I went out for cocktails on Saturday night with two of my closest girlfriends. I left my car at home and took an Uber. I should have driven and saved myself some money. Whenever I take an Uber I always do this stupid thing of drinking as much as possible in order to justify the expense of the cab. I have the alcohol tolerance levels of a small hamster so it doesn’t take much, but I always end up wishing that I’d driven and not drunk. In fact, I always end up wishing that I hadn’t gone out at all. I’ve finally reached the age where I’m bored of bars and clubs, I’m beginning find them unbearable. But where do you meet men if you boycott bars and online dating (which I did some time ago)? I’m going to end up a spinster if I don’t figure this one out quickly.

We went to Dirty Martini, a small cocktail lounge that can’t decide whether it wants to be a rave or a bar. The music was so loud that we had to shout at each other across the table all night, I started to get a headache from shouting and I couldn’t hear approximately 87% of what my friends were saying. It got to the point where I stopped bothering to ask them to repeat themselves, instead I laughed and hoped that laughter was the most appropriate response to whatever it was they had just said. All I could think about was going home.

Thankfully my friends are in their mid-thirties too and so it wasn’t long before a consensus was reached and we headed to a local restaurant for desserts and conversation. It was such a pleasure to be able to talk, we finally relaxed and laughed, genuine laughter not ‘I’m laughing because I can’t hear you’ laughter. We figured out that we should have done the night at one of our houses and agreed that future link ups will be home based (even less chance of meeting anyone there, unless we start small fires and call 999, but that would just be weird). I looked sexy on Saturday night, or at least I thought I did anyway, all black outfit, heels and red lips, my highlight and contour were pretty spectacular too. I didn’t see one hot man at any point throughout the entire night, and apart from one Insta worthy picture that only got 38 likes, the whole outfit was wasted. I hate that.

I got home at 11.20pm, somewhere between merry and paralytic. Alcohol is not good for my love life, it’s usually about 3 drinks in that I start thinking about how great it would be to see whoever it is that I’m into at that time and the drunken texts begin. Drunk texts are never a good idea. Mine are usually somewhere on a spectrum between ‘What you doing? I’m out with the girls and you’re on my mind x’ and ‘I’m coming yours, my puppys wet and I’m hornby, nneeed 2 c u xxxxxxxx’ (autocorrect has made me the owner of a drenched dog more times than I’d like to remember). Luckily for the men of London, I am currently so single that I don’t have anyone to drunk text. Literally nobody. I mean, I could scroll through my whats app contacts and I’m sure I could scrape the barrel for some already tried and failed fuckboy but I’m not desperate. I only want drunken company from someone who I actually like, not from just anyone. I sat down on my sofa and recorded a gloating snapchat about how wonderful it is to be home so early and how I’m never going out again, and then my phone rang. It was Corey.

If you read my last blog Blown Away you’ll know that Corey is someone who I really like, a man who I’ve already given far more chances to than I ever should, someone who I click well with, but someone who it never goes anywhere with because he disappears for months and at the best of times takes a week to reply to texts. My last blog ended with me harnessing my inner pussy power and taking control by not replying to his text. In my mind that was it. I’d had enough of his bullshit and I didn’t want to speak to him again. The bastard universe obviously had other ideas. His timing was impeccable, I was child free, drunk, and disappointed about the wasted MAC and NARS on my face. The joy I felt when his name flashed up on my phone was ridiculous. He was drunk too and he happened to be out with friends at a bar close to my house. Four minutes later I was in an Uber.

Corey had told me to meet him in The Wellington. I walked up to the door and got aggressively turned away by a job’s worth bouncer who told me that they were closed and not letting anyone else in. I called Corey and his phone went to voicemail, it was drizzling and I was beginning to regret that I hadn’t stayed my arse indoors. I called him again and got through, he told me he’d come out to get me. TEN minutes later and I’m still standing outside alone, I should have gone home, but by this point I wanted to shout at him. He called me and told me he was outside, he wasn’t. We eventually established that he wasn’t actually ever in The Wellington. He was in Bar Central across the road. I could see him waving at me. ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB YOU BIG WAVING IDIOT? (I said in my head). I crossed the road with such unbelievable rage that I’m surprised the ground didn’t crack underneath me.

I got to Bar Central and he had disappeared. I stood outside trying to call him, anger seeping from every pore of my being when finally he appeared from inside, stumbling like a drunken fool. An unbelievably sexy, insanely attractive fool. ‘Fuck me Layla, you look beautiful, like really fucking beautiful, I mean you are always beautiful but tonight, WOW’ he said, before pulling me in for a hug and drawing me further into his bullshit. Corey’s flatmate’s girlfriend Leanne came out to get their group into a cab. Corey had forgotten to tell them that he’d invited me out and so an awkward Uber based scenario ensued where they all wanted to head off but there wasn’t enough room for everyone now that I was there and so Corey had to stay behind and order his own Uber, it should have been simple but everyone was half cut and so it became about as complicated as working out the best way to trigger Article 50. It was embarrassing.

Corey’s friends headed off to get the after party started while we stayed back and waited for Corey to figure out how to use his Uber app. I was still round the corner from my house and there had already been at least 8 times in the last 20 minutes that I should have left, but I didn’t. Don’t ask me why because I think I will require several years of therapy before I can really figure out the answer. Whilst we waited outside a group of rowdy women came up to him. ‘Corey, where you going babe? Stay out babe, don’t go home’. They all looked like they were auditioning for Take Me Out – the income support edition. They noticed me and purposely created a circle round Corey, all of them trying their chavvy best to persuade him to stay out. The Uber pulled up and I got in. Corey continued to be manhandled by this group whilst I sat in the cab with Mohammed the Uber driver feeling like an absolute twat.

The ringleader of the group, a heavily eye-linered, orange faced, hard looking woman in a see through leopard print top and Primark stilettos obviously knew him. I couldn’t work out if there was something between them, but surely not, she looked like the human version of chlamydia. As Corey got in the cab I heard him say to her ‘I’ve got work in the morning I’m just dropping my mate home and then I’m going to bed’. Corey got in and I punched him in the arm and told him to take me home. I could barely breathe through the rage. I demanded to be taken home and told Mohammed we were changing the destination. Corey told Mohammed to ignore me. Corey explained that Chlamydia was his baby mum’s next door neighbour and he didn’t want her gossiping. He said that every time he has got involved with anyone in the 4 years since they split up, his ex has always caused a drama and she’s prevented him from being allowed to see his daughter, so he doesn’t want her to know about anyone he’s seeing. I told him that it sounded like drama and that it was pointless even meeting up if it could never go anywhere. Corey said ‘When we become something, which we will if we give this a chance, then she’ll just have to get used to it, but at this stage I just don’t need the hassle. I want us to get to know each other without any interference’. I told Mohammed to change the destination and take me home, Corey told Mohammed to ignore me. And then he kissed me (Corey not Mohammed) and I melted into a drunken, horny, angry, impassioned, heavy, zone which I didn’t escape from until we arrived at Corey’s front door.

When we arrived, his flat mate and friends were already in full swing, I was still extremely drunk and hyper emotional from the night’s events so far. I made small talk with the girlfriends, and started on the Hennessey. We smoked, drank, and talked for about an hour before I reached the point where I could no longer remain vertical and so Corey and I exited upstairs. Corey and I have never slept together, in fact we’ve never gone beyond kissing (apart from that blow job but it was brief and quite obviously shit so I’m hoping he’s wiped it from his memory), and I wasn’t going to change that on Saturday. I’m one week away from a bikini wax so I’m in no fit state for visitors, plus I’m on my period. The stars were not aligned for sexual activity that night and I was thankful because, had those barriers not been in place, it’s highly likely that spooning would have turned into forking and I would have woken up with thrush and regrets. We laid in his bed and talked in between kissing and cuddling. It was so nice. He started running his hand up my thigh and over my knickers and I got butterflies in my vagina. I moved his hand and told him that it was the wrong time of the month, he jolted back at the speed of fucking lightening, and went ‘Ewwwwwww’ as if I’d just told him that I’ve got Ebola. I snapped at him:

‘Excuse me Corey but do you realise that YOU are a period? You are your mum’s missed period. You are literally a period that never happened so you can fuck right off’

I shouted at him about periods for at least a minute. Corey looked bewildered and meekly apologised, the intimate mood was gone. I turned around and tried to sleep, but when I sleep I have to have silence and darkness, irritatingly I discovered that Corey is one of those disturbed people who can only sleep with the TV on with full volume. We lay awkwardly back to back, me tossing and turning trying to drown out the noise and light. My mouth was as dry as my vagina and I asked Corey if he could get me a glass of water, he told me that he couldn’t be bothered and that I wasn’t a guest anymore so I should get it myself. I thought he was bantering because he could not seriously expect me to go down to the kitchen, via the after party, in his Arsenal t shirt and nothing much else, but no, he wasn’t budging. At that moment I was so close to picking up my high heel and smashing it in his eye socket that I had to dig my nails into my palms and count to 10 in my head. I was fuming. But what did I expect? WHAT DID I EXPECT?! Why would I expect anything other than 10/10 Fuckboy behaviour from a man who has consistently shown me Fuckboy behaviour for 3 years? He had excelled himself in the Fuckboy stakes that whole night but I STILL ended up in his bed. This shitty bullshit wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I was completely to blame for any maltreatment that I received because I tolerated it, I tolerated it from day one and so I made it ok. I’m an intelligent, confident, happy woman with terribly low expectations of men. I have high expectations for how I should be treated which I seem to be able to enforce with people who I’m not that into, but if I want a man, and there’s that fire and lust, then all rational thoughts go out the window and his Fuckboy behaviour seems to drive me to chase him more. Perhaps this means I’m a Fuckgirl, or more accurately, a fucked up girl?

I got dressed and left within 5 minutes of the water refusal. I went home with a dry mouth and a heavy heart. Why am I like this? It’s Monday now and I haven’t heard from Corey since I left his house and I don’t expect to. I never want to hear from him again. And seriously, I beg you all please, please, if I ever write another blog about meeting up with Corey, please call an ambulance and tell them I’m not OK.