Two weeks after the event and I’m struggling to remember the finer details of the night. “I need to write my blog!” I told my boyfriend in exasperation, to which he replied “Oh yeah, you still haven’t written about the night we stayed in the hotel.” “It’s hard when I’ve left it for so long though...and I don’t really know what to write because all we did was have lots of sex.” His so very unhelpful response was “That’ll do, just write that.” Luckily for you, I decided to not be so crude and put far more effort into this post than simply informing you that I had so much sex that night that afterwards my vagina decided to go on vacation. Enjoy.
It was a lovely day. I’d spent the night with my boyfriend and the day dragging him around the shops and enjoying the glorious sunny weather. I then travelled home and packed my stuff for our night in a hotel. Admittedly it was the hotel in our local town, but I couldn’t wait to spend some quality time, completely alone, with the one I love. I’m sure you can guess exactly what a young couple did upon arrival to a hotel, by themselves, free to do anything they set their minds to without any unwanted attention; we jumped on the bed and started squealing in excitement at how bouncy it was. Why, what did you think I was going to say?
Within minutes we’d made ourselves at home. I know I’m messy, my bedroom at home is a mere pit, with my floor housing the majority of my belongings due to my sheer laziness in regards to putting things back where they belong. However, I didn’t think it was possible for two people to create such a mess within such a short period of time and we truly out did ourselves throughout the rest of our stay, managing to practically flood the bathroom the next day. For now I needed to concentrate on getting ready. We were going out for our friends’ birthday and I have to say it was lovely not having to worry about getting a bus anywhere, as all we had to do was walk round the corner.
As I put on my make up, my boyfriend lounged on the bed, Britain’s Got Talent on the TV, practically wetting himself with glee whilst watching the happiest fat woman I’ve ever seen, play the piano. It was the perfect evening; I don’t think we’ve both ever been in such a good mood.
I was wearing a new pair of bright orange heels, which I’ve now deemed my favourite pair of shoes. Although they are the most comfortable pair I own, as when walking in any platform, I was glad to have my boyfriend holding my hand, helping me keep my balance as we descended down the high street.
We met with our friends and made our way to the first pub of the night. For some reason this pub was excruciatingly hot and I think I spent a majority of the time merely complaining about the heat, even having to step outside for a while to cool down. As we drank, we all contemplated where we would head next. This issue often arises. You see, the town I live in has only two establishments that stay open until the early hours and the chasm between the type of people that go to each place and the music that is played is wide to say the least. In the end, we decided to be sensible and go to the pub where we could sit outside, rather than work up a fever in a club.
We trotted off down the road, as happy as a group of drunk young adults can be. The last time we had ventured to the pub at hand was a couple of weeks before and it had been completely empty. However, this evening it seemed everyone had left their homes to enjoy the weather. To add to this relief, they were playing music we could dance to!
Before we took to the dance floor, we spent some time sitting outside, talking, with growing fear for the boy passed out on our table, who had been there since we had arrived at before 11pm. This poor guy became rather infamous that night. As time passed by, he didn’t move. I was beginning to wonder if he was so drunk that he might have forgotten to breathe. Fortunately, my qualms were demolished when he proceeded to projectile vomit all over the floor. For a moment, everyone seemed in a state of shock, before we all realised that this wasn’t going to be a single bout of nausea. As he was dragged out of the pub (his legs at this point now with the mental age of a 1 year old) he continued to expel his insides down himself and into other’s beverages, until they managed to park his paralytic body outside, where he could continue his alcohol induced sickness in private, not before I’d run after them, camera in hand, to document his shame though.
Once that episode had ended, we all continued on as if nothing had happened, apart from when we had to edge around the pool of vomit that had been left behind. The alcohol continued to floor and soon we were on the dance floor. One of my friends and I have always danced as normally as we could when in this particular pub, until now. If you’re a follower of my blog then you may have read in previous posts that we have a habit of indulging ourselves in “piss take” dancing and tonight was the night that this side of us would be unleashed to a new community. However, there is always hope that no one noticed.
At one point, whilst sitting outside to cool down, my friend and I were approached by a couple of gay guys who began to gush over our heels. Well, who wouldn’t? With me in bright orange and her in bright red, anyone who didn’t notice our glorious footwear simply must have been blind. This wasn’t the only time my heels were admired either; I bumped into a girl in the toilet who, although reprimanding me for wearing suede shoes in one of the dirtiest pubs in the land, didn’t refrain from also admitting how amazing they are.
As the group began to thin, the urge to head back to, what felt like, our secluded abode grew stronger and we soon said farewell to those who were left and began our short journey back to the hotel. As we exited the pub, we passed the guy still sitting outside, now thoroughly drenched in his own body fluid. He was accompanied by a friend, who had been continuously ringing the same cab number and continuously been turned down. We gave them a new cab number and went on our way. I have never envied anyone less.
After we’d stumbled our way down the high street, intervened by my boyfriend having to drag me past the kebab shop as I gazed inside like a homeless child staring into a sweet shop, stocking up (for some unknown reason) on coke cans, we finally made it back. 3 or so hours later, we unknowingly fell asleep.
It occurred to us both the next day that staying in a hotel is not the same as being completely alone. I feel slightly sorry (and embarrassed) for the people who were staying next door to us; we definitely treated that room like it was home. The intimate details of our evening I will leave for you to conjure up, for I wouldn’t want to undermine how amazing it was and how much that night meant to me.
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