"You're on a deet", said the bartender, while she was pouring my Peroni. I recognized the New Zealand accent, but didn't want to give up so easily to a more understandable version of English, so I gave her a flirty look and asked: "Sorry, love, I'm on a what?". "On a deet, you know, when you go out with a girl, do stuff...". I laughed, cockily. "Oh, a date," I said, making a special emphasis on the "a" sound. "Yes, love, I'm definitely on a date". I grabbed the two pints of Peroni and went back to my table, where Paula was waiting for me.
She reminded me to someone I use to date a few years ago, Marion. They both did had the same skin colour, but not the same eyes... Anyway, it wasn't so much of a physical resemblance, but that confidence and correct-girl attitude. It's specially the nice and impeccable way of dressing what reminded me of Marion. The girls I usually date are not so much Versace but more of a charity-shop-style. Anyway, she was hot and interesting, in her conventional way. Besides, she was a bartender, like me, so we had something to talk about for at least a few hours.
When we eventually ran out of things to talk about, we started making out, as the protocol indicates. That's where I knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't because of the kissing itself. Actually, the kissing was exactly what made me go on a date with her on the first place. The night before, I went to her pub. I was sort of drunk, and so were the colleagues from my pub who were with me. She was working, and even though I hadn't keep in touch with her in the past few month -or replied her last texts-, she welcomed me with a wide sexy smile. "Hello, handsome," she said. I talked to her for a few minutes -"How have you been? What's new? Give me free drinks. Etcetera"- and went back to my friends, ignoring her for the rest of the night while I caught up with my tequila shots.
A few hours later, reality was quite blurry. David was absolutely hammered, hitting on random tourists on different corners of the dark flattering ambience. Joe and Blake were involved in a very serious discussions about paper and fabric napkins. I decided a deep metaphysical subject like that was a little bit too much for my a neuronal activity as simple as mine, so I decided to proceed to the gent's to unload some amounts of the liquid my body was so happily receiving.
When I was on my way back from the toilets, she was waiting for me. The bar was busy, but she didn't care. She intercepted me in the dark and started kissing me fiercely. I was surprised. When I met her I didn't imagine she tasted so good. Her lips were simply delicious.
So that's why I decided to go on a date with her. "If that's her lips' flavour," I thought, "we better taste the rest of her body".
So there we were the next day, at a random pub in Stratford, where a charming New Zealand bartender accurately diagnosed me with a deet.
When we started kissing in the box where we were seating, I realised it wouldn't work, not because she had lost her taste from one day to the other, but because her general attitude was just... tasteless. She was pulling my shirt up, touching my nether zone, beginning to moan, while in the box next to ours two little kids were starting their burgers. "I don't think this is the appropriate place or time for that," I said, very seriously, when she blatantly started to unbutton my trousers. She was on fire. "So lets take it to the appropriate place," she said.
Half an hour later, we were at her place, a crappy room in a crappy house in a remote residential neighbourhood of London which name I didn't even remarked in the first place. In a corner of the room, there was a small table with cereal boxes, a jug of water and various kitchen utensils. Then, there were clothes inside and outside an old wooden wardrobe, a mirror, hair products, and more assorted random objects, all within a chaotic mess. Mess is usually a deal-breaker for me, specially that kind of dirty mess. But I was horny too, we were finally there after a long trip, and it was certainly too late to go back home (the tube wasn't working after eleven thirty), so I needed a place to spend the night.
When I finished scanning the room, she was already undressed. She took my clothes off in less than three seconds and next thing I knew we were fucking.
It didn't work at all. First reason: she was biting me non-stop; biting my neck, my chest, my legs. I asked her to stop, but she wouldn't. I have really sensitive skin, and while physical pain might be a turn-on for some people, for me is scary and uncomfortable. The sex itself wasn't working so well either. She didn't seem very happy when I put a condom on, and even if we had fifteen or twenty minutes of tuned, tunned and well-timed humping, then it got boring and uneven. I came once, twice, three times. She wasn't satisfied, she wanted more. After the third time, I was too tired to continue. I started eating her out, to make her come and finish for once and for all. Not only she didn't come, but every time she was about to, she would pull my face away from her fanny and make me penetrate her again. I could barely stick something inside.
"Je ne peux pas jouir si t'utilises un preservatif," she said... or something like that. "Sorry?" I said. I understood what she was saying, but just couldn't believe what she was suggesting. "I can't come if you're wearing a condom," she repeated. I laughed -trying to play it cool- and replied: "Sorry, love, but that stays on". I kept on trying to make her come for twenty more minutes, or so, and then I just surrendered to my lack of sleep and my drunkenness of the past four days, and fell on the bed like a log. I fell asleep immediately. My dick didn't work any more, it was absolutely sore after more than one hour of bad-friction sex.
Even when I called it off and went flying to the lands of slumber, the Marion look-alike -I can't even recall her name any more- just wouldn't give up. She rubbed her ass against my crotch the whole night. Every now and then, she would even start to bite me again. I would pretend I was sleeping, but she continued, firmly and strongly, trying to wake me up. Finally, furious, I had to tell her to stop it, to let me sleep, not once, but four times.
By eight in the morning I escaped. I told her I had to work, even if that "work" I so badly had to do was going to my own bed to finally be allowed to sleep for a few hours without someone attempting to antropophagate me. I left in such a rush that we couldn't even find my pants. "Keep them," I said after looking for them for almost eight minutes, "I don't need them, anyway". So I went commando and left as fast as I could.
It took me two hours in two crowded smelly trains -which I refused to pay for, after such a disappointment of a night- to get back home. When I saw my bed, I was so happy I almost cried.
Today, five days later, she texted me. " I found your pants", said the message, "They were under the bed".
"Disgusting," I thought, and never replied.
