Last night I went out with Caroline. We’ve been casually dating, on-and-off since the summer. I think she would probably like the relationship to develop further, though I’m being very non-committal and she hasn’t mentioned anything so I’m happily splashing about in the pool of ignorance. She’s ridiculously sweet, too sweet for me and too sweet to me: Cambridge grad, 22 years old, new-ish to the big city (bright lights, etc), fantastic in the sack.

Last night we went to a magazine’s Halloween party, which was full of inanimate fashion wankers. I hovered up the free absinth, tried not to look openly at the swathes of models hanging around uninterested in me and lost my denim jacket, which had all my money (not much), bank cards (singular) and Oyster (topped up to £1.45). She had got us the invites to the party and started apologising to me for me losing my jacket, which was totally ridiculous and indicative of just what a nice person she is.

Me having not a single penny on my person, when it came to leave she had to pay for my bus back to hers; she poo-poo’d my suggestion that she get a cab (a justifiable option I thought, it was pissing down).

At hers she jumped in the shower to warm up, and when she came back to her room she was just in a Hard Rock t-shirt, which came off quicksmart. She tossed me off and I spuffed a veritable Frankenstorm of jizz, all over her and her sheets. We moved to the other end of the bed.

After a suitable period of respite and self-evaluation, we moved through the bases again and I was all jacked up and ready to go. She got up to find a condom in her wardrobe.

She tossed me off and I spuffed a veritable Frankenstorm of jizz, all over her and her sheets

It’s at this point that I should probably mention that the last time I saw her, I lost my hard-on when we were fucking. We’d always had really good sex until that point- it was possibly the biggest tick in her box- and everything that time was going fantastically, then I started to feel myself edging closer to zero hour. I suggested we stop for a bit and do some other stuff (sexy stuff, not candlestick-making), which we did. However, when I tried to get myself back onside as it were, it just wouldn’t happen. I don’t know why. To be fair, that night I had polished off a couple of bottles of wine and a five course meal, but such a emasculating moment was then a (relatively) unknown quantity, outside of an incident in the wake of a 18 hour binge a couple years back. Fortunately, Caroline had been fine about it, and I found it funnier than I should have.

So she was faffing looking for the sodding johnny, rifling through shoeboxes and shit. I could feel myself getting a little flaccid. Normally this isn’t an issue, but because of what went before I started to panic, to (perish the thought) think. I gave the fella a conciliatory stroke, a flick, some more of stroke, then slapped the gutless fucker right round the chops. No matter, I could feel myself going determinedly down-mast.

She jumped up like a cheerleader, shouting “found it!” She galloped over to the bed, only to be puzzled by the new developments; what had once been a General was now the Private’s wankrag.

Between us we did all we could to remedy the situation. Unfortunately, after a fair bit of huffing and puffing (from both sides) it became clear that this gun wasn’t for reloading tonight. I looked at her dumbly, embarrassed but nearly as embarrassed as I would if it had been someone I really liked.

what had once been a General was now the Private’s wankrag.

Caroline, God bless her, looked at me and said it was fine. We then laid down and she did all the nice kissy and strokey things on my arms, neck and chest that people do to another person when they like them. I love all that shit and in reality it’s what this whole shagging around business is working towards, but only when it’s with someone I feel the same about. In this case it was just fucking annoying and stopping me from going to sleep.

Thank God, Allah and the Dalai himself, come the morning I rose to the occasion. I would describe my shift as fair-to-middling and as I bolted my load there was a tangible gasp from both us, glad that we’d cleared up the issue, as it were, and that it wasn’t going to become a thing.

10 minutes later I made up a meeting I had somewhere. She gave me 10 pounds pocket money for the tube, and a big kiss. I left a happier, richer and dryer man than when I arrived.

This article first appeared on Sabotage Times, which you can find here


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