Martin K. Smith* is Awesome [and other names]

*note: may not feature any actual mention of aforementioned bloke.


Is it just this promiscuous young blogger that's done it, or has everyone managed it at some point during their sexual lives? You know... The phenomenon that is calling her the wrong name. Is it just me?

Here's my story.

A few months ago, it was my older brother's 21st birthday. As is the tradition in my house, the members of the family aged 21 and above all left for Edinburgh to enjoy a fun, alcohol-fuelled birthday celebration. This meant I was the oldest person in my household, a point which I took full advantage of from the moment I discovered this would be the case. As such, with my parents' permission, may I add, I set about arranging a sordid get-together of underaged alcohol abusers, in "Gothic Fancy Dress" [not my idea], and decided to get a few crates of alcohol in.

So it begins...

So, a few of my friends came round, including a few I'd not seen for a while, and one whom I'd had a sort of on-off fling with for a while. Tonight, the fling was on. Of course, in order to prevent upsetting a few of our friends, namely the ones who had feelings for me, we decided to try and keep it a bit low-key, with no obvious kissing, and what-have-you. But, as time went on, and the drinks flowed, and I got more shit-faced, I abandoned my morals [Hah! Morals?! Me?!], avoided any scruples I may have had earlier on, and decided to kiss her when I wanted to kiss her. I'm eighteen, I'm horny... It makes sense, Non? Needless to say, I faced a bit of disgruntlement in the morning from those with feelings.

The next part was relayed to me in the morning...

Because of the amount of alcohol I consumed, my mind was in no fit state to remember names. I was also in no physical state to perform, either. Didn't stop me trying, though. Instead, convinced I was Stallion of the Year, I decided to try and initiate a bit of the best sex of her life. I started off really well, attaining a full erection, before saying, rather regretfully [due to the reaction, more than anything else...], "Give me a kiss, Ayesha." Oops.

C [as we'll call her] then proceeded to storm out of the bedroom*, ranting and raving to my younger brother and my friend Scott, that I had called her the wrong name. Apparently, she was seething for a full five minutes before my brother told her "He didn't mean it, he's just a bit drunk.". So, she relented. "Maybe it was a one-off." But this young sir doesn't do things by halves, does he? Far from it. Instead, when she came back, I professed my love for her. Well, kind of. I said "I love you, Kellye." Bad Move.

Again, the poor wee lass stormed through, exclaiming she'd had enough, she was sleeping in a seperate room, I was not being forgiven, I was a verybadperson, etc.

Two months on, and I still refuse to say anyone's name in the bedroom.





*[edit: the person involved has told me I have misrepresented her. This is true, as she actually took it in good humour, but did in fact leave the bedroom and complain to the other two occupants of the house.]

Throes and Woes.

I finally confessed a dark, horrible secret to my mother. A dark, horrible secret that I have kept since the cold evening of January 1st, 2005. I told her, after two and a half years, the truth about that New Years' Day. And now, I feel it is okay for me to share this secret with whomever, rather than just all my friends and any classmates.



So, without further fuss 'n' Ado, here goes: I had been going out with a girl, let's call her K, [yes, the same K from the texting fiasco.] for little over a week. She had decided, in her drunken stupor as a result of New Years Eve, tp kiss a bunch of different guys. When I found out about it, I [quite rightly] dumped her. This was approximately 8am. She, rather expectedly, decided to text me constantly, professing her undying love, and saying she was "so, so sorry.", etc, etc. Despite all this, I didn't relent a tiny little bit. It was Over. Imagine my utter surprise and utter dismay when she turned up at my door at 9pm that evening, saying she was sorry, and wanted me back. So, because it was snowing, and generally bloody cold standing at the front door, I invited her in.

She proceeded then, upon shedding her sodden jacket, and shivering for five or ten minutes, to continue apologising for straying. I, in a generous, rather still drunk mood, finally forgave her. At which point we started kissing, and one thing led to another.

Now, bear in mind she was a virgin.

So, I'm treating her gently, being the most caring, sensual lover I had ever been, making sure she was okay, lighting candles, and other cheesy, faux-romantic tricks that guaranteed me another crack at the muff sometime soon. We were about twenty minutes into it when, at the door, came a "ratatat-thud-thud". I answered with an "Aye?", in the inquisitive tone that suggests to everyone in the world the phrase "What the hell do you want, I'm kinda busy here!".

Alas, my mother isn't exactly renowned for picking up on tones of voice, and proceeded to ask "Are you busy?".

At this point, I ask you to remember that K was 14, and I was 15.

"No, mum... why?"
"Because [opens door] I'm needing to hoover in here."
"Oh.. erm.. okay."
At this point, she spots us snuggled up rather tightly under the duvet, and wittily says "I hope you two aren't shagging under there!", to which I replied, rather tactlessly, "No, we're just hugging."

So, imagine the scene. A young man, a young woman, bollock naked under a duvet, and the mother of aforementioned boy vacuuming the bedroom.

That, my dear friends, is how my poor girlfriend lost her virginity. Watching my mother hoover.