The Art of the Premeditated Coincidence
“Every man in London should wear zipped fly jeans just in case I need to give an emergency hand job.”
I did some research and used some reasonable deduction to guess that the BFE would be spending his one day off this month at the Imogene Heap concert at the Roundhouse. SOOTBEEF, must have appreciated that. Sootbeef being the Signifcant Other of the BFE.
I did sort of feel like a stalker, but I so pleased at my own detective work that I didn’t care. Imaging being able to pin point the location of someone who’s hardly even in London. And if it were my only day off, I sure as hell wouldn’t be at a concert. I'd be with my partner, at least.
I rushed in my car from Canary Wharf to Camden town. Amazingly I got a parking spot very very close to the venue. Shit. That’s good news and bad news. In Los Angeles they have a saying, “If you get a good parking spot you’re not getting laid tonight.”
Dave Navarro once joked that the theory explains why he’s not getting laid: He parks right outside of his house.
Maybe it’s different in London.
I walked up to the table holding the guest list and announced my name. I tried to peer onto the list to see if the BFE had been comped too, but I couldn’t read the list upside down.
I grabbed my ticket and ran up the stairs. I felt so rushed. So hurried. In my mind the BFE was already here and I just had to find him. I needed to find him before the show started and the house lights went down. I felt like a dork looking for him without appearing that I was looking for him. I went to the bar and ordered a drink, a Coke. I was somehow convinced that a holding a drink would make me look less conspicuous.
This is the time when I envy smokers. Let me be clear. I have never smoked. I hate cigarette smoke. I hate kissing smokers. I hate cigarettes. But when I’m by myself and I don’t want to look like the sad pathetic unaccompanied fool I am, there’s nothing that I want more than to have a cigarette between my fingers. There’s something about being alone that seems okay if you’re smoking. Without a cigarette you just look like you’re loitering.
I entered the main concert hall and thought, “If I were the BFE where would I be standing?” I surmised that he would be in front of the mixing desk. It was 10 minutes before show started I nearly reached panic mode. I furiously scanned the crowd for his face. I couldn’t get in front of the mixing desk because the area surrounding it was packed with people. Shit. I’ll never find him. Maybe he’s not even here. As I beagn walking to a less crowded area there he was. I spotted him. He was standing with a mate.
A surge of excitement went through me. Yay, my detective work paid off. I wasn’t really yet to face him. So I quickly ducked away. I went and got another Coke. At the bar I practiced in my head my, “Oh fancy meeting you here,” voice. No matter I said it, it sounded contrived.
By this point Imogene started playing,
“Goodnight and Go.” It seemed eerierly appropriate considering the stalkerish nature of the song.
I went back to the area he was standing and he was gone. Had he seen me and absconded?
The music started. The house lights went down. Shit. It was going to be hard to find him again. I walk over to the let side of the venue and there he was. His back was to me. How do I get his attention without it appearing that I’m trying so hard?
I resolved to simply tapping him on the shoulder.
He turned around. Initially he looked like he didn’t recognize me which seemed really, really odd. He looked at me, turned away and looked at me again.
“Oh hey” he said sounding surprised.
Conveniently his mate left us in order to talk someone working at the show. So there we were BFE and I alone together (amongst 2000 people) watching the concert.
“I don’t mean for this to sound rude but, have you lost weight? You look really fucking hot tonight.” Ohhh the magic words. “In fact I have” I answered. I was lying, but when you get a compliment like that you should just roll with it.
See, when you’re planning to bump into someone coincidently you want to look extremely good. This includes bumping into Exes, Anti-Ones and old bosses. You have to look fuckable. You have to look like good enough that they regret every time they didn’t call you back.
Similar to the
Radiohead show, we initially were standing feet apart, but by the end being very close.
He was wearing butterfly’s again dammit. His trouser selection is going to be the end of me. I wanted to reach down his pants and feel his cock. I couldn’t get to it. Every man in London should wear zipped fly jeans just in case I need to give an emergency hand job.
“I have to get up early. Early flight. I’m going,“ he says non-chalantly
Fuck!
“Wanna ride home?” I offer.
He sends his friend a text to say he was leaving. We left after “Hide and Seek.” Normally I love that song, but this time, I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
We exited the venue and walked to my car. I felt all tingly inside. Could the Los Angeles Parking Theory be wrong?
As we approached my car he took his hand into mine. He then raised both his hands to my face and started kissing me.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said stopping suddenly.
And then in my one moment of clarity in the whole BFE situation I said, “Your right,” and backed away.
He paused for a second. He backed me into the car. He was pressing against me. It felt great feeling his body weight on mine. He then looked deep into my eyes and said, “We need to make a date so I can come over fuck you and eat you properly.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted.
I’ve always considered myself as a strong woman, but the intent look gave me broke my resolve. It was like he was seeing into me; seeing into my soul. At that point he could have asked me anything. ANYTHING and I would have said yes. And I hate that he has that sort of grip over me.
We soon got in the car. I drove him back to his house. It was a nice ride because he fingered me the whole way.
Labels: cheating married guys, finger fucked, SOOTBEEF, the BFE
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