I had drunk far too much already. I was on a night out with my mum, a book launch at Waterstones Piccadilly. Two white feminists sat in armchairs on stage – on the author, the interviewer opposite a mate, probably – and gushed over the glass-ceiling-smashing book. I write this of course with hindsight; at the time, I was 20 and cared far more about boys and booze than the pitfalls of neoliberal feminism. I was just happy there was free fizz. I was on my third glass.
I’d scanned the room while we were milling about at the start, trying to clock any fellow alcoholics. Again, hindsight. At 20 I would have phrased this as, “fellow drinkers” or “fucking legends.” I knew I drank more than the average person. I knew that I often drank more than a socially acceptable amount. I must have done, or I wouldn’t have felt that burning shame as I went to pick up my third glass while my mum popped to the loo. That was why I looked out for other drunks; as long as you’re not the drunkest person in the room, you’re fine. I’d spotted a blonde woman in her early thirties, gladly helping herself to the free Prosecco and laughing a little too loudly. What a loser, I’d thought. Imagine getting that drunk at a Tuesday night book launch in your thirties? Pathetic. I was 21, so it was still cool.
Of course I knew that I was inching away from “legend” and towards “problem drinker”; that anxiety crept up my spine every night. But it wasn’t yet strong enough to stop me. In fact, it had the opposite effect. The best way to rid yourself of anxiety is to simply get more drunk. Everyone knows that. But the white feminists were wrapping up – too late for a fourth glass – and my mum would want to get a signed copy of the book then head home for pyjamas and Bake Off. I couldn’t think of anything worse than slowly sobering up on the sofa. Stopping drinking for the night was an impossibility. As certainly as I knew that I could not fly or become invisible, I knew I could not stop drinking. I didn’t ever question this. I just knew.
As the white feminists started taking more-of-a-comment-than-a-questions from the audience, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A new Tinder match, a man called Sam. Sam only had one picture, a blurry shot of himself in a bar, laughing with a Heineken in hand. Cute enough. Drinker. Perfect. I opened up the chat.
hey Sam! you around for a drink tonight?
I was being forward maybe, desperate perhaps, but fuck it, I was desperate. Dates were a perfect excuse to get drunk. As I saw it, my parents couldn’t possibly have a problem with me staying out late looking for my One True Love. Plus, sex was generally a desperately needed ego boost for me. He replied,
haha yeah sure, just finishing up in work but I’m free from 10?
Guys loved it when you were forward. I was the cool girl, the girl who owned her sexuality. The girl who could fuck you once and not catch feelings. I’d get my ego boost, my excuse to drink, and maybe the chance to split a gram if they were cool like me. Did I mention how cool I was? Plus, there was always the chance I would actually find The One. I replied quickly, shielding the phone from my mum’s side eye.
sweet! shit you’re working late, what do you do?
I’m an undertaker
Jesus Christ. Intense. But it was 2016, True Crime was everyone’s new hobby. I was excited. I had so many questions.
wow!!! That’s mad! well you can tell me all about it at drinks
Muswell Hill spoons at 10?
I started calculating in my head. It was a Tuesday; Wetherspoons would shut at around 11pm, giving me about an hour to drink. Three drinks in an hour would probably be acceptable – the trick is to convince your date you’ve never been that drunk before. This works especially well with men, who assume it’s their sparkling personality that’s bringing you out of your shell.
haha cool see you there. we can talk about other stuff tho my job’s boring
For fuck’s sake. What was the point of a date with an undertaker if you couldn’t ask unhealthily morbid questions? This was a bitter blow.
haha I can relate, i do data entry and it’s fucking dull
That was true. I’d taken a year out of University to get over my depression, and was working for my best friend’s dad’s company for a generous £12 an hour. Generous considering I did fuck all and turned up most days unshowered and still drunk. I spent the majority of my earnings on alcohol and cocaine, wilfully ignorant of the fact that this was probably not helping my depression.
Suddenly the room erupted in applause. I shoved my phone back in my pocket, elbowing my mum in the process. The white feminists basked in the glory of the good work they’d done that day; empowering a room full of other white women to pull the ladder firmly up behind them. But I digress. As everyone began shuffling their way towards the book signing queue, I turned to my mum.
“I’m gonna head off now, if that’s okay? I think I’ve got a date at 10,” I feigned excitement. “Just going for drinks in Muswell Hill, I won’t be home late,” I said quickly, pleadingly.
“Oh, okay.” She smiled encouragingly but her voice had an edge to it. I could tell that she disapproved. I could tell she was doing those same calculations in her head; Tuesday, 10pm, work tomorrow, more drinks. I knew she was wondering if I’d make it in. In the office Secret Santa, I’d gotten The Penguin Book of the Sickie. I’d acted mock-offended, before laughing and admitting, “It’s spot on!” I’d then excused myself and cried in the toilets for half an hour.
“It’ll be fine,” I answered the question she never asked. “I’ll be home before midnight, I’m probably only gonna stay for one drink.” We both knew that was a lie, but she had no choice but to begrudgingly accept it. What could she do? I was an adult.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me and watch Bake Off? We don’t have to hang around to get this signed if you just want to leave now,” she held up the book: How To F*cking Slay, Sister, or some bullshit like that. My mum collected signed books, so I knew this was a big gesture from her. Now I felt guilty and defensive.
“Well, I’ve told the guy I’m going now.” She recoiled at my brusqueness. I changed my tone. “He just seemed really cool is all…” I trailed off from my second lie.
“Oh, okay,” she said again. “Well that sounds lovely. Try not to be home too late?”
But I was already leaving, bag slung over my shoulder, hand already feeling inside my pocket for the cigarette I’d smoke hungrily on the short walk to Piccadilly Circus.
***
I could write out a long description of the Muswell Hill Wetherspoons; the geometric patterned carpet, the smell of beer and sweat, the alcoholics nursing pints alone. But you’ve been to a Wetherspoons. You know what it looks like. I arrived early and rushed to the bar for a quick tequila shot. Just to calm the nerves. I checked my phone while trying to catch the bartender’s eye. One message from ‘Sam Tinder 4’ as I’d so classily saved his number.
I’m here. Upstairs at the back.
Bollocks. And full stops – was that a bit aggressive? I’d have to go meet him now, without the Dutch courage I needed. I was anxious. I took the stairs slowly, clinging to the bannister as I tried to slow my beating heart. Although I could put on a confident drunk cool girl persona, I was of course, inside, a scared and scarred little girl. Everything terrified me.
I spotted him as soon as I hit the first floor. He looked just enough like his profile picture for me to be sure, although that picture had perhaps wisely hidden the greasy ponytail snaking down his back. Oh my God, he looks like a magician, I thought as I clocked his waistcoat. I forced myself forward, one foot in front of the other, until I reached his table.
“Sam?” I asked too loudly. Before he could reply, I blurted out, “Hi I’m Ruby it’s so nice to finally meet you have you been here long?!” What the fuck was I on about with “finally”? I cursed my own awkwardness. Thirty five minutes ago I did not know this man existed. He stood to give me a stilted hug while I rambled on. I broke away and sat down heavily opposite him. “Should I get the first round in? I haven’t had a drink in ages,” I lied. Why was I doing this? Offering up more information than necessary is a sure sign of a liar. I cursed myself again. He didn’t know me. He didn’t care.
“Nah, I’ll get them.” God, he truly looked like a magician. I noticed a thin moustached, neatly curled up at either end. “What are you having?”
“Umm…” I had to at least make it seem like I had to think about it. “G&T, please. Ooh, make it a double, if that’s okay?” I added, making it sound like an afterthought. It wasn’t. I caught Sam’s eye, trying to convey with a suggestive look that I didn’t normally do this but tonight, although we’d just met, his raw sexual energy had me spellbound and I was planning on getting drunk, kissing him in the Uber, and ending my night in his bed. He smiled. Whether I’d actually managed to communicate this in just a glance or whether he was just smiling at my tits, I wasn’t sure. Either way, as I watched him make his way to the bar, I was sure something had done the trick. Pride mixed with anxiety as I thought about work tomorrow. What the hell was I doing. I needed something stronger to help me forget.
I fumbled through the inner pocket of my bag until I found a small plastic baggy. Bingo. I briefly inspected its contents in the light; maybe a quarter of a gram? That would do it. I put both hands back inside my handbag as if I was rummaging for my phone, and scraped a little powder under the long fingernail I’d grown out for such occasions. Once I was sure no one was looking, I covered my mouth and nose as if to cough, shoved the fingernail inside my nostril and took a deep sniff. If anyone had been watching, I’d have looked like I’d just blown my nose. This was a move I’d perfected out of necessity; to both take the edge off boring dates, and to numb the pain of my wandering mind. Suddenly, I was calm. Blood rushed to my head and everything felt better.
Sam returned drinks in hand and sat back down. The following hour is a blur. I quizzed him on his job, asking question after question. What was the most disgusting thing he’d seen? Did he do royal funerals? Any weird deaths? I remember looking down at the hands cradling his pint and thinking, those hands have touched a dead person today. He answered my questions in detail, with an air of arrogance. He didn’t want to talk about anything else, but after twenty five minutes, the undertaker novelty had worn off. The coke had worn off. I’d run through every possible question I could think of. Sam’s answers were long, detailed, technical. My morbid curiosity dwindled into boredom. As the pauses between his answers and my questions grew longer, I expected that he would begin to ask about my life. He did not. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in my pyjamas watching Bake Off with my mum. But it was too late for that. She’d be asleep now, and I’d made my bed. Time to lie in it. The pub rang the bell for last orders. “Another round?”
***
Back at Sam’s – because of course I’d gone back to Sam’s – I sat awkwardly on the cheap leather sofa, unsure of how to place my limbs for maximum sex appeal. He was fixing me another drink.“For the road,” he’d said. Sure. I could already see myself sneaking out in the morning, shoes in one hand, ordering an Uber with the other. I’d have some gum, spruce up my hair and and wipe away the panda eyes with my fingers before work.
I surveyed the room. On a clothes horse in the corner were T-shirts piled in such a way that they would never dry properly. Against the wall opposite me, a TV and Xbox. On the shelf was an impressive collection of vaguely Lefty books, empty IPA bottles and a novelty bong. Fairy lights completed the room, strung haphazardly along the walls. It was a typical student flat share; except Sam wasn’t a student. He was an undertaker. Or an undertaker moonlighting as a magician, if my assessment was correct. Sam was 29 years old. I guessed that my bed for the night would be a mattress on the floor. I would be surprised if he had two pillows.
“It’s cool how into my job you are,” he called over from the kitchenette as he poured out two generous double gin and tonics. “So many people are like, freaked out or whatever.”
“That’s crazy,” I said wearily, drawing out the last syllable to fill the inevitable silence that would follow. I checked the time. Half midnight. I needed to hurry up if I was going to get laid and get any sleep before work. I should make it clear here that I was not a sex addict; I was an affection addict. I could always take or leave the sex – and more often than not I would rather leave it – but the moments beforehand, when I felt wanted, desired, it was those that I craved. Because I ultimately wouldn’t be getting it from whichever skinny heartbreaker I was in love with at the time; it was the only way to cope.
“Should we go hang out in your room, maybe?” I asked as Sam brought over our drinks. I grabbed mine a little too quickly.
“I just wanted to show you something quickly, let’s watch this first,” he said as he sat down and opened up the MacBook on the coffee table. “First” implied there was an “after” to come; I’d succeeded. I would be getting laid, I could relax. I just wished we could get it over with, so I could get my fix then get some sleep. I’d been called out by my manager earlier in the week for calling in sick on nine consecutive Mondays – my hangovers were beginning to last for days – so I couldn’t afford another day off. Sam began skipping to the end of the Six Feet Under finale. “Let’s just watch, like, the last ten minutes. It’s so good.” Because of course; instead of getting laid, I was watching the last episode of Six Feet Under with an undertaker-stroke-magician.
When the credits finally rolled and Sam shed a tear, I made my move. “That was so amazing,” I said, pretending I hadn’t seen it before – because men love it when they introduce us to fairly well known pop culture.
“I knew you’d love it. Like, some people don’t get it?” Who? Children?
“Yeah, I can imagine,” I lied. I leaned towards him, trying to focus on his two mouths. I was drunker than I’d thought. I wondered how strong my drink actually was. I could never tell anymore. I wanted to lie down. For the second time that night I wanted to go home. Instead, I kissed him.
At times like these, I’d often play the song Underwear by Pulp through my head.
I couldn’t stop it now There's no way to get out He's standing far too near How the hell did you get here? Semi-naked in somebody else's room
I’d loved that song when I was little, with no idea what it was really about. Maybe I should have taken note.
As Sam and I walked down the small corridor to his bedroom, we passed a roommate. He was a little older than Sam, better looking, less magician-y. They exchanged knowing smiles.
“Alright?”
“Yeah, alright?”
“Excuse me, sorry,” I slurred as I squeezed past, suddenly embarrassed by my very being. Why did I keep doing this.
Sam’s bed was indeed a mattress on the floor, with one pillow. Lucky me. I topped up my drink – I’d brought the gin through – and sat on the edge of the mattress. Sam plugged an aux lead into his phone and opened Spotify. I can’t remember what he put on. It was 2016, he had one pillow; it was probably Mac Demarco. He switched out the light, gently lay me down on the pillow, and started kissing my face, leaving snail trails of saliva. I could feel every bone in his skinny body as he writhed around on top of me. In the pitch black he could have been a skeleton, cold bones fumbling at my skin. I sat up, he took off my top and bra. I just wanted this over with. If the beforehand bit was going to be this rushed and horrible, I wanted to at least get to the bit after, the bit where he held me and I could pretend I was loved.
Sam carefully removed his waistcoat, folding it before gently placing it on top of a pile of discarded clothes.
“God, you’re so fit” he growled, pawing at my breasts. The compliment set a fire burning in my brain. I blushed. The burst of dopamine would last at least a day or two; Sam had done his bit for the night. But I still had to do mine.
Moments later, as I was dutifully giving him head, Sam stopped me to ask if I was on the pill. “It’s fine if you’re not.” The subtext was clear; could he fuck me without a condom? I wanted to please him.
“Yeah,” I lied again. Because I honestly just didn’t care. My life was a joke. I was about to sleep with a narcissistic undertaker, coked up and drunk on a Tuesday night, just to feel something. I didn’t look when I crossed the road anymore.
“Have you been, like, tested?”
I was both impressed that he was being responsible, and offended he would even ask. This time I was honest. “I’m all good, except for HPV but everyone has that,” I replied nonchalantly. This was mostly true; a third of the population has HPV.
“Oh,” he paused. “What’s that?”
“It’s just like a harmless virus, it doesn’t do anything,” I tried to brush it off. I lay down. He didn’t join me, and instead furrowed his brow.
“But will I get it? Maybe we should use a condom?” I could tell he was regretting bring me home. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to gross out a literal undertaker. The man had touched dead bodies that day.
“Condoms don’t protect against it,” I sat up again, impatient now. “It’s fine, I promise. Come over here.” I pleaded, making my voice as small as possible. That did the trick. Having clearly decided it was worth the risk, he joined me on the bed.
I couldn’t get into the sex; I never did. It was never about that. And I’d already gotten what I was there for, an ego boost. Now I just had to dutifully play out my role. It would be rude – weird, even – to leave now. Sam grunted on top of me, but I couldn’t even fake it. All I could think about was how disgusting I must be to have made him think twice about sleeping with me. I was vile, repulsive. I would show up to work the next day smelling of sex and gin and sweat. I could see the way my coworkers looked at me. The fact that they’d stopped inviting me to lunch hadn’t gone unnoticed. I was pitiful and nauseating in equal parts. I’d gotten the job through sheer nepotism, and I still took the piss. I was a joke.
Thus was my internal dialogue while Sam Tinder 4 writhed and groaned, seemingly having the time of his life with not a care in the world – and certainly not a care for my own pleasure or wellbeing. He came, then sighed and rolled back to his side of the bed. It was over.
He turned towards me, studying my face with an intensity I couldn’t work out. Maybe he did fancy me. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. I let my imagination take over. Maybe in the morning we’d spoon as we snoozed our alarms, before heading out for a quick breakfast before work. We’d chuckle bashfully at the awkwardness. I’d cover my face in mock-shame at last night’s antics, before laughing as he grabbed my hand. We’d walk to the tube, my hand in his. Maybe he wasn’t that bad. Maybe I could grow to love him. And I’d let anyone love me.
He interrupted my reverie by gently pulling the pillow from under my head. “Could I just grab this? Sorry, I need to be up early. You can stay if you want though, that was great.” He was already falling asleep. Fuck this.
***
At two in the morning in my Uber home, I cried. I cried for me, feeling desperately sorry for myself. I also cried because I hated myself. I hated the mess I’d become. I dreaded the looks my parents would exchange in the morning. I hated that my dad would scream at me in a few days, as he did weekly, telling me to grow the fuck up. I both blamed and pitied myself.
Back home, I crept up the stairs past my parents’ bedroom as quietly as a drunk person can. I opened the fresh bottle of wine I’d stashed under my bed and rolled myself a cigarette. I gummed what was leftover of the coke. Tonight hadn’t worked after all; I felt worse than before I’d gone out. I still needed a fix before bed, or I wouldn’t sleep. That fix could be anything at this point, be it feeling loved or drunk or desired or high. I just wanted any positive emotion, just for once. I checked my phone. It was nearly three. I’d get around five hours sleep, could be worse. I leaned out the window to smoke while I scrolled through other people’s put-together lives on Instagram. I still wasn’t feeling enough. Maybe I’d cut myself, my last resort. I carried on scrolling.
I must have passed out at some point. I woke up at half seven to a WhatsApp from Sam. We’d exchanged numbers at drinks, back when we were both still pretending it might lead somewhere. And maybe it still would; sending a text the next morning seemed pretty keen. I tried to list all the good things about him in my head, imagining us together. He was passionate about what he did, which I liked. I actually loved Six Feet Under. I could work on the magician thing. I opened the message, nervous but excited.
Not being funny but still googling HPV – do I now have it off you?
Coz some of the google images are of warts etc
My heart sank. Bile rose from my stomach to my throat. I wasn’t the girl you texted the next day because you wanted to see her again. I was the girl you texted the next day to check exactly which STIs she may have given you.
Mate chill like everyone has it cos condoms don’t protect against it
And there’s no symptoms hahaha
I was too hungover for this shit. I’d try to just laugh it off. I wished he’d just leave me alone. I didn’t need a reminder of that moment the night before.
Have woken up with some lump under my skin by my mouth
Do you have anything else you didn’t tell me about?
Jesus fucking Christ, how sketty did I seem?
Mate I promise I don’t
Alright
Just don’t understand where it’s come from
Yeah that’s weird but it’s not from me
But re HPV 75% of people have it so chances are you already did
This wasn’t true. I plucked this number out of thin air. But I was feeling defensive and I knew he wouldn’t bother to check. I was desperate, grasping at anything to save face. He probably had a coldsore, an ingrown hair, a spot. Rationally I knew he was being unfair. But that nagging voice in my head was going into overdrive. Of course you’re getting this line of questioning, Ruby. You’re disgusting. What do you expect?
He hadn’t replied. I knew I should just close the chat. But I couldn’t. I needed him to come round, to validate me again. I needed someone to shut the voice up. I’d be nice.
Soz should have made that more clear lol
But it’s really nothing to worry about, it’s symptomless 🙂
I was trying to reclaim some dignity. Why had I even told him I had it? Cocaine made me feel like my promiscuity was a fun and impressive personality trait.
You said everyone had it
This was like pulling teeth. My head was throbbing.
I didn’t mean literally
He went offline. I doubted I would be getting a second date. Fuck him. Fuck his pony tail and his job and his waistcoat. I tried to grab five more minutes of sleep.
My phone buzzed again. Another message from him. I allowed myself to hope. Maybe he’d back down a little. Maybe we’d laugh about this in ten years. It would be our funny anecdote at dinner parties. He’d grab my hand across the table. “And then I woke up with a coldsore,” he’d chuckle knowingly. I’d playfully hit his arm and scold him for bringing it up. “Not again!” I’d cry. He’d continue, “And I thought, what the hell has she given me?” Cue laughter around the table. “But she just kept texting. And the rest, as they say, is history.” Suddenly I couldn’t wait for my life with Sam. My mind raced through endless perfect futures. I checked the text.
Did you leave your knickers here by the way?
The perfect futures shattered into a million pieces.
And a black top?
Now I was confused. How could I have forgotten my top? Then it came back to me – sitting in the back of the Uber, struggling to keep my head up straight as the tears streamed down my face. Trying to focus my eyes on my phone. Checking the Uber app with one eye shut to stop everything blurring, desperate to know how long until I would be safe in bed. And finally, the memory of clasping my coat around my naked chest, bra in pocket. I had been in such a rush, so desperate to get out of there. I was a state. The driver had asked for my number.
Possibly
Any hope I had of this sounding cool and nonchalant vanished when I realised “possibly” implied I had no idea where my knickers were. Okay Ruby, you’ve fucked this up enough. Time to end this.
But don’t worry about it.
I didn’t know, but could probably have guessed, that I’d never hear from Sam again.
I wasn’t the girl you married. I wasn’t even the girl you dated. I understood that now. I couldn’t face the day. Everything would have to wait. I’d deal with my parents’ disappointment later. I’d deal with my own disappointment later. I texted my boss a quick apology – food poisoning, again! Everything could wait. I just needed to not be conscious. I couldn’t bear my own thoughts. I swigged what was left of the wine. It was nearly 8am. I rolled over and sunk back into sleep, listening to the birds chirping outside.
Not All Men 