Out of My League

We were out and I met this girl and went back to hers.

We were in a club called the Vine and Diz was talking to me non stop. Diz is a good friend of mine. He’s called Diz because he looks like the rapper Dizzee Rascal. Except Dizzee Rascal is black and Diz is white. Apart from that the resemblance is striking.

Diz is all mouth. He talks a lot and when he’s pissed he talks more.

So Diz was leaning into me talking and I wasn’t listening. I was looking around. Not looking at anything or for anything, hardly even seeing anything the way I do when I’m drunk. Then out from nowhere, like a football to the face that you don’t see til the last second, I saw this beautiful girl looking at me. Not just looking at me. Looking in such a way as to make sure I knew she was looking at me. Our eyes made contact for a second, she smiled like a cat then looked away.

She was out of my league. Horribly, uncomfortably out of my league. Better looking, better groomed and in better shape than me. Her earrings probably cost more than everything I was wearing.

I felt my week old stubble. I thought about the hole in my shoe through which I had earlier seen the hole in my sock and the tough skin of my exposed heel. She didn’t look like the kind of girl who would be impressed by that.

So I assumed she had seen some handsome charmer behind me and carried on trying to hear Diz.

I wasn’t seeking her out but my eyes lined up with her stare again. She jerked her head in a come here gesture. I looked around me to see if some handsome devil wasn’t making his smug way towards her. He wasn’t. No one was. I refrained from the indignity of pointing questioningly at myself and instead smiled at her. She smiled back. I left Diz and headed over. I think he was still talking. He probably still is.

The girl’s name was Charlie and she was definitely out of my league. Maybe she was trying to make someone jealous: an ex boyfriend, a sugar daddy. Maybe she was doing it for a bet. Whatever. For me it was just a case of right time, right place.

Conversation was limited and soon we were leaving the club together. People must have thought I was a scruffy millionaire. Maybe she did too.

We got properly acquainted on the backseat of a taxi. Our hands ran around each other with no boundaries. I was quite happy where we were but she signalled the driver to stop.

We were in an identi-kit suburban street somewhere in North London. It could have been Camden. But then it could just as easily have been Islington or Haringey. To this day I have no idea. All the houses look the same. Nice but nondescript. She paid the fare and dragged me into the house.

Getting down to it, the routine was standard. I resisted the physical impulse to shoot my load and go home. And then everything was fine.

I don’t want to disgust you with the details, except to say that things went wrong.

She was a talker.

‘Fuck me’ she said.

‘I am fucking you’ I thought and carried on.

‘Harder’ she said.

So I fucked her harder.

‘Harder’ she says again.

I rolled my eyes and didn’t change a thing.

We had been going long enough and she appeared to be having a grand old time so I felt fine when I realised I was nearing the end. Even so, I decided to make the last few strokes count. I slammed it into her, much to her delight, and on what I knew would be my final stroke I accidentally came right out. I took aim and slammed it right back in again. But straight away I knew something was wrong.

For one thing, it didn’t feel right. For another, she let out an almighty scream and burst into tears. I had entered the wrong hole.

I pulled out. I was on my knees between her legs apologising profusely while she screamed and cried and my cock, still doing its job, spewed and jizzed all over her midriff and lower regions. I made a vague attempt to hold it in and catch it with my hands. It was no good.

Her screams became more coherent.

‘GET OUT!’ she roared.

It spurred me to action and I wondered why I had wasted my time trying to apologise. I leapt up and started to gather my stuff together. But she started to throw things. First pillows. Then hard things like coins and a mug from her bedside table, all the while screaming at me to get out.

Stark naked, cradling my clothes and shoes in my arms I scurried out her bedroom door.

Entering the hall, I saw another bedroom door start to open. I ran down the stairs and out the front door. I didn’t want to find out who else might have been in the house.

I got dressed in the street with a smirk on my face. She wasn’t relationship material. She was out of my league.

It took me ages to get home.