Despite how it may seem, I can assure you I do not live in a sitcom.
Time and time again life has thrown incident and anecdote my way that wouldn't seem out of place in a particularly saucy episode of Community. Albeit an episode wherein the simmering sexual undertone doesn't so much bubble to the surface as explode from a Pedro Pascal delighting pressurised seminal canister, and the cast is inexplicably naked throughout and jiggling for far more entertaining reasons that trying to jostle loose a missing pen...
But for all I may have drunkenly climbed back into the wrong bed following a hook up, offered to wank a guy off for his tube of Pringles and, through sheer stubbornness, performed genuine sex acts on stage in front of an audience, I believe I may have finally reached the peak of the ridiculous sitcom curve arc life has been inexorably guiding me towards.
Since the title has rather rendered any potential dramatic tension at this point moot, I'll save dragging out the direction this is heading;
Because after a recent date, I accidentally went dogging.
And, for once, it wasn't entirely my fault.
I'll not bore anyone with details of my day-in day-out life, but suffice to say it's been busy. I'm very lucky to have a job I genuinely love and a job that often gives me huge chunks of downtime in which to have all the fun I may desire.
The flipside of this otherwise idyllic setup however, is that it can often be countered with long periods of intense business where the workload is constant and near overwhelming. It's still fun to a degree, but it doesn't leave much room for the rest of life.
It's for *this* reason and definitely not -despite what any number of my friends may tell you - from any inane inbuilt fear of commitment, that I've spent a sizeable portion of my recent life sticking almost entirely to hookups, quickies and chance encounters rather than considering and aiming for something that potentially had longer potential.
All of which is a long way of saying; I was a little out of practice when it comes to going on actual *dates*.
The details of how it came about and of the date itself are probably best saved for elsewhere, as they're almost certainly several thousand words of nonsense too many. Instead, for now I'll limit myself to a few sentences to cover the essential details:
We'd been set up by mutual friends after several weeks of being separately told we'd allegedly be *perfect* for each other. We'd both agreed out of sheer necessity to allow the conversation to move onto something - or hopefully someone - else.
His name was Zac and he had the indecency to be almost two years younger than me. Needless to say this made me loathe him immediately. He was a beautiful man - I say beautiful rather than handsome, as he possessed incredibly soft and delicate features rather than the more chiselled and rugged of my usual 'type', but he was, by any definition, a phenomenally good looking example of the human form. He was tall, slim, and in possession of a veritable mane of hair that gave him the countenance of a turn of the century poet.
We met for our enforced 'date' in a a neutral food-serving wine bar. We were having tapas because I'm sometimes I'm so middle class it hurts. Zac was a near gibbering nervous wreck when I walked in to discover he'd arrived inexplicably almost half an hour early, and had been sat trembling ever since awaiting my apparently 'intimidating' presence.
I was delighted. If he'd been effortlessly charismatic too I'd have had to acknowledge our friends had been right about something.
As it was a 'date', I'd worn a classic HIAATAMT dress ('HI I'm Alice, and these are my tits). Which meant Zac, who was desperately trying to remain gentlemanly, spent the first hour near visibly straining to retain eye contact.
Once he'd got over his nerves and released some of the tension by actually allowing himself to glance at my cleavage, Zac was excellent company. He was also, to my surprise and delight, *utterly* filthy once he discovered there was no requirement to stay on best behaviour.
Suffice to say, the date went well. Very well. So well, in fact, that we decided to cut it short since, let's be honest, the bit that comes *after* a successful date is usually the best part.
Which was where we hit our first snag. Because neither of us were local to each other and so we'd picked a semi-'mid point' between us in which to meet up. Which meant we had a longer than was ideal trek back to one of respective homes in which to have some fun.
'Hath no fear!' declared Zac, because apparently on occasion he did more than just *look* like a turn of the century poet; 'I've got my car, we can drive back to yours...'
He then hesitated for a moment before adding; 'I was going to offer to run you home anyway, obviously, even if fun wasn't on the cards...'
Reader, he looked so earnest that I almost believed him. Almost. Not that it mattered. This was my ideal outcome regardless; Sex, and I got to avoid bus travel. Literal win-win.
So, like a pair of rampant teens, we hurried out of the bar and practically sprinted our way down the street. It would have been adorable had it not been so clearly lust-driven.
Which was when we hit our second snag. Because we kept running. And running. And fucking running.
I'd assumed in my naivety that Zac was in possession of an iota of common sense and that he'd have parked his car somewhere within a reasonable distance of his destination. I'd clearly failed to consider that would-be poets enjoy long walks in the balmy evening breeze in order to look windswept and interesting, as it transpired Zac had parked his car NEARLY FIFTEEN MINUTE'S WALK AWAY.
Needless to say I stopped running after two minutes. After ten it had long since passed being funny and we were barely on speaking terms.
If he hadn't been so beautiful I'd probably have killed him and stashed his body in his abandoned car. I'd have got away with it too. They'd not have found the corpse for months given it was NOWHERE NEAR HIS SUPPOSED DESTINATION.
As we departed, suffice to say the atmosphere had turned a little frosty. I had, after all, just spent the better part of ten minutes providing evidence as to why our mutual friends had labelled me 'intimidating', 'argumentative' 'probably better off avoided'. However, I was damned if I was going to have walked fifteen minutes to not receive an orgasm, so I set about reestablishing a mood.
Long time readers will know by now that, in practice, this means; despite still looking furious, I waited until we were just about far enough out of the town centre that we wouldn't be spotted and swiftly arrested, and reached over to get his cock out.
Which brings us neatly to snag three. And a repeated bane of my life. Men's trousers with buttons instead of zips.
