velcro and realising it is half ten in the morning. After ten minutes of struggling with the remote to open the poxy curtains I decide to head out of the door without taking last night's makeup off, putting today's on or brushing my hair. The only part of my body to get any kind of treatment was my teeth got a brushing - they deserved it after the sickness. My friend J went to the dentists once and he could tell that she drinks and is sick alot as it had taken all the enamel off the back of her teeth! My stomach bile which forcibly exited my body at around 9:00am that morning was so acidic it could have melted steel I am sure, so I was feeling guilty on my teeth you see.I couldn't face the tube that morning, me and the central line needed a break from one another so I thought I would take the relaxing option of ordering a car. What a mistake that was. How do London drivers not know where they are in London? I asked him to take me to Cannon Street, we pull up outside some building by St Paul's to the unneccecarily chirpy announcement that
"We're here!" No, no, no no no no NO! We're blatantly NOT here! Aaarh!! I felt like pulling the little Asian guy from his seat and driving myself. Eventually I get to work at around 12 midday, over THREE HOURS late! This is NOT good. Luckily no-one really seems to notice and I manage to slip in unscathed.I spend the remainder of my day trying not to heave, forcing my eyes to stay open and vowing 'never to drink again'. Later that night back at the apartment FGF tells me we're all going out for dinner. Yay! Now by 'we all' I find out means me, him, the brother and two lesbians he plans to watch have sex later. Nice. FGF,
brother and I set out and pick up the girls at Fifty, Fifty! I mean, how on earth did they get in Fifty, they're LESBIANS for Christ's sake! Gay they may be, but soon I find out they're two of the cleverest sugar babies I've met. I could learn from these girls. (and by learn I mean sugar baby tactics not, like, sex tips for same sex orgies - no!)We go to Nobu for drinks and before I know it my vow to not drink is out of the window and I
find myself with a large vodka, lime and lemon in my clammy little hungover hand. Not even nine hours before I was wretching in the bathroom and I felt the need to tell everyone this, along with the fact that:a. In the last 24 hours I had been sick more times than I had drank so therefore I must have lost weight
b. My drinks taste like sick - I need to drink something I didn't regurgitate only hours before
The girls are friendly, entertaining - almost geisha-like in their mannerisms and the men are content with our little table with enough food, drinks and girls to keep them satisfied. It's not long before we decide to head to a club. The lesbos are keen on Pangaea but I refuse to go two nights in a row and we all settle upon Mo*Vida. I'm happy we didn't have to naked arm wresetle or anything to come to this decision, just a simple vote - the perfect lesbian democracy.Mo*Vida is hot, heaving and sweaty - just how I like my men, ha ha! FGF takes us through a secret door and through the back of the club round all the kitchens, where on earth
are we going? We end up meeting a snotty girl in a dress that shouldn't be worn with boobs anything less than a C cup who is guarding her precious velvet rope as if her life depended on it. We are quickly ushered into the infamous VIP room and get one of the only champagne tables in there. Tables in clubs annoy me so much. You have to pay at least £1k usually to get a table by ordering a bottle of their champagne - but I HATE champagne! Call me unrefined or whatever but I can't tolerate the stuff - one sip and I am ill for about three days.I order more vodka and check out the room to see who's there. There are several guys who look hot and the annoying thing is I don't know who they are. Half the guys in there were probably footballers for some of London's biggest clubs but even when I met my Footballer in Newscastle I didn't have a clue who he was. I have tried researching on the internet for squad pictures so I can swat up a bit but they all mould into one - they're all tall, fit, (I mean physically) quiet and
usually black. I get talking to one of them who comments on our strange group - what strange group I indignantly ask?!? Ok so there's fat Indian guy lounging on the sofas alternating between kissing me and giving me drinks and watching the lesbians being all over eachother (eiw), said lesbians dancing with eachother in that rather uncomfortable, intimate way that only gays know how to do to make everyone else in the room suddenly find the floor very interesting. They occasionally give eachother dirty looks and the Brother is standing watching it all go on and occasionally trying to grab one of the lesbo's hands - hello! She likes GIRLS!! I explain the whole thing to him and he is somewhat astonished at our strange little set-up.Hmm, it got me thinking - was I so far into this whole thing that I couldn't see clearly anymore? was it normal to date a guy who has more girlfriends than Hugh Hefner and is twice your age? Maybe not but the other girls and I were having fun and considered ourselves to be the winners of the situation so what does it matter?
It did get me thinking though how maybe my family and friends may not be as open-minded as us and that I should censor what I tell them. The hot boy had taught me a lesson - loose lips sink ships. I would remember this for the rest of my sugar baby days.
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