The Eleventh Man 

[NSFW/TMI and all those other warnings/enticements apply]

I didn’t think I would be bothered by being dumped by French Train Station Platform Boy. We hadn’t been together very long and we weren’t a real couple. And (other than eleven days in 2007), I’ve been single all my life. 

But it was nice to have someone I could depend on, someone who knew what to expect of Bedroom Connor so I didn’t have to worry about taking him home, someone who would kiss me and hold my hand and squeeze my bottom in public, someone who wanted to go on holidays with me. And everything going on with my family in Ireland left me suddenly lonely and I was man-less. This isn’t what I’d come to London for!

It took me a few weeks, but then, about three weeks ago, on a Friday, as I was staying late at work, I found myself talking to a man on one of my apps. And soon we transitioned to WhatsApp (always a good sign). This was nice because it was a genuine chat. I was telling this guy about my life and he was telling me about his. We texted back and forth for about three hours. And not a single dick pic was exchanged in all that time, which was thrillingly alternative. 

We arranged for him to visit the following day. I told him he couldn’t come in the morning because I was staying so late at work that I needed a good lie-in. I also told him he’d have to be gone before Strictly started. I’m such a romantic. We settled on 3:00 pm. 

I met him at the station and was surprised to see he had a large birthmark on his face, which hadn’t been in his profile picture on either the man-on-man app or on WhatsApp. Did he seriously photoshop all his profile pictures? I later found out that it was a bruise and that his skin was actually quite flawless. 

He was cute and sweet and chatty, and face-to-face it was much clearer how young he was than it had been on text. He was 23. 

I didn’t care though. I offered him a cup of tea as soon as he got to my house, but he didn’t want one. He devoured me in a very passionate kiss and we were naked very quickly. 

My Train Platform Frenchman and I had got into a routine in the bedroom, whereby I more or less laid back and let him do all the work, which I found ideal. I’m not exactly an athletic maker of love. I was slightly exasperated that this new young man expected me to actually do stuff, but it was ok. It’s nice to have naked fun and I needed the skin contact and the comfort and energy it brings. 

We spent a good two hours together, doing things to each other, chatting and just hugging silently. I felt great. Like a phone that’s really low on battery that’s finally been plugged in. 

But I can’t help it. When I’m with a man, I find myself wondering why they’re attracted to someone who looks like me. Why not thin men? What happened to these chubby chasers in their childhoods that a body type widely held to be disgusting is what they find sexy? I sometimes do ask them about their preferences but I never ask the one question that keeps bugging me every time I’m with a man and he’s enthralled by my enormous belly. All I want to ask them is “Was your dad fat?” But I haven’t asked that question yet. Because I don’t really want to know. Even if it’s all I can think of sometimes. 

And I’m not always clever in my relations with other humans. And sometimes I jump to conclusions that I shouldn’t jump to. I presumed a 23-year-old who was so into me, an aged 36-year-old, had a thing for older guys. In an effort to please him, I called him “boy” a lot. He commented on this and said I was obviously “into” the age difference. I agreed. Because I wanted to be polite. Oh God. He didn’t want to be called “Boy” but I had to pretend to want to call him that and pretend I was “into” that. And then he made it worse. He called me “Daddy” because I let him think that’s what I wanted. And because I’m way too polite I let him continue. He was just doing it because he thought I wanted him to. I most definitely did not. Sometimes I hate being so agreeable. *shudder* (This isn’t the first time this has happened. When I reacted excitedly to the cuteness of French Train Station Boy wearing a waistcoat one evening when we met, he thought I had some kind of waistcoat fetish and actually started sending me photos of waistcoats as sexts. I don’t have a waistcoat fetish. I just think short men in waistcoats are adorable the way I think unlikely animal friendship videos on YouTube are adorable. But I let him think that I had some kind of waistcoat kink out of pure overpoliteness. SIGH.)

Anyway, it was exactly what I needed and he left half an hour before Strictly started, so it was basically the perfect Saturday. I woke up the next morning with a hickey on my right nipple and a sore wrist. Love wounds. 

Anyway, we’re still in touch and he’ll probably be calling to mine again soon for a bit more action. Which is nice. But I’m focused on my next man. I have four days to find another man. I arrived in London on 31st October 2016. I have four days left until the one-year anniversary of that event. The boy in this blogpost was my eleventh man I’ve taken to bed since arriving here. I want to make it to twelve in my first year here. So I have to find a new bonking partner by Tuesday. 

A worthy goal I feel. Wish me luck! 

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