Thursday, 9 September 2010

The Chatter

In my experience, the way it normally goes is we lie there for a while. Make a little awkward chitchat followed by my making up some urgent excuse to leave (eg. early morning tomorrow, early flight, left the gas stove on at home… the list goes on), slip out of the apartment and never call him again.

Unless he turns into a regular. But hey that’s a whole different story.

And then later, at the bar, I will share bits of the trick with my gaggle of faghags and occasional stags; some of which will think, “Who is this sad sad self-loathing idiot who got into bed with Jamie Macintosh?”

Imagine my horror when the last trick I had (technically, not the last latest one, but technically the last one last week!) was a chatter. After a rather intense session, he laid next to me in bed. Both of us were drenched in sweat.

He started talking about his job. How he needs to travel. How he discovered his love for dick. How many boyfriends he had. Why they broke up. His longterm goals in life.

(I was like, do I look interested?)

“AH SHUT UP ALREADY!!!” was what I should have said.

But I just rolled him over. And we went at it again.

Once this was done, I gave him some lame arse excuse and made my exit.

While walking to the MRT station, I took out my celly and deleted The Chatter’s number.

This is one of the reasons why some fucks remain as a one-time experience.

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