Servite - Wake Up., c/o : Ewan Muir.,

I wake up. Just. I open my eyes, but I need to close them again in order to see.
This isn’t my room, this isn’t even my house and the woman sprawled naked next to me is certainly not my girlfriend. I know that from the undeniable fact that she is indeed naked, a trait not to be found in my prudish pyjama wearing fiancé.
I go to swallow but my tongue has swollen in my mouth and now feels like it’s coated in that grey fuzz that manifests on well expired lasagne. I try again, using every muscle in my mouth and throat, this time succeeding only in rolling the mucus from under my tongue to the back of my throat, causing me to gag – God I need water. Which unfortunately means I’m going to have to get up, which to certain extents I already am, you know, erection wise?
This of course would be easier said than done if my left arm wasn’t currently wedged under the rib cage of my mid-night lover, with my hand cupping one of her delightfully pert bosoms. For a girl that I’m guessing hasn’t changed before bed (ever) she smells incredible, so much so that I edge my head forwards to muse over her fragrance again. God she smells of Heaven, that intoxicating scent that could woo any man, the unmistakable reek of cigarettes and alcohol diluted with perfume and shampoo. This is however not helping me conquer my erection and is endangering me on being charged with assault, so it’s time to make my move. I ponder all the possibilities available; including waking her up, although this idea is quickly abandoned and I concede to the only plausible option, the old tablecloth manoeuvre. Not giving myself time to think I take a deep breath and with one lightning tug (no pun intended) I sweep my arm from under her as if was weightless, and flip onto my front with all the grace of a break dancing paraplegic. From here I extend my arms into an erect push up position. The strain of this alone causes me to break into cold sweats, and a wave of nausea cascades over me. My arms are shaking more than the first time I got my love on in the ‘military position’ for more than forty seconds (twenty one years young, save the applause). Next I leap frog my feet to where my hands are and stand up quickly – far too quickly. The room spins, and I feel the blood in my face pulsating, before draining to my feet before I promptly and violently throw up.
-All over pretty, naked girl.
Luckily for me my hot date clearly had the same ideas of toxic grandeur as myself last night as she didn’t even flinch when what can only be described as an entire pork sausage launched from my gullet, landed in her hair, abseiled down her cheek, coming to rest next on the pillow next to her where my head had just been. That was enough for me. Pivot and out to find the kitchen.
My search brings me into a dank, carpet less corridor, the cornices camouflaged by black mould. The once magnolia walls are now a pale green thanks to years of smoke trauma and lack of natural light. If bodies are indeed temples, then I am standing smack in the middle of mine. I look to my left and see two doors on opposite sides of the corridor, one is what I would guess to be a bedroom door (due to an enormous ‘DO NOT DISTURB SIGN’, depicting a good forty sex positions, three of which I’ve tried) and the other is the main door and my ticket out of this nightmare, but first I need to quench this thirst.
On the right hand side of my mystery partners’ hallway there is a naked pine door with damp patches on the floor in front of it. Half guessing and hoping this door leads to the bathroom I slowly open it and peer in. The air in the room is damp and misty reminding me of those wonderful documentaries about the rainforests in South America, however, the smell of someone else’s shit and Lynx Africa shower gel quickly drags me back to reality.
I hover over the toilet, trying to avoid dipping my three day old socks in the dubious patches of liquid that are scattered across the floor and try to force out my almost caramel coloured urine. God caramel coloured can’t be good, I mean I’m sure it’s supposed to be a kind of off white liquid theme streaming out of my mediocre penis. I will have seven pints of water a day from now on and a variety of fruit vegetables; I may even buy one of those fancy I-Pods and take up jogging. I could even be one of those ‘health freaks’ and join the gym.
-I would love a cigarette.
I fart; it’s warm and almost feels moist on my buttocks but deadly silent, the smell mixes with the steam from someone else’s shower and the Lynx Africa scent to create what feels a unique potent fog around me, making me vomit again. I haven’t even finished with one bodily fluid excretion and all of a sudden I’m firing piss and vomit at the same time, why did this girl invite me home? This would never happen to Jon Bon Jovi.
I breathe slowly through pursed lips; this seems to filter fresh air into my lungs and settles my stomach. Turning towards the sink I stare in the mirror at an old tramp with hard lines along his forehead and waxy blonde pelt instead of hair and try to convince myself that girls in the office won’t realise I was out last night. The taps are stiff, they are encrusted with toothpaste and mouthwash giving them an almost limestone finish but they turn and a glorious waterfall of fresh water cascade from their dull mouths. I hang over the cold tap and lap the water like a dog; letting the water splash all over my face in an attempted to cleanse me from the events of the previous evening.
I decide to leave my hangover jobby until I reach work, I mean I’m sure the naïve but promiscuous office girls will place the pieces of my hangover jigsaw together, they hardly have to be Jessica Fletcher to realise what I’ve been up to. The clues will be staring them in their over tanned faces: the stale smell of sweat and beer oozing from every pore, the lack of colour in my usually pink face and of course the clothes I had on the previous day with a fantastical array of creases scattered over them.
Back in the hallway my beautiful lady friend (or lover I suppose, maybe I am like Jon Bon Jovi) is waiting I presume, as she is covered in my vomit, for the bathroom. Even covered in sick she looks great, like an untalented day time actress who only works because of her face, which presumably is not cover in vomit.
‘Just give me a minute and I’ll give you a lift to work,’ she announces.
‘Oh, right, well its fine, I mean I’ll just hop on the bus now. I’m a bit late as it is,’ the word stumble barley out of my mouth into a coherent sentence. I don’t even know what time I start never mind what time it is just now.
‘You’re the boss aren’t you?’ This is technically a lie in so much that it is in no way the truth or bares any resemblance to the truth. I am definitely not Jon Bon Jovi.
‘Just be late, we’ll have breakfast.’
Ok, it’s time to seriously think. I’ve spent my entire life making horrific decisions, from thinking people would genuinely appreciate me at the school talent show when I fast forwarded the entire of ‘Graceland’ (on cassette) to ‘Call me Al’(second side), then proceeded to fast forward that to the penny whistle solo…..and mime it. What did I expect? What did I really think a game of hide the penny whistle was? What a wanker.
Right, what would Paul Simon do? Ha, what a stupid fucking question, he would be right on the blower to Chevy Chase and they would be round at his pouring strawberry Dakari’s through Susan Sarandon’s cleavage in no time. God they rule.
Stop thinking gay! Ok…..
-“I suppose I already am late….” What are you doing, you’re engaged!
-“Great! Well where do you want to go? I mean, after I’ve washed this fucking vomit out of hair, like seriously, what kind of a sick, perverted bastard does that and doesn’t even have the courtesy to wake me up to tell me?”
-“I dunno but they have serious hygiene issues, ha, says the guy that practically just spontaneously combusted in his CK’s.”
Well done on keeping that one to your self.
“O….K, well ill grab a quick shower and see you in a second. You had better take me somewhere nice?”
Wait a minute, since when was I taking her anywhere. SHE asked me on the date. SHE is the one that is being all flirty-flirty and it was most certainly HER that initiated are bedroom rendezvous. Where do woman get this power from, I’m so angry I could cry yet I’m checking my wallet at the same time – I’m actually going to take her out!
Ok, what do we have in here, bank card, essential but I am hoping I can get through on the cash in this baby, as It could be embarrassing when that glorious whirring sound of dispensing cash is replaced by the second most humiliating sound ever (the first being following through – obviously), the insufficient funds sound – silence, followed by your card sheepishly sliding back towards you, as if it just followed through. I check the main pouch of my wallet and to my surprise there is actually some cash in it, notes, two of them infact and they are both….twenties! I think I had better stick one of those in my back pocket just in case she catches a glimpse and thinks it’s a regular occurrence for me to be carrying forty pounds in cash after a night out.
Now that the cash part is sorted its time for me to get my sauvé on, a feat made more difficult by the fact that I look like I’ve just been raped by the chuckle brothers – “From me to you, me to you”. I turn around to see an enormous Victorian looking mirror mounted and taking up half of the wall and decide to sort myself out, while adding a touch of grandeur to another wise begrimed day. Quick spit in the hand, quick wipe from chin to hair line, spit again and run my fingers through my hair. Christ I’m like a suburban Ray Mears.
At that moment, just as I was getting cocky the shower stops. She coughs as her feet hit the floor and she fumbles around for a towel. I can hear her walking towards the door on the wet floor, caused by the steam and the fact that the lazy cow probably doesn’t own any clean bath mats. Stop being negative! She allowed you to have full intercourse with her; well at least I hope we had intercourse. It was probably excellent intercourse at that, the type the lasts for hours and you feel deflated physically and emotionally satisfied. I was more than likely very good, which in all honesty make a nice change.
The door to the bathroom opens and she, the woman who I may have had sex with the previous evening, strolls out. Her rich mahogany hair feed droplets of water down her arms and chest as her skin begins to bubble with goose bumps. Somehow she wears a towel like an Armani dress and as she passes she winks and I feel my erection creeping about again in my crotch.
I suddenly realise that I really shouldn’t be in this situation, despite the potential it may have. I have a wonderful fiancé who loves me, although she has cheated on me three times in our colourful eight year relationship. I can’t be gallivanting around with young girls with soggy towel garments. I have responsibilities’, I do, I have half blind cat called jenny, who will more than likely be dead within the year, loan repayments on a scarlet Fiat Cicento, which I am never allowed to drive and a modest monthly saver account with HSBC. I am not Paul Simon or Jon Bon Jovi and I am definitely not Arthur Fonzzarelli!
Abruptly I’m hit with the thought that maybe I am like the Fonz, maybe I’m a man in his late twenties who sleeps with teenagers. She has a car so I can be sure she is over seventeen but by how much? What if she looks older because she smokes and she’s still in her teens? I run into my young lover’s bedroom forgetting to knock even though I know she is getting changed. Why I am acting like a sex pest?
‘Oh’ she says, jumping back slightly before realising that I’ve have already seen her breasts and most likely her vagina.
‘Hey there,’ cool and casually (in my head) I say trying to distract her from the actual reason I barged into her room as she was naked. ‘So……. What’s taking you so long?’
‘I’ll just be a sec.’
I secretively scan the room as she turns and puts on her lacy black bra and white cotton pants, she doesn’t even care that I can see them and they don’t match. Her room is messy, not the kind that I am used to with the previous days clothes on the floor, the sort of mess that looks like the Secret German Police were looking for Jews during in the 1940s. Through the chaos I manage to find some of the clues I’m looking for; a Kaiser chief’s CD lying open on the dresser and a dishevelled copy of The Amber Spyglass open the floor. Then I spot it, the exact type I was looking for, an Americanised High School Year book dated 2004.
‘Wow! Is this yours?’ I ask hopefully, ‘We never had these when I was at School……. well at my School.’
‘Oh that yeah. God don’t look through it!’
She nearly flattens me with her tiny frame as she rips it out of my hands.
‘My photo is awful!’
She tosses the cheap sentimental book on the only clear patch of carpet and begins to tie her hair back, and my god can she tie hair back. Prior to fixing her hair she did the hair toss. The hair toss that has only ever been properly executed by models under cascading water falls in Hawaii (the thought of waterfalls strangely makes me want to ejaculate on her face – which if I may say is pure Bon Jovi), but she doesn’t need a waterfall or Hawaii, she is a Goddess, she is a babe, she has been officially deified by the sex Gods and I am thanking my lucky fucking stars I’m religious. I manage to deter my eyes from my Venus for a second and turn my attention to obtaining the Year Book, the reason being, photograph aside this will give me a great insight into who she really is, whether she believes it or not. You see if there is one thing I have learnt from women (besides that fact that I have an average sized penis, back hair is a no-no and shouting “Put another shrimp on the Barbie” during intercourse is not a good idea) its that the best friends know everything, so if you have access to a book with them detailing your future wife’s flaws and traits then by all means read on.
“I can see you eyeing up that book, and you are getting no where near it little man”
little man? Little man? I hope that’s a new cute nick name referring to my average height and not a reference to my penis because quite frankly I’ve had enough of these names. Would she like it if during a dinner party I leant back arrogantly, glass of wine in one hand, Cuban in the other and announced to the table “while your up get some more wine from the kitchen would you purse flaps?” I don’t think so.
“I wouldn’t even dare to look at it, I mean honestly what am I going to achieve by looking at a four year old book, written by ‘Smash Hits’ up and coming journalists, about all the ‘whacky’ things that went on at your school. Because I can’t think of anything. Can u?” – Christ you would hold well under interrogation Biggin’s.
“I suppose so; it’s just embarrassing that’s all, not just the picture but the whole thing. Let’s just say I was a little adventuress at school, but that was a long time ago.”
-Was it fuck! Six hours ago at my last count!
“So please if you want to see these (gestures to her incredible breasts) again, or even have breakfast for that matter then you will respect my privacy and keep your pervy little nose out of that book”
“Not a problem”
Except it is a problem now.