A close friend once told me that there is something strangely attractive about sleeping with someone in a relationship. That, at its essence, is the allure of adultery and while certainly not something to be celebrated, the guilt is always intermixed with pleasure.
The scene is set late one Friday in Wahoo. A friend from home has disappeared off with a fresher and I’m left stranded on the upstairs R&B floor. Soon enough, I’m grinding up against a pretty blonde. We get off almost immediately and pretty soon we were approaching second base. I thought my luck was in. Suddenly, pounding footsteps. I’m grabbed from behind. “Get your hands off my girlfriend!” At last, the dreaded words I thought I’d never hear. Before me stood a squat, bearded fellow in a Hawaiian shirt. And flip-flops. Luckily, my blonde bombshell then removed any doubt I might have in my mind. She put her hands down my trousers and began to caress my groin. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she whispers in my ear. The game was up for this poor guy. I was no doubt the rebound, a tool in a long, sordid breakup.
Muttering in my ear that she wanted to go back to hers, I willingly obliged and before I knew it we were snogging our way down George Street, passing all the usual landmarks of a pre-coital stumble back to hers. Mystery Hawaiian man was forgotten as we played passionate tonsil-hockey all the way down the road. Pounding footsteps again. “Get your fucking hands off my fucking girlfriend!” Clearly Hawaiian shirt wasn’t going down that easily. Charging towards me in a jealous rage, he hit a jagged paving stone and face-planted just outside the kebab van. Torn between my instincts to put him in the recovery position and a desire to go to bed with his supposed girlfriend, I once more found myself in a dilemma. My blonde friend quickly solved this quandary, grabbing my hand and leading me on. The next thing I know, we’re in her room, grappling at the buttons on my shirt and the zipper on her skirt. It was animalistic, raw passion a combination of victorious elation and her purely physical desire. What happened next was entirely what you would expect. As she approached an orgasm, our moment of passion was rudely interrupted by a fierce knocking at the door. Then that terrible, anguished howl starts-up. “Get your hands off her, you disgusting man, leave her be.” Before I could muster a reply, the blonde replied, “Fuck off, you three-incher”. His protestations ceased. That, or her moaning simply drowned out Mr Hawaiian shirt’s futile protestations. We finished up, collected our clothes and went our separate ways. I recalled that my opponent might be waiting for me outside.
At first glance, the corridor seemed empty. But as I left her room, he appeared out of nowhere. Panicking, I searched his form for a weapon. But he stood there, helplessly morose. I held the door open for him and left.
