Taking a stranger home

Here's how it happened.
This is long by the way, and badly written, given I've used my notebook. Oh well, life mirrors art sometimes..that's my excuse anyway...

Two Friday's ago: Leaving party in the flat downstairs, the hairdresser's going back to Italy:( I am invited:) I turn up with a bottle of Prosecca; Italian's like that. Their friends arrive, beautiful, striking individuals. They invite me to Old Street with them so I finish the rose wine I've moved to and run upstairs for my jacket.

A friend of theirs is a manager of the place we go to; people told to move from the bank of seats, for we are VIPs. I order a beer because I don't want to get drunk (hic) but there's vodka and rum at the table and when they do the Jager Bombs (Jaegermeister mixed with redbull) well, one won't hurt!

The hairdresser's going straight to the airport. My other neighbours leave but I want to stay with the hairdresser's friends. I hit the dancefloor.

I man glides up to me. I ignore him and carry on dancing.
Another glides up (honestly, their movements were really fluid) and I turn from him too.
When another glides up I think 'oh for fuck's sake' and dance over to a group of young guys but realise this isn't the answer, make some comment about how good the music is then go and chat to some of my group.
Soon I'm dancing again and soon the same thing is happening and I become convinced these men are being paid by the club to pull women. I want them to leave me alone so I can enjoy myself but when I turn to the group I am with our area is empty; they've all gone.

I can't stay. I don't want to stay, I feel vulnerability crawl across the floor ready to envelope me and know I must leave now. I grab my jacket and I go outside. The air soothes my face. It's been a great night.

HOME.

I'm not entirely clear what went on next .

I believe I went up to a pretty approachable looking group of guys and asked them if they knew where the 214 bus went from.

How I wound up sitting down, I don't know but I got talking to one of them, and must have felt some kind of relief because I told him, in order, no doubt, to relieve my paranoia, that: "There are men in there paid to come on to women." I think he might have laughed, and I might have said I was serious, before wondering if he was one of them too then telling myself to chill out.

"Do you want to go back with me?" He looks at me and I might have laughed thinking really fast, faster than I've ever thought anything, ever, when I've been quite drunk, why not? He seems alright, and I do really really want to have sex.

"OK."

He asks if I want to go back to his place and I say no, mine (I'm so glad I don't live on that estate anymore) and we get a cab.

I don't recall talking to him in the cab. I do recall thinking, I do recall wondering whether I had to pay him. How do these things work? Do I have to pay him?

"I don't have any money," he says breaking the silence.
"Oh, there's a cashpoint just up here, we'll get the cabbie to stop and you can get out."

What am I doing, I'm thinking while he's out of the cab. I take a deep breath and I let it out again.

Once in my house, again I don't know only that he made the move to kiss me and I said at some point that I had condoms or maybe he asked me if I had any. Either way, we had sex.

In many ways, the first I knew of all this was when I woke up in the morning. I woke up feeling skin on my skin and thought '"huh?". Slowly I turned, oh yeah... when he says:

"You said the guys in the pub were being paid to talk to you last night. You remember? You must have no self esteem."

Later that morning he tells me he can be arrogant. "Well," I say, my head on his chest, "that's just another form of low self esteem isn't it, only wrapped in different packaging."

His kiss. That I remember, his kiss I remember.


Others mirror the love and self approval I have for myself. I rejoice in my sexuality.
(Louise. L. Hay You Can Heal Your Life not under Self Esteem)