Diary of a Disaster Queen: Ubers and fake Fred Perry’s

“Nice to fuck ya!” His voice boomed behind me as I ran down the driveway and jumped into the taxi with my denim shorts on backwards.

“You been for a house viewing madam?” The driver asked politely.

“Something like that.” I sheepishly replied and sunk into the back seat as I got a flashback of throwing up in the strange boy’s bathroom just half an hour earlier, whilst simultaneously calling in sick at work.

I’d woken up with a horrible feeling that I’d slept with my best guy mate. We’d been out together the previous night, split a pack of condoms at the cash point and high fived as we made a promise that we’d both pull. I looked around the room on that cloudy Tuesday morning and noticed  that everything was stereo-typically male. Blue sheets, no curtains, COD4 game in the corner. For fuck’s sake! But as I reluctantly turned my head, expecting to have effectively ruined one of my closest friendships, I did not recognise the face laying next to me.

“Morning! You work at Krispy Kreme!” Who the hell was he?! And why did he know where I worked? And where in the world was I (both geographically and mentally)? And how the fuck do I get out?

“You don’t remember my name, do you?” I knew a lot less than that, I didn’t even know where my underwear was and I was beginning to get a little self conscious, a feeling that came about 7 hours too late. I shook my head no, to which he replied, “it’s Martin.” Ugh! I slept with a Martin! Now I felt even worse.

“Let’s have a look at her then!” His flat mate bounded into the room and I quickly buried my head under the quilt, catching a glimpse of both our naked bodies, neither of which looking impressive. “You guys were so loud last night, did you shag in the shower?” That’s why my hair was wet! I was slightly relieved, as for a moment I thought I might have drunkenly participated in ‘watersports’. “Yeah,” Martin boasted, “she can take a pounding I’ll give her that!” I heard his friend leave the room in fits of laughter and felt it was then safe to escape the room where vaginas and dignity went to die.

I scrambled around the floor for my outfit as Martin sat up and watched me with his hands behind his head, staring and grinning like the proud owner of a brand new Porsche. I made him Uber me a taxi and I somehow found my way out of his student flat, still having no idea if I was even close to where I last remembered being the night before.

I gave the driver my friend’s address and in a matter of minutes I arrived outside a familiar building. “Thanks mate bye!” running towards the door I called loudly to the open upstairs window “GUYS LET ME IN!” B came to the door and with a wry smile asked, “and where the fuck have you been?” I flopped onto the sofa in the living room and recalled my story to the boys, who were kind enough to fill in the gaps. “One minute you were going to the bar and the next we just saw the back of your head leaving with some guy (Martin – I mean really? A fucking Martin?) wearing a fake Fred Perry tee.” This was truly the stuff of nightmares.

After bacon and a brew, I sent the mandatory shameful snapchat to my girlfriends and almost immediately received a text that read, “Your slut taxi has arrived.” T-Dawg was waiting outside for me after she’d coincidentally opened the former mentioned snapchat just 2 streets away. I bounded into the front seat and suddenly roared with pain. “Oh my god, what’s up?!” T freaked out with concern and instantaneously grappled with a multitude of possible anguishes. I looked into her eyes as it all came flooding back, I drew breath and then whimpered “I think I got fisted last night.”

Disaster Queen

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