The Magic Number

Music: Sex and the City Theme

I’ve never really played the field before in my life. Never ever.

Well, maybe a bit but not very much when compared with everyone I knew when I was younger.

Even when I was stumbling around my university campus, drunk and horny after £1 a pint night I was never that promiscuous. I snogged plenty of gorgeous shaggy haired indie boys but that was generally as far as it went.

The only men I actually had sex with were my boyfriends (with only a couple of exceptions), and I was always ridiculously serious about them as that was all I knew and was everything that I wanted.

Looking back, I now know that my lack of self-confidence as a naive 20 year old stopped me from whipping through a long line of blokes.  Not that I consider myself to be a man eater now you understand. 

Saying that, the creation of GHD straighteners is nothing short of a minor miracle as far as I'm concerned.  The stupid frizzy blonde hair of my youth is definitely a thing of the past, which helps when I'm trying to flick my hair around and look seductive.  For a start, I don't look like I'm wearing a bird's nest on my head or like I've been shagged through a hedge backwards. 

All this all leads me to my question for today: Just how many is too many? 

I'll be honest with you.  I've slept with eight men. 

Yes eight.  I don't think that's too many for eleven years of sexual history, do you? 

OK so I'm not exactly Mother Theresa but I'm hardly a whore of Babylon either.  And yes I've done "stuff" with other guys too (which I'm not counting by the way...). 

The thing is I've always been a bit tradtional and only slept with guys I was way to serious about or gave my heart to all too freely. 

Well, most of the time.  There are a couple of notable exceptions, namely Craig and Sexy Motorbike Guy (who I will tell you about one day, I promise).

I just think that I suck at being a slut.

Yep, as Serenityville said, I think I'm a relationship kind of girl... 

Is that a bad thing?  And eight's not too big a number, right?

T minus 12 hours

Music: Big Calm - Morcheeba

That's T minus 12 hours until my first date with Craig.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The bare facts are:

Craig and I are going out for drinks.

Craig has the house to himself this weekend. 
(Well, if you don't count his younger brother).

I know I’ve got my friend Nicola’s spare bed reserved for the night, but I’m kind of hoping that we end up back at his place...

I never thought I’d hear myself saying that, but I’m determined not to get freaked out by the whole sex thing this time around, and I'm seeing Craig as just a bit of fun.  My "back in the saddle" guy, if you know what I mean. 

The last time I was single after splitting up with my long term boyfriend, aka The Evil Cockbag, I was pretty much petrified of the thought of any other bloke seeing me naked.  I suppose that's what happens when you've been with someone for nearly four years.  Well, that's what happened with me anyway.

I know it’s officially our first date, but I'm not ruling anything out.  If it happens, it happens and I won't make myself feel bad about it. 

Sex and the City's Samantha Jones eat your heart out.  Or something like that...

AAAAAGGGGGHHH!  Sod that.  I am freaking OUT!

(Note to self:  Must remember to buy some condoms.  You know, just in case.  Oh, and shave my legs).

Titillation

Music:  Shoot the Runner - Kasabian

Work has sent me away on a course for this week and I am staying at the exhilarating location that is London Heathrow airport. Yes, that’s right - I’m stuck in a hotel full of sweaty businessmen and Air Asia flight attendants: a lecherous mix of sexually frustrated testosterone and high pitched girlie giggles. Lord, get me out of here.

With the course finishing late in the evening and with only the meagre delights of the shops in Terminal 1 to amuse me, I am bored. So very, very, bored. The hotel doesn’t even have a gym, so last night I decided to go for a run around the airport perimeter instead. Never again, as despite the whacking great landmark of landing planes and twinkling runway lights, I still managed to get myself lost and nearly ended up getting bummed in a dodgy looking housing estate. Still, it was great exercise as I’ve never run so fast before in my life.

The only thing that is keeping me entertained is the daily textathon between me and Craig. During our daily text marathons I’ve found a few other interesting things out about him:

• He goes to the gym at least three times a week. This is good, as hopefully he’ll have a fit bod under his overalls.

• He drives a white van. This amuses me no end, especially as he had a crash in it yesterday morning. He wasn’t hurt (and fortunately nobody else was either) as he reversed into a wall and destroyed his wing mirror. He’s now desperately trying to get it fixed before his Dad gets back from his holiday...

• He has one younger brother who also works for the family business.

• He isn’t on Facebook as he claims not to know how to switch a computer on.
(Damn, so no potential stalking/vetting opportunities there).

• His favourite sort of music is pop/R’n’B.  Hmm...

• He’s really looking forward to seeing me again. :-)

As well as finding more out about each other, our texts have been getting much flirtier over the past couple of days. 

Oh, and whilst I was bored in my crappy hotel room last night I sent him a picture of me in one of my sexy lacy bras.

I know, I know, it’s unashamedly slutty, but in the past couple of days I’ve realised that I was starting to get ahead of myself in what I hope might happen with Craig. One of my friends recently described me as a serial monogamist, and as much as I don’t like the label it’s true. I’m terrible at being single and I always look for something more.

Therefore, I’m trying my best to ignore all the thoughts I’m having about Craig potentially being a good boyfriend, and instead I’m embracing my inner Samantha Jones and remembering what I wanted to achieve from my first spell of singledom: to have fun and to get laid.

Slutty?  Moi?  Yeah, maybe...