Not even a week into my one on one therapy and here I sit devouring chocolate. It’s smooth and sweet, just like the adventure I meet in London. A New Year a new me, or so the saying goes, but around 12:30 am on New Year’s day, I was back to my old self. Guess we can say that it was a short revelation, however, he was not.
I made my way through the crowd, unsure of where I was going, but with one goal in mind; find my bed. But with the streets crowded, the aftermath of the celebration scattered and my feet aching from standing, I needed something to get me through. Pushing my way to the bar of some pub in the middle of London, I found my way to a Guinness and the smoldering smile of a cheeky fellow.
Here’s the thing, I’m not one for beer, but Guinness, that’s different. Maybe it was the trip to Dublin or just really good beer, who knows. But I downed that sucker, showing my true American side. His hair was blondish, eyes were blue; in a different life, he could be a male version of a happier me. The conversation went nowhere until I leaned in & told him I wanted to kiss him.
My confidence in picking up men is much higher than women, mostly because I’m never comparing myself to them. I don’t care if I’m another notch on the bedpost when I have it planned to never see them again, but my self-esteem waivers when they leave. This one though was different. I had power here, I was free to do things without fear of running into him in the grocery store in three weeks.
So without hesitation, I kissed him, a slight peek on the lips. But before I could pull away his hand was on the small of my back. I’m an American woman wanted by an English man. Sounds like the beginning of a damn rom-com movie, but the reality was I was starring in it. As we pulled away from each other, our bodies still leaving no room for space I told him where my hotel was. Just a few short blocks away and we would be spread out on the dank bed in my not quite a hostel hotel room.
Why was I doing this? I was exhausted, I was horny, I was powerful. The night was young, but there was a sense of dread. Up the stairs, around the hall and bang the door hit the wall. He fell on top of me; I wasn’t drunk, buzzed a little. It made the feeling of dread turn into ecstasy as he reached for the zipper of my jeans. Dead of winter, with so many layers on, it made moving hilariously entertaining. Legs in the air, butts up against the wall, and somehow he found his way inside of me.
I felt nothing, literally nothing in that instant. The ecstasy was gone, the buzz wearing thin and my thoughts drifted to someone I had tried to leave behind in the states. Within minutes I was listening to his groans and pleas for me to achieve gold star, instead, I was pretending until the image drifted into my head. This man on top of me was smooth, the one in my head addictive like chocolate. Instead of screaming yes, I screamed his name, instead of being horrified, I was delighted. London boy would be nothing more than a cheeky laugh at the end of the night, my yearnings would be soulfully pleading.
As he rolled off of me I took a deep breath, I gave him a few minutes to recollect before tossing his jeans and telling him to leave. He was a moment in the dark, a piece of me now, but a story to hold on to none the less. I fell asleep that night with the addiction in my head, for that was the pleasure of New Year’s eve and ending all the same.