FORTY: SO ADDICTED

I’m sitting in a cab, watching the scenery rush past me in the middle of the black night. I’ve got nothing to do but think. 

So. She was horny; actually that’s an understatement; I don’t think a hose could have washed her horny ass down.

Don’t get me wrong- I would never turn down sex. It’s like asking a man to give up their porno videos- it’s just not done.

But it had to end; she let out a shrill cry, clawing into my back as I slammed into her hot pussy for the final time. We finished, pretty much skipping the ‘sleeping together’ bit and hailed separate taxis.

No ‘I’ll call you later’ or that awkward silence that follows when you don’t know what to say after you’ve fucked. She didn’t call me a bastard, a friggin’ idiot, a chauvinist- anything, and I didn’t try to ask her to stay.

It was weird, and I hate to admit it, but I wasn’t satisfied. Something was missing, like it wasn’t a fuck.

We didn’t have a smoke? Was that it?

Or was it because we didn’t argue?

One thing I was sure of though- it was very dissatisfying.

So really, there is only one thing I can do.

“Yo, I changed my mind, we’re goin’ to the Piccadilly”


I slammed my shoes across the floor and threw myself across the lemon pine scented sheets.

So I had sex. ‘Did it feel good?’ You ask.

Yes.

‘Was it satisfying?’

Somewhat.

‘Do I need a ciggie?’

Hell, yes.

‘Do I want to go for another round?’

Lordy- fucking- YES!

I want desperately to fuck again. Sex in my opinion is like Pringles- once you pop, you can’t stop. I want to switch it off, but I can’t, because it’s not mechanical; it’s a hunger.

A hunger for sex. A craving.

Oh Goddess of Wisdom, why have you forsaken me? I should be repressing emotions like this, not feeling like I need to be satisfied! You’d think being trained as a journalist, I would know how to handle this diplomatically, but no, I had sex with an over glorified  ‘playa’, in a mangy hotel room, middle of dreary ol’ Britain.

I regretted it as soon as we finished. I couldn’t look him in the eye (nor could I see anyway). I left, not wanting to see him again, but I carried this wretched pain, desperation and neediness with me back to the hotel. ‘Why didn’t I stay then?’ You ask. 

Of course I couldn’t stay! 

I couldn’t fuck him again and again- if I did that, that means I’ll have a relationship with him- not a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship as such, but Lordy a relationship with any man, in any shape or form is a no go.

Because men haven’t changed, they never will. Sebastian was lured away when Jacquelynn McCrae presented him with taster’s choice (although I think someone told me that it was that split in the middle of gym that did it) and Lysander was well, baited with the access to a younger woman.

Men are the poison, just like alcohol and cigarettes, definitely not the Bloody Mary’s (they’re too weak), but the Tequila, Vodka and Whiskey all in one. You know they’re bad for you, but it’s that same sort of adrenaline that thrills your entire being; that pang of momentary bliss until well, the inevitable hangover the next morning, when no amount of cursing on your part can take back the actions of the night before.

Wait, so does this mean I want him now? Or do I just want the sex? Cos I can definitely do with some of that, but then if I just keep fucking, then what more am I than a whore?

And don’t forget, whores get paid, I’m servicing him for free… and you know how uncharacteristic I’ve been lately. It must be the water in the UK- they must have more fluoride in the water than they do back home.

Okay, ‘calm down’ you tell me. Lordy, I need a smoke. And guess what? I’m out.

Why did Lysander and Ma name me after the Greek Goddess of Wisdom? Did they know I was going to go insane? Was this some type of reinforcement so that I won’t freak out? Cos if it is, Lysander should have just ditched ‘Minerva’ and stuck with ‘Lolita’; I’m already becoming some kind of sex fiend.

That’s it. I’m going out; I need ciggies.

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