Let me set the scene. It’s a Saturday night in my home town, and the clubs are calling my name. Naturally, I put on my sluttiest outfit and hit town with the confidence of a white man. ‘Come on Eileen’ was playing as I locked eyes with the pookiest man I had ever seen. Thankfully lacking a breather-stache, he was a solid 7.5/10. Let’s call him Pookie.
Pookie and I played eye tag for like 20 minutes before he made his way over. What happens next is blurry, but our dancing wasn’t getting us anywhere. Thankfully, my best friend was on a wing-woman mission. Desperate for me to get my mans, she demonstrated that kissing in the club was acceptable, by making out with her own guy. It worked. Pookie remains the highest-rated kiss I’ve experienced: I dream about those luscious lips.
Alas, that night went no further than some good banter, and ended with a kebab, as any good night does. My sister picked us up and dropped him home. Luckily, this was not the end of our story.
I’d gotten his Snapchat, and at first I thought Pookie was ghosting me. Turns out he’d actually been in a bike accident. Whoops. Eventually he healed and wound up in my inbox again, and we made plans to go to town later that week. In preparation, I got absolutely mutilated by a full Brazilian.
My best friend was recruited for round two of wing-woman duties and sober drove us to town. The club queues were insane, so we had her take us on a sight-seeing tour, pointing out the local celebrities and the spots we’d frequented as kids.
We ended up outside my religious primary school. The playground was so gas and colourful that I made Pookie get out so I could show him around. Before we did, my wing-woman warned that the moment might sweep me away and I’d end up riding on more than just the fireman's pole. She offered to take us somewhere with a bed. In my naive, delulu state, I ignored all of her wisdom – genuinely believing nothing was going to happen.
Safe to say I was wrong, and she was right. I blame the slide. Romance bloomed at the bottom, and Pookie and I were on to some good old fashioned making out. And then we weren’t just making out. Clothes were off, including a sacrifice of my sexiest black lacy g-string that was never recovered, lost to the bark in the playground. Following a bout of very satisfying sex across multiple playground platforms, my virginity was a distant memory. Just like my childhood playing on this playground.
Hopping back in the car, I locked eyes with my best friend in the rear-view mirror, and without a word, a lot was communicated in those seconds. As we drove away all I could do was hope that the priest who lived on site didn’t hear anything. I spent the rest of the evening very breezy on the dance floor commando in a skirt with no undies, and no complaints.
No complaints until the next morning, that is, when I had to look the very judgmental old male pharmacist in the eyes and ask for Plan B, and explain that it wasn’t exactly a case of a defective condom… more like there’d just been none in play.
I can’t blame my actions that night on the alcohol because I was pretty much sober, Pookie was just that pookie. Sometimes I get a little wistful when I drive past my old primary school, and still find myself scoping out his Bitmoji, sitting in America.
To anyone looking to say fuck it and have a scandalous hook-up, here’s your sign. I have no regrets.
