Toy Boys and the Women who Fuck Them
Toy Boys and the Women who Fuck Them
I’m back from a night on the town. I went out with a friend of mine Wanda. I like her because she’s honest, explicit and not afraid to make a fool of herself – unlike so many other British people.
We went for Vietnamese food in Shoreditch then ended up at some bar in Hoxton. I hadn’t seen Wanda in about 6 months so we had lot of catching up to do. Most of that catching up had to do with the guys in our life (or lack thereof).
We sat together on a 2-seater sofa in this swank bar. After chatting for an hour, the sofa directly opposite from us was soon occupied by two lads. They looked like they were just out of university. They had that fresh optimistic look that said, “I haven’t been fucked-over by the world yet.” You know, that sort of innocent deer-in-the headlights look.
There was a tall slim guy in a red t-shirt and his friend a bit shorter, a bit more pudgy wearing a duffle coat, a winter cap, and a multicolored wool scarf. His wardrobe freaked me out a bit. Hello, it’s October! It’s hardly warm enough to wear a sweater (jumper).
His fashion faux pas bothered me to the extent where I had to ask him,
“Are you cold?”
“Excuse me?” He said raising an eyebrow. He was one of those smarmy Oxbridge grads. He had a look on his looking on his face that said, “How dare you talk to me?” I, in turn, gave him the “Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole” look.
Touché.
“Are you cold, because it’s like 65 degrees outside and you’re wearing a heavy winter coat, a scarf, a jumper and collared shirt underneath. How can you be THAT cold?”
“I’m recovering from a cold.”
“Oh sorry,” I apologized. “I thought you were being a freak.”
“You’re not from here, are you?”
“I’m American”
“Oh,” he said condescendingly, “That explains it.”
I took umbrage, albeit somewhat falsely, “Explains what? Are you insinuating that it’s ‘soooooo typical’ that I’m American because I’m forthright and upfront.”
At this point Wanda was looking at me like I was crazy.
The arrogant mofo and I continued are verbal sparring. Durring our witty repartee I gleaned some info from him:
He’s 21, and investment banker. He lives near Canary Wharf in a townhouse he shares with 3 other guys – all investment bankers. He also has a thing for “older women.”
“Older woman?” I exclaimed. I’m not that much older than you.
“Still it’s older”
“A mere technicality.”
“Technicalities count.”
“Only when you’re speaking sexually.”
“Then let’s speak sexually.”
The dude then asks Wanda to swap places with him. So Wanda then sits across from me talking to arrogant dude’s friend.
The arrogant dude’s name, I later learned was Zack. For some reason, I kept calling him Zed.
Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead.
Zed / Zack whatever his name is put the hard word on me and tried to get me to go home with him.
At that point it had been 36 days since I had sex. Zed’s cute so why not?
“Hmmm I dunno,” I told him.
“You know you’d enjoy yourself,”
“Maybe, but I can’t leave Wanda here. It’s so uncool to leave your friends. This was supposed to be a girls’ night out. I can’t just bail.”
“Well you never know. Wanda looks like she’s getting very friendly with my mate Alister, there. We may all end up back at my place.”
“For a foursome?” I asked.
He looked at me as if that were the farthest thing from his mind. “I meant maybe we’d see each other a breakfast.”
“Oh, right?” I said sheepishly.
“I’ve never had a foursome,” admitted Zed.
“Oh, I have.”
He looked at me as if I were some older worldly woman.
“Have you?”
“Yeah, ages ago. With 3 mates. I wouldn’t want to do one with Wanda. You can’t have a threesome or foursome with your friends. It fucks up your friendship.”
“Right.”
“I thought you’d be clever enough to figure that out?”
He shrugged.
“And besides,” I added ,”If we had foursome would you kiss your mate there?”
Zed looked at me as if I had just asked him to shit on my forehead, “Fuck no!”
Then it’s not a real foursome. “I’ll tell you what though, if you get it on with your mate, I’ll come back with you?”
He didn’t even dignify my request with an answer. He just waved his hand at me.
“Why don’t you kiss me and then see if you want to come back with me.”
So I kissed the dude. For a “younger guy” he was a very good kisser. Soft. Gentle. He really took his time to do a good job. I felt myself getting wet. When you’re a girl and you feel yourself getting wet, the thing you want most is something inside you lapping up that wetness. And here it was, my opportunity to get fucked after 36 days of a dry season. He was cute, I bet he could fuck all night. I so horny.
So I said, “No.”
Maybe it’s not logical why I didn’t. But I somehow felt more powerful knowing that I could get fucked but decided not to.
Then it occurred to me, “Ohmigod, I just kissed you and you’re sick!”
“Well, I wasn’t telling the truth about that.”
“So now you’ve lied to me?”
He shrugged that off and continued convincing me to go back with him. I was horny, but I dunno. When he kissed it was good, but it wasn’t like FANTASTIC. I didn’t see stars I didn’t feel sparks. I just somehow felt that I didn’t want to fuck this dude and not see him again. I dunno. I wanna fuck someone who I know I’ll see again… if that makes any sense.
Maybe that’s what getting older and wiser is about?
I gave him my phone number and told him some other time I might be up for it, but not tonight. And besides, I couldn’t leave Wanda!
As Wanda and I were leaving Hoxton, my mobile rang. It was Zack. He said, “Hey, my mate is up for the foursome. He said anything goes. It’ll be a party!”
“I’m going home, Zed.”
“Aww come on!”
“And, I forgot. Today is the last day of my period.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’ve got proof if you want to check.”
“You know you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“You’ll end up with a red mouth.”
“Yeah, but-“
“We have to run for our last train. Bye.”
I hung up. Wanda and I ran for the train. And just for the record, I wasn’t lying about my period.
I’m back from a night on the town. I went out with a friend of mine Wanda. I like her because she’s honest, explicit and not afraid to make a fool of herself – unlike so many other British people.
We went for Vietnamese food in Shoreditch then ended up at some bar in Hoxton. I hadn’t seen Wanda in about 6 months so we had lot of catching up to do. Most of that catching up had to do with the guys in our life (or lack thereof).
We sat together on a 2-seater sofa in this swank bar. After chatting for an hour, the sofa directly opposite from us was soon occupied by two lads. They looked like they were just out of university. They had that fresh optimistic look that said, “I haven’t been fucked-over by the world yet.” You know, that sort of innocent deer-in-the headlights look.
There was a tall slim guy in a red t-shirt and his friend a bit shorter, a bit more pudgy wearing a duffle coat, a winter cap, and a multicolored wool scarf. His wardrobe freaked me out a bit. Hello, it’s October! It’s hardly warm enough to wear a sweater (jumper).
His fashion faux pas bothered me to the extent where I had to ask him,
“Are you cold?”
“Excuse me?” He said raising an eyebrow. He was one of those smarmy Oxbridge grads. He had a look on his looking on his face that said, “How dare you talk to me?” I, in turn, gave him the “Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole” look.
Touché.
“Are you cold, because it’s like 65 degrees outside and you’re wearing a heavy winter coat, a scarf, a jumper and collared shirt underneath. How can you be THAT cold?”
“I’m recovering from a cold.”
“Oh sorry,” I apologized. “I thought you were being a freak.”
“You’re not from here, are you?”
“I’m American”
“Oh,” he said condescendingly, “That explains it.”
I took umbrage, albeit somewhat falsely, “Explains what? Are you insinuating that it’s ‘soooooo typical’ that I’m American because I’m forthright and upfront.”
At this point Wanda was looking at me like I was crazy.
The arrogant mofo and I continued are verbal sparring. Durring our witty repartee I gleaned some info from him:
He’s 21, and investment banker. He lives near Canary Wharf in a townhouse he shares with 3 other guys – all investment bankers. He also has a thing for “older women.”
“Older woman?” I exclaimed. I’m not that much older than you.
“Still it’s older”
“A mere technicality.”
“Technicalities count.”
“Only when you’re speaking sexually.”
“Then let’s speak sexually.”
The dude then asks Wanda to swap places with him. So Wanda then sits across from me talking to arrogant dude’s friend.
The arrogant dude’s name, I later learned was Zack. For some reason, I kept calling him Zed.
Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead.
Zed / Zack whatever his name is put the hard word on me and tried to get me to go home with him.
At that point it had been 36 days since I had sex. Zed’s cute so why not?
“Hmmm I dunno,” I told him.
“You know you’d enjoy yourself,”
“Maybe, but I can’t leave Wanda here. It’s so uncool to leave your friends. This was supposed to be a girls’ night out. I can’t just bail.”
“Well you never know. Wanda looks like she’s getting very friendly with my mate Alister, there. We may all end up back at my place.”
“For a foursome?” I asked.
He looked at me as if that were the farthest thing from his mind. “I meant maybe we’d see each other a breakfast.”
“Oh, right?” I said sheepishly.
“I’ve never had a foursome,” admitted Zed.
“Oh, I have.”
He looked at me as if I were some older worldly woman.
“Have you?”
“Yeah, ages ago. With 3 mates. I wouldn’t want to do one with Wanda. You can’t have a threesome or foursome with your friends. It fucks up your friendship.”
“Right.”
“I thought you’d be clever enough to figure that out?”
He shrugged.
“And besides,” I added ,”If we had foursome would you kiss your mate there?”
Zed looked at me as if I had just asked him to shit on my forehead, “Fuck no!”
Then it’s not a real foursome. “I’ll tell you what though, if you get it on with your mate, I’ll come back with you?”
He didn’t even dignify my request with an answer. He just waved his hand at me.
“Why don’t you kiss me and then see if you want to come back with me.”
So I kissed the dude. For a “younger guy” he was a very good kisser. Soft. Gentle. He really took his time to do a good job. I felt myself getting wet. When you’re a girl and you feel yourself getting wet, the thing you want most is something inside you lapping up that wetness. And here it was, my opportunity to get fucked after 36 days of a dry season. He was cute, I bet he could fuck all night. I so horny.
So I said, “No.”
Maybe it’s not logical why I didn’t. But I somehow felt more powerful knowing that I could get fucked but decided not to.
Then it occurred to me, “Ohmigod, I just kissed you and you’re sick!”
“Well, I wasn’t telling the truth about that.”
“So now you’ve lied to me?”
He shrugged that off and continued convincing me to go back with him. I was horny, but I dunno. When he kissed it was good, but it wasn’t like FANTASTIC. I didn’t see stars I didn’t feel sparks. I just somehow felt that I didn’t want to fuck this dude and not see him again. I dunno. I wanna fuck someone who I know I’ll see again… if that makes any sense.
Maybe that’s what getting older and wiser is about?
I gave him my phone number and told him some other time I might be up for it, but not tonight. And besides, I couldn’t leave Wanda!
As Wanda and I were leaving Hoxton, my mobile rang. It was Zack. He said, “Hey, my mate is up for the foursome. He said anything goes. It’ll be a party!”
“I’m going home, Zed.”
“Aww come on!”
“And, I forgot. Today is the last day of my period.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’ve got proof if you want to check.”
“You know you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“You’ll end up with a red mouth.”
“Yeah, but-“
“We have to run for our last train. Bye.”
I hung up. Wanda and I ran for the train. And just for the record, I wasn’t lying about my period.
posted by Naive London Girl at 10/16/2006 11:44:00 PM
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Pictured above: My blog entry that London Lite printed without my permission
