Zara


I was at Camp Bestival with my brother and his two sons. We’d had a brilliant first day, pleasantly unsullied by booze.  My youngest nephew started the tantrums about 9pm, so we took them back to the tent, and after listening to them sweetly sing themselves to sleep I decided I ought to balance out the familial fuzziness with a tup around the festival arena.

After a couple of hours spent with some 16 year olds who tolerated my presence because of my ability to get served drinks, I found myself on a bed outside a bar talking to a pretty girl that had been told to sit down by a chick in a wedding dress that was feeding me rum.  Apparently we were ‘well-matched’ attractiveness-wise. Me and the pretty girl got on and ended up spending the next hour or so together.  Her friend turned up, which pissed me off as I was getting vibes that I was pretty sure weren’t just in my head.

We were moving into the twos and the time was coming to lay some cards.  I waited for her friend to go to the toilet and enquired as to where she planned to be and who she intended to be there with in roughly 40 minutes time.  She said she was going back to hers.

“With me?” I asked, anticipating the arrival of a positive response.
“Errr, no.”

20 minutes later we were to part ways, though we did swap numbers and actually met up in London.  I took her on a date to watch Greco-Roman Wrestling at the Olympics, but got the time of our session wrong, and no matter how much I huffed, puffed, begged and offered to pay for professional sympathy at the box office they wouldn’t give me replacement tickets. So we went to Pizza Express instead.  It was our only date.

I took her on a date to watch Greco-Roman Wrestling at the Olympics, but got the time of our session wrong

Back at the festival, it was getting on and my window was slowly shutting.  I wandered up to one of the main marquees and challenged a hot blonde to a thumb war, which she won.  Undeterred I challenged her to a repeat- she won again, easier this time and was clapped by the circle of people that were watching.  She was great, loud and Essex-y accent which always appeals to the Kent in me. We were talking/shouting at each other, and I got the vibes again. I’m good at getting vibes.

Her friend turned up, who was generally less attractive and certainly not as welcome.  She introduced herself as Zara. It turned out Zara and the Hot Blonde worked in the chip-van and lived near each other.

“Look,” Zara said, pointing at a chip-van and talking in a voice more Ford plant than Faces, “we work in that chip-van.”

I believed her.  When I turned back round Hot Blonde had been pulled away by someone seemingly funnier than me, and I dragged Zara to a tent with a silent disco.  By this point I thought I was flying; the DJ dropped Dancing On My Own, which I most certainly was not as I twirled and twisted her into every person within a 10 metre radius.

Towards the end of the (brilliant) Robyn tune she pulled one of her earphones off and gestured to me to do the same.  I obliged and leaned in- there may have not been amplified music playing, but the air was heavy with pissed-up Dads failing to harmonise with the Swedish sex-elf.

“You’re gay, right?”
“Erm,” this was a little bit out of the blue but not totally unprecedented (I do look a bit gay) , so not an undue concern, “no. Why do you say that?”
“Well, you look it a bit, and definitely act it.  I mean, look at your dancing. It’s well gay.”
“Well I’m not,” I imagine I tensed my shoulders here, “I’ll fuck you right there on that floor.”
“I don’t think you will,” she said.

10 minutes later we were outside and I was leading her up to my tent.  She stopped.

“I ain’t sure about this.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno.”
“Oh come on, we both know it’s going to happen.”
“Hmm,” she looked at me accusingly then gave a resigned nod, “yeah, fair enough. But can’t we go to mine?  I can’t turn up there in the morning, my boss camps next to me and will know I’ve been out fuckin’.”
“Where is your tent?”
“The other side of the festival.”
“I’ll take you back after.”

We got back to my tent and I crawled around trying to find my torch, which I needed to find my condoms.  When I told her this she castigated me for wanting to use said protection and suggested we shouldn’t bother, which only hardened (pun stumbled upon) my resolve to make sure we utilised them.

she castigated me for wanting to use said protection and suggested we shouldn’t bother

We had pretty good sex, I put in a decent shift.  Her obsession with the condom I had pretty much tied to my pubes continued. She was merrily bouncing away on top when she pulled off me and went straight for my cock.  At first I was pleased then realised she was clawing at the johnny.

“What are you doing?”
“I hate them, they don’t feel nice. ”
“Well we’re fucking keeping it on.”
“Nah, please Jimi.  They’re awful, so uncomfortable; it’s like havin’ a Tesco bag up me snatch.”
“Right,” I said, fighting the urge not to weep at that last revelation, “do you not normally use condoms with guys them?”
“I try not to.”
“Well then we’re definitely leaving it on.”

Sex in a tent is impossible to keep quiet with all the rustling of canvas. It being so late I didn’t think the noise level was much of a big deal, until I heard my brother get out of the tent he was sharing with the kids.  I would find out the next day that he’d been awake when we got back and suffered through the whole thing with his sleeping bag dragged over his head.  To this day, at least once every few months he we will re-tell the part of the pre-coital chat where Zara claimed that I wouldn’t remember her name the next day. Apparently I replied: “How could I forget your name, it is etched on my soul.”

Safe to say, Zara is a pseudonym.  At least I think it is.

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

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