced himself and we reciprocated but only because he was in the right place at the right time, in other words, in between me and the older guy. He led us to a banquette at the other side of the room, seated himself in between us.
“What are you doing with that guy? He’s a bit old to be in here.”
“How old do you think he is?” i said.
“Mid-thirties. He’s old enough to be someone’s uncle!”
“He’s my age.”
Cue shocked expression, disbelief, from the young man. “No way.”
“True. In fact, i’m more than ten years older than you.”
His phone rang, and he answered it quickly. “I’ve gotta be off.”
“Sure, time to get home to mum and dad, huh?”
He smiled weakly and left quickly.
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I swear, sometimes i think i was the little girl with the little curl in a previous life.
Onlookers watched on with disgust as a succession of suited men appeared at a pub window sill to seemingly consume the illegal substance.
~ The Daily Mail, 24 May 2008
Okay, so i giggled. Funny, i thought, that i should be reading this article on a Monday morning after a massive Saturday night. Funny because i used to go to that same pub in Mayfair. Funny because i used to do what was described in the article, at that pub in Mayfair. Funny because i never stopped to think that anyone might’ve seen me through the frosted glass window. (Actually, i don’t know, don’t remember, if the ladies’ toilet was the same as the men’s.)
Okay. So it’s not really funny. It’s naughty. We should know better. It’s not big, it’s not clever. It’s a waste of hard-earned cash. Whatever.
Did the onlookers really “watch on with disgust”? Was it because they were annoyed not to be in on the action? Come on! It’s not like there were children around.
Speaking of children, some years ago, i racked up repeatedly in a friend’s house, in the children’s bedroom -on the window sill- because the bathroom was occupied every time. Clearly someone else was on the same snort cycle as i was. Evil or resourceful? I’m sure no children or animals were injured by my misbehaviour. It’s not like i was Pol Pot or anything.
I should’ve known. The signs were there. I could’ve floated up and down that river in Egypt (a.k.a. Denial) until i was blue in the face, but i wouldn’t have been able to change what i knew would happen.
The first sign: when getting ready for brunch on Saturday, i went all ‘night eyes’ with the makeup. Black liner. It was brunch! A simple brunch in a cafe by the beach. Tell that to the hand. The hand that carefully blended in the foundation, artfully brushed on some blush… the very same hand that said “Accentuate the eyes! Work it, girl!”
Signs, continued: being distracted all day long. Every thought snaked its way back to Charlie, The Pharmacy, putting in a call… Was four p.m. too early? (Yes. Too early for Sydney, perhaps not for London…)
Yet another sign: the churning tummy. The mere thought of Misbehaving, i.e. visiting The Pharmacy, and it was like i’ve consumed enough laxatives for six constipated elephants. I must’ve visited the bathroom three times between six and eight p.m. All the while trying to convince myself that i wasn’t going to call The Pharmacist.
The signs. There’s no point in arguing with the signs.
