I’ve got a while before my train leaves. Is it too early for vodka? I feel I need vodka. A joint maybe? No, glassy eyes don’t give a good impression. Calm your nerves Lola, it’s just a date. Just a regular date. You know enough about each other to know you’ll have a good time, so stop worrying. Just run a brush through your hair and lets get going. Ok, maybe one quick shot of vodka. Ummm, what’s that you’re doing? Are you shaving your legs? And the bikini line? Why would you be doing that? You are absolutely, positively NOT going to sleep with this man Lola, do you hear me? No sex. None. Put the razor down. On a first date? Really? Come on now, you’ve been so good with the whole self respect thing, remember that? Remember how Lola’s funhouse was closed for the forseeable future? Is it for the blog? Do you think banging him would make a good story? Oh Lola! Are you really prepared to pimp yourself out like that? Oh. It’s not for the blog. Please stop preening the lady garden, nobody’s going to see it! You will be keeping your knickers on all day! All day! Why all the effort? You want him to like you, don’t you? Why? Are you worried he’ll say nasty things? Do you like him? Do you?! Oh my god you do! You can’t! Of course you don’t, you haven’t even met the man yet. Don’t be so silly. Oh, we’re moisturising our legs now too are we? Going all out for a man you are most definitely not going to fuck, aren’t you? No! Stop! NOT the good lingerie?! No! I mean it. Oh dear Lord do I mean it! Don’t fuck him Lola. Your cunt is on lockdown. Seriously. Don’t.
‘Lola, my daughter’s shit herself, are you going to be much longer in the bathroom?’
It’s a glamorous life you lead Lola, it has to be said. Now put your clothes on and get out of the bathroom. Robyn’s needs are greater than your own at the moment. Although, it has to be said…it’s a rather fitting omen, considering you’re going on a date with Sean Smithson.
This date has been a long time in the making. Triggered by a drunken email sent while on a stag do, Smithson and I allowed our blog followers to decide whether a date was a good idea. We should have known they’d throw us to the wolves, eager to see the wreckhead nymphomaniac get it on with the hooker-addict. Months passed and we finally synchronised our diaries for a few drinks on Saturday afternoon.
I’d already had more than a few before I even met him. Chelsea were playing Tottenham at the Bridge and asking me to be that close to Fulham Broadway without stopping for a beer or two with my fellow Chelsea fans is like asking me to stamp on defenceless fluffy kittens. It’s not going to happen. As if on automatic pilot, I made my way into the Elk bar and ordered a pint. Having been a Chelsea fan since birth I’m lucky enough that I can walk into any bar within a 10 mile radius of our home ground and find someone I know, or who is worth hanging out with for a bit. There were a few old boys from home tucked away in the corner, but it was Messhead’s booming voice across the bar that got my attention,
‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ Messhead snarled as I approached him. My lack of trainers and football shirt had clearly offended him.
‘I’m not going to the game Mess, I’m meeting a mate for a drink’.
He shook his head in disgust as he passed me a shot, ‘We’ll have them yids today,’ he grinned.
A couple of pints later and with the glorious sounds of Chelsea football anthems ringing through my ears, I made my way back onto the tube to meet Smithson.
Now, dear reader, I have written all the gory details of our date a thousand times and I’m still not happy hitting that ‘publish’ button. Firstly, it’s a lot more difficult than you’d think to write about someone when you know they’re going to scrutinise every word. Secondly, I cringe every time I type the words ‘Sean Smithson’. Not because he makes me cringe, but because ‘Smithson’ is not who he is, nowhere near. And knowing that it’s a moniker he’s not too keen on either just makes it all the more cringe worthy. Finally, despite this being a ‘Lola and Sean’ date, nothing remotely fucked up or backward happened. Well, not really. So where I would normally highlight the disastrous element of a date and regale it to you all in a hilariously creative fashion, that’s just not possible here. Instead, please excuse me as I break from the norm to tell you all about my date with the infamous Sean Smithson…
‘He loses points if he’s late,’ Jolene had said. She was right and under normal circumstances he would have done, but the tubes were a nightmare and so it was easy to forgive him when he bounded up the stairs a few seconds later, ‘he’s here now,’ I messaged her, ‘and he’s cute!’
Seriously, he’s cute. Like a, ‘Wow, I’m massively surprised by how cute’ kind of cute! I had visions of this bumbling Asian Mr.Bean shifting around awkwardly, possibly with a brow of nervous sweat and some kind of eye twitch. Dressed in jeans, sweater and trainers, there wasn’t even a hint of geeky accountant about him as Smithson and I greeted each other and ordered more drinks.
Now anyone who has ever engaged in a conversation with a vodka fuelled Lola will know that I can talk for England, but Smithson gave me a run for my money. Travelling, family, friends, writing, blogging, dating, football, past mistakes and future plans, no stone was left unturned as the drinks flowed and the hours flew by. It was all too easy. In fact, the time passed so quickly that I was somewhat disappointed to realise the hour for my final train home was quickly approaching,
‘You can’t go yet,’ he said as I began to make my apologies for cutting our evening short, ‘what if I get us a hotel for the night?’
You are absolutely, positively not sleeping with this man Lola! You need to go home. Your funds are running low and you have plans tomorrow. You are not agreeing to any over night stays or frolics in flea ridden motel rooms, do you hear me? This is not how it’s meant to go. Put your coat on and go home. You’re not sleeping with him. I forbid it! Knickers on Lola, knickers on!
After a quick trip to the bathroom I took a detour outside for a cigarette. I was accosted by my fellow Chelsea fans, returning from our 4-0 win over Tottenham and clearly in high spirits, who lectured me about my absence at the game and insisted that they meet the man responsible. That was never going to happen and, after some light banter and a promise to attend the Bridge one day soon, I made my way back to Smithson in the bar, pretty confident that I’d be getting the last train home. That’s when he kissed me. I didn’t see it coming, I swear. There had been no flirting on his part, as far as I could tell. I wasn’t even taking the hotel room enquiry as a genuine move. In fact, the sweet little Mexican barman had given me more ‘come to bed’ looks than Smithson had. Turning around and having Smithson launch himself at my face was, for all intents and purposes, quite the surprise.
I’m guessing that, at this point, you don’t give a flying fuck about our drunken stumble towards a nearby hotel. I’m guessing you don’t care that my heels were killing me, that we stopped off to buy more beer that we never actually got around to drinking, or that the hotel room was nicer than either of us had expected, considering it was a last minute booking. I’m guessing you just want to know whether Smithson got his cock up my arse before midnight, lest I turn into a pumpkin?
Well, of course he did.
And no, his dick isn’t as small as he makes it out to be. To be fair, the man’s rocking some serious girth.
And finally no, this is not the beginning of some WordPress romance or sordid love affair. There will be no hearts and flowers end to this story. I had an awesome night with Smithson and I’m quietly confident that he’d say the same about me, but Lola and Sean after football and vodka does not a fairytale ending make! Give me a couple of months and I may drop him a text to see if he fancies a drink and a catch up. Maybe he’ll realise I’m cheaper than a hooker and will text me sooner. Maybe.
You disgust me. What happened to the self respect thing Lola? You can blame alcohol all you want but you knew exactly what you were doing. And anal. Really? You degraded yourself enough to suck on his balls, but that wasn’t far enough was it? Noooo! You have to do everything in abundance! All out dirty whore or it’s just not worth doing, right? Honestly, and you wonder why you’re single! You should be ashamed. Ok, ok, I know you’re not. I know you’re just relieved you found your panties wedged down the side of the bed in the morning. They’d have cost a fortune to replace, you know. So irresponsible. And now you have to get home, with no train ticket and no money. How are you going to blag your way through that one, huh? Was it worth it? Oh it was! Well good for you. Tramp.