Usually I don’t bother over thinking when it comes to making a move. Sometimes, though, when the stakes are high, I remind myself of an excellent story that I suspect may be an urban legend (and if it isn’t, let’s turn it into one), and I feel rather braver:
A friend’s ex-flatmate from university spent forever mooning over some boy, and finally got drunk and made a move on the last day of the summer term. They had one night of semi-functional, alcohol-impaired passion alone in his flat, as his flatmates had all moved out (usually preferable as far as braying all your favourite sexy noises is concerned). The next morning, she had sex bloating and went to let it out in the bathroom while he was asleep. And while she was at it, she thought, why not squeeze out a chocolate monster; get it all out, in case they decide to go for another round. As one might guess, it turned out to be a bit of a beastie and didn’t flush. She panicked – and she couldn’t blame the flatmates, because they weren’t there. With only a short time before he would wake up and notice her absence, she got resourceful. She took a plastic bag from the kitchen and fished out the offending waste by hand (bleghh, but also BRAVO, girl guide). She got dressed and collected her phone, bus pass, keys, and all that other stuff one needs to successfully sneak home. Finding a scrap of paper on the floor, she scribbled a little farewell note: Morning! had a really great time, see you around : ) x
She left, aloof. Crisis averted, and the disappearance/note made her look super unconcerned with the sexual non-event she’s been waiting for FOREVER. And as she closed the front door, clicking the latch into place, she realised she’d left her poo on the kitchen table.
Originally published at The Erotic Memoirs of Crystal Chandeliere