It's been a while since I have written. I needed a break from everything that was going on, and I needed a break from Amber, the table dancing,vodka swilling, next to nothing wearing party girl that had taken over my life. I always said that Amber would take a backseat in my life, be my alter ego. Well now she IS me! I am rarely myself, am hardly at home or with the friends that have loved me through thick and thin. Instead I spend my days and nights with promoters, party girls and minor celebrities (not the good kind).
This all came about after I was offered a free weekend in Africa to go to a party. Carlton was organising it and I jumped at the chance! A free trip to a continent I have never been to, a fabulous party and two whole nights of uninterruped sex with Carlton! Yes please. However my rose-tinted glasses soon fell off in the pool I jumped in when I got drunk at said party as I began to see Carlton's true colours. He's an insecure, posessive and jealous man who can be quite irrational and petty.
Ok, so maybe I knew this all along but it took something big - something like this weekend to make me realise. I won't go into details as it's all too confusing but basically he told me not to even speak to another man while I was there (hello, that's why we got to go there - to mingle!) and then when we all were talking to some guys we met by the pool that day he flipped... slowly.
First we went back to the hotel and he was quiet, then we had the most amazing sex ever (I now realise it's because he knew this would be the last time, how cruel) then he got MAD. He accused me of randomly SLEEPING with two men actually AT the party! What?!? He has serious issues. I knew this before of course, as this has happened when we've been in clubs in London - a guy says hello to me and all of a sudden I've been secretly seeing him for a year and we have a love-child together. He makes up some funky shit in his brain! The only thing was that this time, I was alone in an African country with a man that now despised me. Let's just say the next 24 hours was like a year-long therapy session that really made me re-evaluate my life and what it had become. Ok so yes, I went to the hottest parties, got everything free and went to places most people could only dream of, but was that what I wanted forever? I had unknowingly cut out the most important people in my life, my family and my best friends.
As I sat in the airport terminal waiting for the plane to take me back to London I began thinking about if I had died that weekend. What would the last couple of months of my life have been like? Spent with people who only cared about you because you were guaranteed to make their table look 'hot'. I hadn't seen my friends from college for over two months and I can't remember the last time I had a good conversation with my mum and the fact shocked me.
I returned to the UK with the resolve to change myself, just as I changed myself into party-girl Amber. I was going to dump anyone who didn't give a crap about me and spend alot more time with the people that did.
When people say they went to Africa and it changed their life, they usually mean they cared for aids orphans for a year, but really I just went for a two-day party. The effect however was strangely very much the same.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Final Chapter
The day was Friday 23rd February and my pilgrimage to Newcastle began promptly at 9:00am. I left so early thinking I could have a nice rest at the hotel when I got there then maybe do some shopping before seeing The Footballer. Oooooh no. I get stuck in hours of traffic, go wrong (yes, even with the aid of satnav) and arrive tired, shakey and in a cold sweat in the overcrowded, rather rowdy reception of Newcastle Central Travelodge.
Never mind - all was well (and rather surreal) - this is what I had waited for so longingly for several months. I was going to see my Footballer again! My excitement was tinged with sadness at the thought of the real reason for my coming here. Although he didn't know it, this would be the last time I would see him. After all, when the story breaks out in the Sunday paper he won't be speaking to me again...
I get inside my room and promptly have an accident with a packet of crisps (dinner) resulting in salt and vinegar walkers being sprayed all over my floor, bed and the inside of my bag! Basically anywhere but my mouth. I start getting ready with the vigour of someone about to complete a marathon. The bath is run, legs are shaved, make up applied, hair straightened. Body is moisturised, adding a tiny bit of Sunshimmer for a faint glow - after all those bright Travelodge lights are pretty harsh on mid-winter skin!
And I'm done! I decide to go for my classic uniform of a little white vest and jeans - my must-haves for when meeting a boy for the first time (ever, or in ages) indoors. I find it gives a simple and carefree look whilst making you look tanned and skinny! Underneath my clothes I had on a devastatingly gorgeous underwear set - all black ribbon and bows. He had better darn appreciate this!
As I sat on the bed checking my phone and half-heartedly watching channel 4 I started to get nervous. Really, really nervous. But before I had time to think he was here. I went out to the reception to meet him and there he was. And you know what? Nothing happened. I don't know what I was expecting but it was somewhere along the lines of an extravaggant fireworks display, or rays of sunshine beaming down on us from heaven, or maybe for a really catchy theme tune to play when we met, and for everyone in the room to see just how much we are just MEAN'T to be together! But... nothing. We said hi and quickly headed to my room before even more of the rowdy crowd recognised him, I was particularly worried about a large hen night group who looked like they had met at Fat Fighters.
Once we got in the room we had barely exchanged pleasantries before we were ripping each other's clothes off. He told me how long he had been waiting for this (as if I didn't know!) and I couldn't help retorting that it was his fault that it had been so long.
In between amazingly good sex sessions of which there were SIX we lulled into comfortable conversation. This, we most definately didn't have before. I guess that's becuase we've spoken so much over the last year, and he feels he can trust me more. This made what I was about to do with the papers make me feel even more terrible. Trying to explain the situation and how it was out of my hands though would have been futile. He would never have believed me and I would just ruin the precious little time with him I had left.
About 5 hours later and he was gone. As he dressed and got ready to go we hugged for what seemed forever. It wasn't even a sexual thing - it was just nice. Comforting. He walked out the door and I waited for a sense of terror to come over me................ but it never came. I thought I would be running after him down the hall begging him to stay, to be with me, ME!!! Whilst simultaneously calling the newspaper and demanding they drop the story - NOW! But - I didn't. Instead I laid back on my bed (on his side I do admit) basking in the warm glow he had left me with, thanks to his lovely, sweet personality and amazing sex. Hundreds of thoughts were whirring through my mind - but none were of sadness or regret.
This feeling, THIS feeling is what I had come all the way here for. He has gone from the pedastal I had placed him so highly on inn my heart and in my mind. Finally I realised - he's just a man. Before, no one could measure up to him, and okay... so physically - they still can't if you know what I mean - ha ha! But I'm not talking about that. Now I can actually see his flaws and see that I am .... oh my God I'm going to say it: I'm truly OVER HIM.
If you had to name years of your life like chapters of a book this year would most definately have to be the 'The ***** ******* Year'.
I wonder what next year's will be...
Never mind - all was well (and rather surreal) - this is what I had waited for so longingly for several months. I was going to see my Footballer again! My excitement was tinged with sadness at the thought of the real reason for my coming here. Although he didn't know it, this would be the last time I would see him. After all, when the story breaks out in the Sunday paper he won't be speaking to me again...
I get inside my room and promptly have an accident with a packet of crisps (dinner) resulting in salt and vinegar walkers being sprayed all over my floor, bed and the inside of my bag! Basically anywhere but my mouth. I start getting ready with the vigour of someone about to complete a marathon. The bath is run, legs are shaved, make up applied, hair straightened. Body is moisturised, adding a tiny bit of Sunshimmer for a faint glow - after all those bright Travelodge lights are pretty harsh on mid-winter skin!
And I'm done! I decide to go for my classic uniform of a little white vest and jeans - my must-haves for when meeting a boy for the first time (ever, or in ages) indoors. I find it gives a simple and carefree look whilst making you look tanned and skinny! Underneath my clothes I had on a devastatingly gorgeous underwear set - all black ribbon and bows. He had better darn appreciate this!
As I sat on the bed checking my phone and half-heartedly watching channel 4 I started to get nervous. Really, really nervous. But before I had time to think he was here. I went out to the reception to meet him and there he was. And you know what? Nothing happened. I don't know what I was expecting but it was somewhere along the lines of an extravaggant fireworks display, or rays of sunshine beaming down on us from heaven, or maybe for a really catchy theme tune to play when we met, and for everyone in the room to see just how much we are just MEAN'T to be together! But... nothing. We said hi and quickly headed to my room before even more of the rowdy crowd recognised him, I was particularly worried about a large hen night group who looked like they had met at Fat Fighters.
Once we got in the room we had barely exchanged pleasantries before we were ripping each other's clothes off. He told me how long he had been waiting for this (as if I didn't know!) and I couldn't help retorting that it was his fault that it had been so long.
In between amazingly good sex sessions of which there were SIX we lulled into comfortable conversation. This, we most definately didn't have before. I guess that's becuase we've spoken so much over the last year, and he feels he can trust me more. This made what I was about to do with the papers make me feel even more terrible. Trying to explain the situation and how it was out of my hands though would have been futile. He would never have believed me and I would just ruin the precious little time with him I had left.
About 5 hours later and he was gone. As he dressed and got ready to go we hugged for what seemed forever. It wasn't even a sexual thing - it was just nice. Comforting. He walked out the door and I waited for a sense of terror to come over me................ but it never came. I thought I would be running after him down the hall begging him to stay, to be with me, ME!!! Whilst simultaneously calling the newspaper and demanding they drop the story - NOW! But - I didn't. Instead I laid back on my bed (on his side I do admit) basking in the warm glow he had left me with, thanks to his lovely, sweet personality and amazing sex. Hundreds of thoughts were whirring through my mind - but none were of sadness or regret.
This feeling, THIS feeling is what I had come all the way here for. He has gone from the pedastal I had placed him so highly on inn my heart and in my mind. Finally I realised - he's just a man. Before, no one could measure up to him, and okay... so physically - they still can't if you know what I mean - ha ha! But I'm not talking about that. Now I can actually see his flaws and see that I am .... oh my God I'm going to say it: I'm truly OVER HIM.
If you had to name years of your life like chapters of a book this year would most definately have to be the 'The ***** ******* Year'.
I wonder what next year's will be...
Monday, February 19, 2007
33. End of An Era
As the date loomed for my 22nd birthday I felt a strange sadness wash over me. I felt a somewhat premature nostalgia for what had been my 21st year of life, the greatest I had known. The year I had taken control of my career, gone ahead and got a boob job - something that may appear frivilous on the surface, but really if you think about it is quite a big thing, dumped my posessive boyfriend, dated a footballer, partied in Ibiza, went skinny dipping, sold various stories, began writing this, the journal of my life, passed my driving test, got a car, learnt to pole dance, moved house, lived in a multi million pound apartment on Park Lane, became a Sugar Baby and so much more. It also of course, marked the 1 year since I had met The Footballer. The man that had dominated my thoughts day and night for 12 long months. It was time to do something about it.
Just as I was having this thought the universe worked it's magic and as can sometimes happen, something will hit you out of the blue which you think is the worst thing imaginable to happen - only for it to turn out well.
A national newspaper called me on my lunch break and told me they had pictures, numbers and messages from my phone (all from The Footballer obviously) that a 'source' (aka a backstabbing friend) had given them. My hands were tied. Either I contribute to the story and get to have my say (and of course a portion of the fee) or I can leave it and they will run the story with the (hideous and mainly untrue) account they have. It was tough one and I went back to my office and cried in front of my boss at the unfairness of it all. Then it suddenly dawned on me. God does indeed work in mysterious ways. I had been emotionally trapped by The Footballer for the last year, and counting. I had turned down dates, not put my all into relationships, and wasted too many nights texting him. And all for what? In the words of Lucie Silvas 'it's not much to ask for, to get back what I put in.' and I wasn't getting ANY returns on my emotions!
It has to end. It's been a year now. When I met him I was a shy 21 year old and now, one year on I've changed so much. Whereas in the beginning he almost gave me confidence in my life to try things, now I felt like he was just mentally holding me back. It sounds ridiculous to say it and I bet he doesn't have a CLUE how he is affecting me - but he is.
I decide to meet the reporter from the paper and see what he has to say. I tell him I want this... thing I have with him to end. It's been going on way too long and as much as I don't want to let him go I know I have to. It's ruling a part of my brain 24/7. Ok so in the last few months it's been smaller and almost subconcious - but it's still there. I go ahead and sell my soul for the sum of..... as if I am going to tell you!
As I hand over the messages in my phone, pictures and numbers I have the strangest sense of release. These things I have been guarding for the last year are finally out of my hands. On nights out I needn't leave behind my phone for fear of getting drunk, losing it and someone else finding his details. We talk for hours and I try to make myself not sound like too much of a slut. (almost impossible in these circumstances)
Soon the week is over. The interviews and photos have been done. All that's left is for the story to break on Sunday. I realise this needs real closure and my first pang of panic sets in. I need to see The Footballer one last time. If I leave him, high on his pedastal in my mind I will forever regret this and never forget him. And so - off I go to meet him for the last time feeling something like Thelma and Louise - only because I am setting out on a journey in my car. Realisticly it was probably more similar to an episode of Lassie. A mangey old dog who travels miles to see the man she adores.
Just as I was having this thought the universe worked it's magic and as can sometimes happen, something will hit you out of the blue which you think is the worst thing imaginable to happen - only for it to turn out well.
A national newspaper called me on my lunch break and told me they had pictures, numbers and messages from my phone (all from The Footballer obviously) that a 'source' (aka a backstabbing friend) had given them. My hands were tied. Either I contribute to the story and get to have my say (and of course a portion of the fee) or I can leave it and they will run the story with the (hideous and mainly untrue) account they have. It was tough one and I went back to my office and cried in front of my boss at the unfairness of it all. Then it suddenly dawned on me. God does indeed work in mysterious ways. I had been emotionally trapped by The Footballer for the last year, and counting. I had turned down dates, not put my all into relationships, and wasted too many nights texting him. And all for what? In the words of Lucie Silvas 'it's not much to ask for, to get back what I put in.' and I wasn't getting ANY returns on my emotions!
It has to end. It's been a year now. When I met him I was a shy 21 year old and now, one year on I've changed so much. Whereas in the beginning he almost gave me confidence in my life to try things, now I felt like he was just mentally holding me back. It sounds ridiculous to say it and I bet he doesn't have a CLUE how he is affecting me - but he is.
I decide to meet the reporter from the paper and see what he has to say. I tell him I want this... thing I have with him to end. It's been going on way too long and as much as I don't want to let him go I know I have to. It's ruling a part of my brain 24/7. Ok so in the last few months it's been smaller and almost subconcious - but it's still there. I go ahead and sell my soul for the sum of..... as if I am going to tell you!
As I hand over the messages in my phone, pictures and numbers I have the strangest sense of release. These things I have been guarding for the last year are finally out of my hands. On nights out I needn't leave behind my phone for fear of getting drunk, losing it and someone else finding his details. We talk for hours and I try to make myself not sound like too much of a slut. (almost impossible in these circumstances)
Soon the week is over. The interviews and photos have been done. All that's left is for the story to break on Sunday. I realise this needs real closure and my first pang of panic sets in. I need to see The Footballer one last time. If I leave him, high on his pedastal in my mind I will forever regret this and never forget him. And so - off I go to meet him for the last time feeling something like Thelma and Louise - only because I am setting out on a journey in my car. Realisticly it was probably more similar to an episode of Lassie. A mangey old dog who travels miles to see the man she adores.
32. So This Is My Apartment...Can We Have Sex?
My date with Celebrity Hairdresser was almost like two completely different dates. Maybe with two completely different people even. The first was the C.H I know and loathe - exactly how I thought he would be. Arrogant. Rude. Hostile. We went to the MayFair Hotel for a drink and for the first 20 minutes he did nothing except moan about his day, text on his phone (how rude) and give me one word answers. I wrote the date off by this time and when he suggested going to his apartment to call me a car I could barely be bothered to make conversation anymore to fill the silence.
We walked across Berkeley Square to his apartment and two text messages (him not me) and an argument about Rebecca Loos later I found myself in the nicest little apartment overlooking the square. Thing is - here's where it all changes... I now begin my date with the 'second' C.H. As from the moment we go through the door he changes like THAT 'snap'! He explains it's because he had a meeting with somebody before and the papparazzi followed him - it made him nervous. We sat down and he didn't make any effort to call a car, in fact he became really animated and we talked for almost two hours.
We started to watch a film on tv too and he came out with 'have you had a boob job?' I hate it when people ask me that! Do I ask them if that's their real hair colour? Grrrr.... Anyway he pursuaded me to show him - he insisted it was purely so he could judge them on others he had seen.... hmmm.... funny how things seem plausible until you write them down. Damn! Late New Year's Resolution: Don't be so dumb!
He talked, and talked, and talked........ so I sat back and listened - basking in the ambiance. It wasn't long before he pursuaded me to go sit/lie with him while we talked and as predicible as a fat girl in a cake shop he began doing what he does best. Being a slut. Ok, ok so when I told my hairdresser, Andrea about going out with him she warned me that it was a well-known fact that he was a whore of the highest order and would try it on - so long as you had blonde hair and a fake rack. Damnit why didn't I pay more attention to those gossip columns in magazines? Now I was in for it.
I ended up staying there until nearly three in the morning. There was a lot of talking, there was also a lot of groping (on his part - not mine!) andI think my top moment (I am being sarcastic) is when he came out with:
"Can I have sex with you?" (disgusted look and dignified 'no') "Ok well how about a blow job?"
Ugh! I sincerely hope he was talking about a wash and blowdry!
Rather disturbingly he took a creepy turn for the worse. Now he was coming out with "Ooooh you're so shy, don't you want to give me a kissy wissy?" All said in a creepy, child-molester voice. No, I'm not shy, you're just an old letch who's definition of a 'kissy wissy' is grating my skin with your old-man beard and slobbering over half my face.
I left and met Carlton at Funky Buddha. It's funny - I felt really guilty about having met Celeb Hairdresser that night, but why? I'm not even seeing Carlton... am I?
We walked across Berkeley Square to his apartment and two text messages (him not me) and an argument about Rebecca Loos later I found myself in the nicest little apartment overlooking the square. Thing is - here's where it all changes... I now begin my date with the 'second' C.H. As from the moment we go through the door he changes like THAT 'snap'! He explains it's because he had a meeting with somebody before and the papparazzi followed him - it made him nervous. We sat down and he didn't make any effort to call a car, in fact he became really animated and we talked for almost two hours.
We started to watch a film on tv too and he came out with 'have you had a boob job?' I hate it when people ask me that! Do I ask them if that's their real hair colour? Grrrr.... Anyway he pursuaded me to show him - he insisted it was purely so he could judge them on others he had seen.... hmmm.... funny how things seem plausible until you write them down. Damn! Late New Year's Resolution: Don't be so dumb!
He talked, and talked, and talked........ so I sat back and listened - basking in the ambiance. It wasn't long before he pursuaded me to go sit/lie with him while we talked and as predicible as a fat girl in a cake shop he began doing what he does best. Being a slut. Ok, ok so when I told my hairdresser, Andrea about going out with him she warned me that it was a well-known fact that he was a whore of the highest order and would try it on - so long as you had blonde hair and a fake rack. Damnit why didn't I pay more attention to those gossip columns in magazines? Now I was in for it.
I ended up staying there until nearly three in the morning. There was a lot of talking, there was also a lot of groping (on his part - not mine!) andI think my top moment (I am being sarcastic) is when he came out with:
"Can I have sex with you?" (disgusted look and dignified 'no') "Ok well how about a blow job?"
Ugh! I sincerely hope he was talking about a wash and blowdry!
Rather disturbingly he took a creepy turn for the worse. Now he was coming out with "Ooooh you're so shy, don't you want to give me a kissy wissy?" All said in a creepy, child-molester voice. No, I'm not shy, you're just an old letch who's definition of a 'kissy wissy' is grating my skin with your old-man beard and slobbering over half my face.
I left and met Carlton at Funky Buddha. It's funny - I felt really guilty about having met Celeb Hairdresser that night, but why? I'm not even seeing Carlton... am I?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
31. Ten Years Younger
2007 had started, and I was determined not to lose the magic I felt for 2006. So by the time the first Wednesday had rolled around I found myself packing my dancing shoes and fake tan and heading for for the London party scene once more.
The night was Wednesday, the club was Chinawhite, the dress was an impossibly short 60's style number that was designed to be worn as a top. Hey ho - they shouldn't make tops so conservative! Luckily Carlton had one of his friends there from some country like Sudan or something who loves nothing more than splashing out on a couple of bottles of Champagne, and Grey Goose of course!
As I proceeded to get terribly drunk with my little sidekick, Saskia I noticed a celebrity hairdresser/tv personality/whatever you call it sitting at the next table to us with none other than the original lothario himself - Calum Best. Now I must be the only girl in the WORLD that doesn't find Calum Best attractive - however I was still excited as he once went out with my all-time favourite woman - Rebecca Loos! Celeb Hairdresser with him used to live in the next town to me in Essex so he is also somewhat of a local hero. It didn't take him long until he sidled over and started talking to me. We chatted for about twenty minutes about hair, Essex and how I had actually met him once before when I was at college before we were rather abruptly interrupted by Donny Tourette from Towers Of London. Now there's a man with some hair going on! I stood, drink in hand while they chatted for approximately 10 seconds before I decided I wasn't going to be That girl. That girl people expect me to be when they see me. Standing there hanging on to their every word. So I walked off! Went to the toilets (even though I didn't need to go) and decided to make him realise you don't put baby in the corner! Or rather, you don't turn your back on an Essex girl.
Later on that evening Celeb Hairdresser noticed I was back at my table and came over AGAIN. Eager Beaver? I think so. We talked a little more and exchanged numbers. I was thanking God for having that one boring afternoon at work where I decided to memorise my number for such occasions. He promised to call me the very next day and that we would go out, and with that he was off. I couldn't believe it! He is a hot guy and him and Calum had a tonne of girls around their table - ALL THE TIME, but just like with The Footballer - they just can't help wanting a little bit of the Essex! And who was I to deny them it?
I left that night with Carlton at about half three, as I tried to say goodbye to Saskia I noticed that she was deeply engrossed with Sezer from Big Brother. Sezer!! I mean seriously! Although I really shouldn't judge. Although he is the lowest form of celebrity, even if you could call him that, he is there every week and every time I see him he is nothing but nice. So never judge your celeb by it's status! They were busy playing tonsil tennis with each other so I left them to it making a mental note to myself to mock Saskia about it the very next day.
Now just becuase I went home don't think the fun stopped there. Carlton and I have been steadily progressing despite both of our efforts to abstain from phyical ativity which can only lead to emotional attachments. We can't abstain. We had some fun that night, several times and all would have been perfect if it wasn't for some rather sudden revelations.
We were just getting down to it. I was sleepy but never to sleepy for him and just as I thought it couldn't get any better he comes out with "I hope you get pregnant. I want you to have my baby so much." WHAT?!?! Now I must admit this isn't the first time he's suggested such a thing. Just last week we had an argument about whether I would marry him or not. The sad thing is - and he's so right when he said it is; we're 10 years too far apart. If only I was born 10 years earlier or he was 10 years younger everything would be ok. But the fact is - I wasn't and he isn't. He even talks of getting married and stuff, but the reality is, it would never, ever work. We get on so well and I AM so attracted to him, but logistically it just wouldn't work. How could I marry a guy 17 years older than me? I would be widow in my 50s!
That's not the only problem that comes with dating an older guy. Stamina. I am used to young guys who have barely come before they're at it again, and again! Not so with Carlton unfortunately. I remember us getting into a little bit of a fight the other night as we had had sex once and then he promptly turned over and fell asleep! I wouldn't mind but I'm sure that when we first got together we were at it all the time. Maybe I am just looking back on that honeymoon period through rose-tinted glasses. Anyway, when this happens to me I get a little (a lot) angry. It's always the same. He is really persuasive, manages to have sex with me before I'm ready then when I want it again and again he gets mad and shouts stuff about how he needs time to 'recover' and that he's 'not a 17 year old'and my personal favourite 'you must be a nymphomaniac!' For the record, I'm not... or am I? How does one class oneself as a nympho? Maybe I'll look it up on Google and see...
To distract myself from this whole thing I agreed to go on a date with the Celeb Hairdresser later that week...
The night was Wednesday, the club was Chinawhite, the dress was an impossibly short 60's style number that was designed to be worn as a top. Hey ho - they shouldn't make tops so conservative! Luckily Carlton had one of his friends there from some country like Sudan or something who loves nothing more than splashing out on a couple of bottles of Champagne, and Grey Goose of course!
As I proceeded to get terribly drunk with my little sidekick, Saskia I noticed a celebrity hairdresser/tv personality/whatever you call it sitting at the next table to us with none other than the original lothario himself - Calum Best. Now I must be the only girl in the WORLD that doesn't find Calum Best attractive - however I was still excited as he once went out with my all-time favourite woman - Rebecca Loos! Celeb Hairdresser with him used to live in the next town to me in Essex so he is also somewhat of a local hero. It didn't take him long until he sidled over and started talking to me. We chatted for about twenty minutes about hair, Essex and how I had actually met him once before when I was at college before we were rather abruptly interrupted by Donny Tourette from Towers Of London. Now there's a man with some hair going on! I stood, drink in hand while they chatted for approximately 10 seconds before I decided I wasn't going to be That girl. That girl people expect me to be when they see me. Standing there hanging on to their every word. So I walked off! Went to the toilets (even though I didn't need to go) and decided to make him realise you don't put baby in the corner! Or rather, you don't turn your back on an Essex girl.
Later on that evening Celeb Hairdresser noticed I was back at my table and came over AGAIN. Eager Beaver? I think so. We talked a little more and exchanged numbers. I was thanking God for having that one boring afternoon at work where I decided to memorise my number for such occasions. He promised to call me the very next day and that we would go out, and with that he was off. I couldn't believe it! He is a hot guy and him and Calum had a tonne of girls around their table - ALL THE TIME, but just like with The Footballer - they just can't help wanting a little bit of the Essex! And who was I to deny them it?
I left that night with Carlton at about half three, as I tried to say goodbye to Saskia I noticed that she was deeply engrossed with Sezer from Big Brother. Sezer!! I mean seriously! Although I really shouldn't judge. Although he is the lowest form of celebrity, even if you could call him that, he is there every week and every time I see him he is nothing but nice. So never judge your celeb by it's status! They were busy playing tonsil tennis with each other so I left them to it making a mental note to myself to mock Saskia about it the very next day.
Now just becuase I went home don't think the fun stopped there. Carlton and I have been steadily progressing despite both of our efforts to abstain from phyical ativity which can only lead to emotional attachments. We can't abstain. We had some fun that night, several times and all would have been perfect if it wasn't for some rather sudden revelations.
We were just getting down to it. I was sleepy but never to sleepy for him and just as I thought it couldn't get any better he comes out with "I hope you get pregnant. I want you to have my baby so much." WHAT?!?! Now I must admit this isn't the first time he's suggested such a thing. Just last week we had an argument about whether I would marry him or not. The sad thing is - and he's so right when he said it is; we're 10 years too far apart. If only I was born 10 years earlier or he was 10 years younger everything would be ok. But the fact is - I wasn't and he isn't. He even talks of getting married and stuff, but the reality is, it would never, ever work. We get on so well and I AM so attracted to him, but logistically it just wouldn't work. How could I marry a guy 17 years older than me? I would be widow in my 50s!
That's not the only problem that comes with dating an older guy. Stamina. I am used to young guys who have barely come before they're at it again, and again! Not so with Carlton unfortunately. I remember us getting into a little bit of a fight the other night as we had had sex once and then he promptly turned over and fell asleep! I wouldn't mind but I'm sure that when we first got together we were at it all the time. Maybe I am just looking back on that honeymoon period through rose-tinted glasses. Anyway, when this happens to me I get a little (a lot) angry. It's always the same. He is really persuasive, manages to have sex with me before I'm ready then when I want it again and again he gets mad and shouts stuff about how he needs time to 'recover' and that he's 'not a 17 year old'and my personal favourite 'you must be a nymphomaniac!' For the record, I'm not... or am I? How does one class oneself as a nympho? Maybe I'll look it up on Google and see...
To distract myself from this whole thing I agreed to go on a date with the Celeb Hairdresser later that week...
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