An attractive, mixed-raced guy with wispy hair and a collection of consciously ironic man-necklaces draped around his neck asked to borrow a Rizla outside of a compulsory English lecture at the exam schools. I immediately regretted the Missing Bean goat’s cheese sandwich that I was inhaling as I walked by, and tried to casually wipe the signs of cheese off my face as I handed him the rolling paper. We spent more time together and soon, I developed a little crush. Intellectual, literary, rolls his own cigs, he really was the dream. Although he did have a slightly irritating habit of saying “for example” and “thus” way too much. But I was prepared to overlook those faults.
Fast forward a week or two, and I was standing in the smoking area of Anuba quite tipsy from my four vodka cranberries during the reggae part of the night. He was standing in the corner by himself wearing a denim jacket and twirling his thick, wispy hair when he came over to say hello. We had a long chat. After realizing his similar love for French symbolist poetry and 1990s folk music, I was certain I’d found either a suitable fuck buddy or potential partner in crime. His brooding comments on Baudelaire somehow convinced me he was an untamable sex beast. After a pretty long conversation he offered to walk me home. As we staggered past Soloman’s on St. Giles, still a bit tipsy thanks to Anuba’s low prices, he asked if we could go out for a drink one night and even bought me a falafel hummus wrap. And they say chivalry is dead! By this point I knew I wanted to sleep with him. I was drunk, horny and eager to see if his knowledge of sex was as impressive as his knowledge of Baudelaire. When we got back to his room, we started to make out in front of his doorway after getting water from the kitchen. He bit my lip and pressed me against the door. I was already thoroughly impressed. When we got into his bed, everything was ready for acting except for his Princess Consuela. That’s right, it was as floppy as a sock puppet and as lethargic as me on a Friday morning after a night at Bridge. After 10 minutes of pitifully tugging at it and trying to wake it up, I realized my sex beast fantasies were crushed and I irritably went to bed and bolted the next morning. Princess Consuela was clearly a Sleeping Beauty.
Fast forward a day or two, and I decided to give him another chance. He suggested we watch a movie. Eventually, as we started making out, it looked like Princess Consuela was awake and ready for business. I congratulated myself on catching him at what was clearly the right time. About five seconds after we started having sex, a look of horror flashed onto his face. He looked me right in the eye and began to say something. “Oh shit,” he says. “What’s wrong?” I asked, assuming the limp sock puppet had come to say alone. “I came.”
It was over. That was five seconds I’ll never get back, and ‘Five second XXXX’ became his epithet, and also his name in my phone contacts.
