So on Monday I went to a house party. The theme was "what the fuck?" so I went armed with A Beginner's Guide to Reality and an egg. Oh, and an entire litre of vodka. Which I then proceded to drink because I am socially awkward and even though I'd met most of these people before I found it too difficult to just be my normal, charming, self. I still can't figure out how I managed to be intimidated by a man with bread sellotaped to his face but my non-sensical time-specific inhibitions never cease to amaze. My flatmate drove me out there like a babe but she wasn't drinking so she left early, like at midnight or something, leaving me to my own devices and to work out my homeward journey myself. Under normal circumstances this would have been dubious at best, but in my drunken state it was horrendously ill-judged. But we'll get to that. Up until a point I had been planning on sharing a taxi back with several people from halls but at some point between that and waking up in the morning there must have been a change of plan because I woke up, butt naked, in Rodeo's arms. UGHH.
So, back in September I had a mammoth-crush on him, just because he was literate and British and charming and such. Also I imagine having uprooted myself for the third time and landing myself in a city I knew next to nothing about and where I knew no one else probably played a bit of a role in it too. Anyway, way back then we went out and got fairly tipsy and on the way back decided it would be an excellent idea to hop the gate and sneak into St Stephen's Green. Now this was at like 2AM or something if I remember correctly and it was lovely and dark and a full moon was shining on this wonderfully placid lake and I was walking hand in hand with a really great guy and morning birds were chirping and it just seemed like a movie-moment, you know? So naturally, we ended up having sex on one of the benches. And like, it ended up being one of those stark moments of realisation. Those moments never do bode well, btw. I didn't particularly want to have sex, he didn't particularly turn me on, but I did it anyway, mostly because the moment seemed to demand it. It wasn't good. In fact, it was cold and windy and my knees bruised badly against the bench and it was over too quickly and a massive rat streaked past us whilst I was rearranging my shirt. I cried a bit when I walked home, not about him or the act or whatever, just that...well, this always happens. Dreams always end up being, well, shit. After that we just went back to being friends and we've not really spoken of it since. He's tried to make a few moves on me but they've always been half-hearted and I've always just ignored them. There's your backstory.
So at some point (here's where things start to get a bit fuzzy) I must have told him that I didn't know how to get home and he must have directed me to his bed because I went to sleep for a bit. Later (how much I'm not sure) he came in and woke me up and complained that I was wearing jeans ("who sleeps in jeans?") but I insisted that I keep them on because I knew what would happen if I took them off. None the less, he was persistent, and insistent that nothing would happen if I removed them. I resisted for a while but eventually gave in, if only to shut him up. Then I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. He was having none of that. He started kissing me and I was so drunk I just went with it, but then obviously he went to take it further and I'll not bore you with the gore but he was very persistent despite my obvious dissent but eventually I gave in and just let it happen because it was literally easier to do that than to not.
Now I'm potentially making this sound a little rapey, which it wasn't because I was obviously an active participant and he was probably just as drunk as I was but I can't help but feel that I should probably be angry that he took advantage of me. I'm not really though. Like, I would have rather that it hadn't happened, but it makes no real difference whether it did or not. I guess I should be valuing my body a bit more but what's the point in regretting something that has already happened? In future I shall be more assertive, and less drunk. I feel like I kind of knew that was going to happen as soon as I made the decision to spend the night but I let it happen anyway because I'm lazy. That has got to change. Sometimes I just don't get sex though. Like, even with Pratchett it's never the reason I see him, always an afterthought (although it's probably his forethought). I just don't seem to enjoy it that much, crave it, or miss it when it's not there. Don't get me wrong though, it has been good in the past, I know what it is to have been good and I guess I need to find someone who can do that for me and then have sex with them and only them but until then I'm probably just going to keep having meaningless, shitty, sex because that's easier than explaining to someone that I don't want to do it.
That's skewed, right? I know that I should just sever ties with Pratchett and whoever else but I literally can't summon the effort/will to do it when I know that I'll just be alone when I do.
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