Vixen vs World: July 2011

Whenever someone starts a game of “I Have Never” (and this seems to happen a lot with me, I think some people are just incredibly nosey), quite often the phrase, “I have never….been walked in on having sex” comes up. Up until quite recently this had never happened to me, but within the last 4 months it has happened twice. It probably should be excruciatingly embarrassing, but after I decided to stop “doing awkward” when it came to things like this I now find it all rather amusing.

First time it happened it could be argued that it was ever so slightly inevitable, given the circumstances. The circumstances being me, plus 4 men all sleeping in one room whilst on a skiing holiday. One of my friends from school has an apartment, so it was me, her, her boyfriend, plus four of her colleagues. The apartment had one bedroom, which she obviously took, with the rest of us in the living room on couches, or alternatively, the floor.

Anyway, things had been going well with one of the boys, who back at the time I christened NB on Twitter (short for New Boy, yes I am THAT original, and was hoping something might come of it). Unfortunately he is, well, nothing now, but we shall stick with NB in lieu of a better name.

About half of the group had come back to the apartment for lunch, with some others going to the swimming pool. NB and I lazed around, making it quite clear what our intentions were until everyone cleared off, and then we got down to business.

Unfortunately the two guys who had been at the swimming pool decided to return and no matter how much you claim otherwise, it’s fairly obvious what two people under a duvet that won’t come out have been up to. Incident #1.

Incident #2 happened last Friday. I’d been out to the London Zoo Lates with some friends, which was all very civilised. We then proceeded out to the bastion of high class that is Infernoes. Mmmm carpeted clubs.

N.B. - for anyone who doesn’t know Infernoes is an extremely man-heavy nightclub and may or may not have been described as a “meat-market.” There's an equivalent club in every major city in the UK. Yes, it’s fairly vile, but I do-not-give-a-flying-shit, if I can have fun there then that’s all that matters. (Last time I was there I did end up crying, but only because I lost all my friends and it was my birthday.)
An example of the standard of chat in there:

Man walks up to me: You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Please let me buy you a bottle of champagne?
Me: Errrr….ok?
Man: Where are you from?
Me: Liverpool.
Man walks off. THE BLOODY CHEEK!! I would have smashed that bottle over his head if he’d given me a chance.

Back to the main point of the story - in short, my excellent wing-woman found a HOOOOT Australian guy, who was made approx 20% hotter because of his accent. He is also with about a million other crazy pissed Australians, but I disregarded this, a mistake which would come back to haunt me. The club kicks us out and we attempt to hail a taxi. Aussie Boy (AB) can’t remember the name of his road, and instead just says “Clapham.” Considering we were in Clapham at the time, the taxi drives off, rather understandably. We wander around for a bit longer before AB finally does remember the name of his road, and we get there, go into the front room, and he starts pulling down a double mattress that has been leaning against the wall.

Now, alarm bells probably should have been going off at this point, especially considering the number of backpacks and sleeping bags in the room. What can I say, hindsight is a mighty fine thing. Also, it was dark, and I was drunk.

Bit later (not that much later), I hear the remainder of the million other Aussies get in and start having a conversation in what I presume was the kitchen. Bit after that, when we are stark naked and literally in the middle of things, one knocks on the door and says something along the lines of, “We’re coming in soon, we want to go to sleep,”

AB yells, “NO, give us a minute,” –

He replies: “Nah, we’ve given you 15 minutes (15!!! WTF?? Is this the Australian average?? In which case, remind me never to go there), we’re coming in now” and they give us literally, I would say 5 seconds? During which I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast to roll AB off me, grab a sleeping bag, rip it out of its cover and throw it over the both of us.

In proceeds at least 4 other Aussies, who it transpires, are using the front room as their bedroom. Great. Now there’s only really one way you can play being completely naked under a sleeping bag, on a mattress, in a strange house with a load of Antipodeans you’ve only just met – brazenly. And like you Do Not Care.

So I sat up and started a conversation with them. They were actually all very nice, and not at all bemused to find themselves talking to a naked English girl. Probably happens quite often with them. Can’t really remember many details about what I asked them apart from –

“So, how long have you been here?”
“Oh, since Tuesday.”

That would be a grand total of 3 days. They’d pretty much just got off the plane.

Needless to say I didn’t hang around for long in the morning. Morning sex is pretty much off the cards when there’s 3 people on the mattress next to you.
Turns out I’d ended up somewhere near Brixton. Thank god for Google Maps and emergency flip flops in your bag, that’s all I can say.

So last Saturday was Gay Pride in central London which was a nice big gay day out for everyone involved. It was the first time I’ve ever been, so I watched the parade, standing just behind The Cutest Old Man Ever. He literally clapped every group that went past and quite a few elder gents in the parade knew him and came up for a hug. We got speaking a bit, he managed to get me lots of stickers, and was just all sorts of LOVELY. Just amazing to think how much will have changed for these guys, from being gay being a criminal offence and being sent to jail for it, to how it is now. (Obvs there’s still homophobia around, I’m not claiming we’re quite there yet, but compare society now to 60 years ago....)

Anyway, here are some nice pick-tures.