Sunday sex

There is something very illicit about a bonk on a Sunday night when you have work on a Monday.

There is something even more naughty about re-engaging in rumpy pumpy on a Monday morning before getting up to go to work.

And it is that very good feeling of being very wrong that is probably the only thing making me not as annoyed about it as I really want to be.

Because I am annoyed about it. For once I actually did not want to be having sex.

Oh well.

It all started off on Friday night...

My friend was up from London for the weekend, we went out on Friday night and I pulled this student. I had sacrificed my lovely new bedroom to my friend so was downstairs on the sofabed, with student.

And that should have been that.

My friend and I went out on Saturday night and I pulled this student. Deja vu. Only this time the second student didn't come back with me, we just swapped numbers.

Now, this complicates matters. Not because there were two students, but because there were two numbers.

And a temporary phone.

My smartphone had died itself a death whilst I was on holiday. At the time this was no great loss: when I go away, I get away. I get away from everything, I don't check my emails, don't update my social networks or even particularly keep in contact with people. I will send the occasional message back to me mam just to let her know that I'm alive, but that is all.

So, the phone wasn't an issue until I got home, when I ordered a new one. But that arrived damaged. So I am awaiting the return of the replacement. The seller unfortunately is pretty slow at dealing with this, and slow at responding to emails.

So in the meantime I'm on a very old phone which I stopped using when one of the buttons stopped working. This is a slight handicap. The main handicap though is that the default setting of this phone is to save numbers onto the phone rather than the SIM card, for some reason. It does, in fact, make it very difficult to save numbers onto the SIM card. So I don't save numbers.

Now, for the short period of time that I ought to have been using the phone, and the frequency with which I need to save numbers, it would have been a rare event that I needed to save one number, let alone two.

Anyhow, I am now in the position of having to guess which of the students is texting me.

So, I dispatched my friend off down to London late Sunday afternoon, by which point the Friday night student was already texting me trying to get me to go to the park for gin and lemonade. Normally I would have loved to, but the house needed sorting – the bedding needed changing from my friend, the sofabed needed de-bedding, the house needed a tidy and I had to sort my life out for work. Combine this with still being well behind schedule with the garden and – for once – gin comes second.

But he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Next thing I knew he was in the kitchen.

It scared the crap out of me – I came in the back door just as he drifted in the front door.

Now, in fairness I should have expected this. He had rung me a few times if he could come over, had asked where I lived. And, despite me repeatedly saying 'no' declared that he was coming over.

I don't normally actually say 'no'. I normally find a polite, tactful way of suggesting that it's not actually the most sensible course of action. So for me to actually put my foot down and say 'no', a good few times, shows how determined I was not to have sex.

Anyhow, we did end up bonking on Sunday night, clearly. What this should actually have meant is that I ought have gotten a better night sleep than expected: because he was over I went to be around 10pm, instead of after midnight as is turning out to be the norm. And even with bonking, the lights went out well before 11.

Add to the evening the fact that I didn't drink as much as I otherwise probably would have either both because of going to bed earlier, and not getting smashed in front of a shag; not just the quantity of sleep should have been better but also the quality.

And it possibly would have been, had the shag not started stomping around the bedroom at 00:39, grumbling about how hot it was and that he therefore couldn't sleep and probably ought to go home because he was disturbing me. My response was yes, he most definitely was disturbing me and he needed to make a decision one way or another: he either stayed, got back into bed and at least tried to sleep; or he rang for a taxi as soon as possible. I remember the time because I asked and got told “zero zero three nine.”

Well, he decided to stay and got back into bed and thrashed around for another half an hour or so before eventually dropping off.

Now, despite me giving strict instruction that it wasn't to happen again in the morning, and that when my alarm went off at 5:30am he was to get straight up and go; he didn't. He started on it again. I decided I might as well – firstly to get it over with and therefore get him gone as soon as possible, but also because of the illicitness of the bonking.

Eventually I got him out of the house – the sex took a little longer than was hoped but I still managed to get the early train.

And so on to the first five day week in and for a long while. With the Easter, the holiday, the early May bank holiday, an early finish on a Friday, and a sick day last week; and then with two bank holidays next week and three training courses on three consecutive weeks (they don't feel like work because they are more fun, they are out of the office and in London, and two of them are on Fridays) it's going to seem like a very long week. With little sleep. And with fingers still smelling of latex and lube, despite being washed many times.

And the best thing was that he called condoms Jonnies. I've not heard them called Jonnies in yonks.

Jonnies.