what is my life.

For a good portion of my life, probably the last eight or nine years or so, I have been waiting for my romantic life to start, and predictably, it started at university.

I had my first club-neck (when you kiss a perfect stranger in a nightclub) at university, it wasn't pleasant but it happened.
I had my first sexual encounter at university - as before, it wasn't pleasant, but it happened.

Last night, I had my first 'date'. 

I'd better start from the beginning, last Wednesday.
I was hideously drunk, but when Q are selling seventy-five pence bombs and one pound vodka mixers, you can't blame me. I'd also shared a joint with FH on the way down to the nightclub so that was probably taking effect somehow. I was having THEBESTTIMEEVEROMG, my friends and I were doing as we always did, splitting time between the dancefloors and the smoking room. On a voyage from the dancefloor to the smoking room, I caught the eye of a guy, taller than me (just) with reaaaaaaaaally light hair (he might be albino but I've not asked). He followed us up to the smokers and asked me to stay with him as he'd lost his friends. If I was sober, I would have fucked him right off - needy much? But because I was intoxicated, I acquiesced, standing with him in the chilly outdoor smoking room . We talked for ages (it was probably like five minutes, but it felt like forever) and he asked for my number, telling me that he'd like to take me on a date. I gave it willingly and said goodbye, he asked for a hug and a kiss and I hugged and kissed him - both of which were relatively chaste (compared to the ravenous examples of kissing you usually see in nightclubs) and left.

Then he text me, the next day. We agreed to meet for a drink, and we did, last night.

I wasn't beside myself with anticipation, I wasn't so excited I couldn't sleep, I didn't plan my outfit or do anything special with my hair, I just met up with him, like I'd meet up with a friend. And it literally was like drinking with a friend. We talked and laughed, he walked me home and gave me hug (no kiss, thank God - I didn't want one). It was... meh. I have no feelings for or against him, I don't really care if I see him again.

It's infuriating because I've wanted this to happen for as long as I can remember - to be taken out by a nice boy, or to be kissed or to have sex, and when it actually happens it is just so bland and boring that it makes me angry. Argh.

dancing shoes

I drink far more than I ought to. I enjoy nightclubs far more than I ought to.

There's nothing particularly pleasant about binge drinking, just as there's nothing particularly pleasant about a nightclub - yet my friends and I live for the nights where we can render ourselves so offensively drunk that we can't remember our own names; or what our parents look like. An ideal week for me would be one where I go out on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday - it's been done before, when I've had an unusual disregard for lectures, or when my student loan has just come in, and these weeks are literally the best.

One of the perils of a night out in my university city are locals. They're Welsh and don't like the fact that the majority of students can't speak the language. There are pubs in the City that students don't go to because it's strictly locals-only (don't get me wrong, this isn't some kind of welsh nationalist apartheid thing, it's just like an unwritten rule). I like to think that for the most part, students and locals co-exist peacefully enough - I've even met local men and women who are perfectly lovely, but like anywhere - you'll always come across arseholes. 

There are three nightclubs in the City; Q, S and B. I'll describe them for you:

Q

Q is the nightclub we visit most often. It is a literal shithole; sticky floors, questionable patrons and bathrooms which leave a lot to be desired. Despite this we enjoy it. A lot of student go there, especially on a Wednesday (student wednesday, woo) because of 75p jagerbombs and £1 drinks. Q is okay on a Friday, you notice the locals more and it can sometimes be hit and miss - the price of drinks spike as well, where you'd spend 75p on a jagerbomb on a Wednesday, you're paying £3.20 (YES, THREE POUNDS TWENTY) on a Friday. Ridiculous. On a Saturday, Q is no-man's land. Or no-student's land, because the locals are hideously drunk and hilariously aggressive. We stay well away from Q on a Saturday.

S

S is the newest nightclub in the City. Full of poser locals who think they're better than they actually are, and also full of snobby students who look down on Q and the people who go there. The music in S is alright, I suppose, but nothing special and the drinks are often expensive, more so than anywhere else (you can't get away with £2 shots and bottles here, I'm afraid) and so we don't often go. They have guest DJs and special guests sometimes that we'll make the effort to see, but apart from that there's nothing special about it.

B

B is the student-run nightclub. It's nothing to look at but I've had many a good night here on account of the good music, cheap drinks and good company. We go here on Mondays and Saturdays usually, and can get blind drunk on a tenner.

Since beginning University, I have come to appreciate pre-drinking. Often, pre-drinking is the best part of the night, you can laugh and talk to your friends - something you can't do on a busy, sweaty dancefloor. One of the best pre-drink drinking games you can play is 'Roxanne'. Drinking when they sing 'Roxanne' and turning on the spot when they sing 'red light' is one of the funniest and easiest ways to get ridiculously drunk before you go out. And if you don't fill up a water bottle with a concoction of alcohol to walk down to the club with, then you're stupid.

~~~

Let's call him 'deep V-neck'. Pushing past me in the club (one hand brushing me across the arse as he goes), he eyes me like I am a gutted pig at the abattoir. This is an undeniable reality for any woman in a nightclub. Guys stare at you, internally deciding whether or not to take the time to speak to you, or to dance on you, whichever is their preferred method of attack. To them, you're nothing more than a set of holes that could be of use to them for the night. Every guy is charming, and funny and sweet with you in the club, but just because they buy you a snakebite and tell you that you're pretty doesn't mean you should give them unfettered access to your vagina. Expect nothing, and give nothing away - the most I'd stretch to on a night out is a kiss, nothing more (I met you like, an hour ago, what makes you think you're coming home with me?).

brief encounter

I have only ever had one sexual experience in my entire life. It didn't occur that long ago, and I have Tinder to blame for it.

I am nineteen, and it goes without saying that it is out of the ordinary to be a virgin at my age. Some of my home friends are still virgins and so when I was in the sixth form losing it wasn't high on my list of things to do. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said at university. Out of all my friends here, I am the only virgin. Everyone talks at length about their sex lives, what they've done with their partners - what they like and dislike. And I've barely been kissed properly; so I thought it was about time I get over this particular obstacle. 

On Tinder, I met two guys, J and R. I met J first - he lived on campus, like me. I had him on facebook after meeting him briefly in freshers. He was nice, easy to talk to and flirty. Soon the flirtiness descended into fully fledged dirty talk, but I didn't mind. He suggested that we should meet up. I agreed, maybe we should go for a drink and get to know one another a bit better? 'Nah, skip to the good bit' he replied. Fine. I could do that, get it over with. From that moment on, J was a means to an end - he served a purpose. We agreed to meet up: Thursday night.

By this point, I had already started talking to R. R was a second year and I realised I'd met him before; he'd sold us tickets for the nightclub once. I remembered how cute he was and so I didn't mind talking to him on Tinder. He was lovely, and interesting and I liked talking to him, maybe more so than J. He asked me what I was on Tinder for. I told him the truth - that I honestly didn't know. I knew I wasn't on there for casual sex - J was an exception - I wasn't going to make it a habit. He agreed that casual sex and one night stands probably weren't for the best - but what about friends with benefits? They weren't so bad surely?! I replied that no, they weren't, but I would only agree to that sort of an arrangement if I knew the person very well; if you were good friends. He agreed. This is where I become confused. He propositioned me - why don't we become friends with benefits? We can get to know each other for as long as you like before I come over for a shag. Disappointing people has always been something I hate to do, so I agreed. Maybe I could fob him off before we actually do the deed? Fingers crossed. 

Let it be known that these two boys are in no way connected, I'm not sure they know the other exists (thank christ); but they did have one thing in common. Dick pics. It's a new phenomenon (again, thanks to smartphones and snapchat) and something which both R and J were guilty of. "Got any pics?" asked one "I like sending naughty photos" said the other. Apparently I'd get one if I asked nicely, but the simple fact of it was that I didn't want one. I didn't want a picture of your penis - a close-up of your balls or a comparison of how your old soldier looks with the foreskin peeled back and without. They'd ask if I wanted a pic and eager to please, I'd say 'alright then'; 'if you want' or some variation thereof. I'd receive the unwanted picture, cringe as it popped up in full HD glory on the screen of my phone and then delete it just as soon as it had been sent. Then came the dreaded 'your turn ;)' and I realised that I was expected to send a picture back. Of my tits. My bare tits. I sent one to each guy, the same photo: bra on, boobs pushed up. They were pleased but wanted more. Fuck.

Pictures (or lack thereof) turned out to be the downfall of mine and R's "relationship" (if you can even manage to call it that). He had sent me an album full of pictures. A headless shot of him in front of the mirror; showing off his torso (completely devoid of muscle or definition - a pointless pic) and then a plethora of dick pics. His willy mid-wank, his willy erect, his willy lying flat on his belly, with R's cheeky chappy face just visible at the top of the shot. I cringed so hard I thought my ears were going to bleed. He would always ask for photos from me whenever we spoke and I'd stall - claiming to be too busy to get my tits out - 'I'm not in at the moment and there's no toilet. Maybe later!'. He'd take it every time until I managed to pluck up the courage and tell him that I didn't feel comfortable sending pictures to him - to anyone really. He then said that he'd sent photos of himself so we were both out on a limb - I said I'd deleted them, so there's no reason for me to send any. Oh no, I don't mind you having them, he replied, but I think I should get at least a full body shot of you in your underwear.
I didn't reply and haven't since. 

Now back to J. J came over to my flat in the early hours of a Monday morning, when all my flatmates were in bed. He was due to come over the previous thursday evening but apparently he had 'work to do' and couldn't make it. In all honesty, I was relieved. He did insist on a raincheck, however, and the second time we agreed to meet, we actually did. I hastily necked four shots of Absolut Raspberri - dutch courage, but also so that I'd taste nice when we kissed. 
I opened the front door of the building and he scurried in. I led him to the lift and waited after pressing the button. In the intervening moments, he pressed me against the wall and began kissing me passionately - this was happening. He hitched a leg between mine and made a blind grab at my tits. The lift arrived and I pushed him off to get inside. As the door closed, his cold hand went down my pants. I was dry as a bone. Considering I barely knew the guy and therefore had no affectionate feelings toward him, this wasn't surprising. We got to my flat and he walked over the threshold after being assured that all my flatmates were in bed. I took him to my room. 

Once the door was firmly shut behind us, we kissed some more, he asked what I wanted to do, as if there was any answer to that question which wouldn't make me sound like a whore or a nymphomaniac. I shrugged and turned off the light, realising that there was no way I could manage this with illumination. 
We were on my bed, he dragged my pants down and tried to finger me. Unsuccessfully (still not wet) - it was like trying to put your finger into a stale loaf of bread - no moisture and no pleasure. So, he turned me over.

That's right, he went straight for the arse which is never cool under any circumstances ever. EVER. E. V. E. R. EVER!!!!!!!!
(in hindsight I am angry about this, hence the gratuitous exclamation marks). Although, to his credit, it didn't feel terrible. He spent a lot of time licking my arsehole, an odd sensation, but not entirely unpleasant - a bit like running your fingers against the grain of velvet. Then he put a finger in. He moved it about for a while, I gave (absolutely fake) moans of appreciation, hoping he'd give up. But no, "let's try for a second finger" I heard from behind me. A SECOND FINGER?! It already felt like he had a fucking fist up there for fuck's sake.
I pushed him away after giving the impression that I'd just had an orgasm, and he flopped down next to me, expectantly holding his cock in one hand. I took it from him, understanding that it was my time to perform my duty. 
He came after a short while, in my mouth. I swallowed his seed like I swallow shots - not breathing, not tasting, just getting rid of the stuff. His legs were twitching, his fingers curled into the hair at the back of my head, and his head pressed into my pillow. I sat up, grateful that this encounter was now over. 

He departed just as swiftly as he had arrived; leaving my arsehole two fingers wider, the taste of his cum at the back of my throat and the aroma of his cock on my left hand. There was no satisfaction on my part and it was an experience I was no eager to repeat. Not with him, not with anyone.

Maybe I'm a lesbian and I haven't quite realised it yet.

tinder

My friend AB was absorbed in her phone (more so than usual) and I wondered what she was doing. I asked. She told me. And lo, I was introduced to Tinder.I was bored, okay?

She explained to me what tinder was. Basically smash or pass for our technological generation - apparently we can't meet prospective partners without help from our smartphones nowadays. You have a profile - up to six pictures and five hundred characters with which to make yourself presentable and desirable. Then you're shown a procession of (hopefully) eligible men and have to decide whether or not you like them. Press the green heart if you do, or the red 'X' if not. You can see their profiles, read their bios and then make your decision. If you like them, and they like you back "it's a match" and tinder tells you so. If you like them and they don't like you back - or vice versa -  you will never know. Lovely.

There have been articles about couples who met on tinder and who are now planning their weddings - but make no mistake, a large portion of the men you'll meet on this app want nothing more than casual sex. And they're not shy in telling you so.
The very first man I spoke to on this app (I can't remember his name) kicked off the conversation by telling me what a 'great pair' I have. I thank him demurely, hoping to kill this particular topic and move onto something else. His next question "so, do you like a good screw then?" What do you reply to that?! The answer? Nothing. I blocked him and thought no more of it. These men are bad enough, although the ones I find worse are the nice ones who fool you into thinking they give a shit about you by asking interesting questions and turning on the charm, before asking whether you want to ride them. It's like going for a nice swim and then having your leg bitten off by Jaws.

To its credit, however, Tinder is good for your self-esteem. Or at least it was good for my self-esteem. I have been known to punch above my weight tinder-wise. I'll see someone absolutely gorgeous pop up on screen and give him a cheeky like. Then the screen will turn black and those three little words "It's a match!" will show up. This hot guy looked at a photo of me and thought 'yeah, she's alright' before liking me. And he'd actually seen actual pictures of me! It definitely gives you a confidence boost.

I rarely use Tinder now. It's boring. Some of the guys are pretty but they're all looking to dip their nibs, and I've no interest in being that particular inkwell.

The Cockatoo.

I had always bemoaned the fact that I never got any male attention in nightclubs. I’d watch as hot guys shoved their way across the dancefloor to a hot girl, where they’d then dry hump unashamedly to the beat of a new remix, before sucking face. This never happened to me. Maybe I wanted to dry-hump in an unashamed manner? Perhaps I wouldn’t be altogether averse to the odd cheeky bum-pinch on the dancefloor in Fibbers? Who was I to deny a virile young chap from fulfilling his natural quest? In all honesty, I wanted it to happen. I’d have sold my nana to the circus for a chance to grind against a young man who I would probably never see again, and if he wanted to relieve me of my first kiss, then I would happily go along with it,but one night, this almost happened, and it scared the holy crap out of me.

Sometime after midnight on a Friday morning, my friends and I are dancing (if you could manage to call it that) in amongst a plethora of people in Fibbers; a music venue where the drinks are cheap and the music’s good. I’ve already been accosted by a greasy, sweating individual who somehow resembles Jake Bugg on heroin, but danced away from him convincingly enough – he’s now at the other side of the room thrusting against some other poor girl. Then, I feel unfamiliar hands around my waist and am turned to face a man who is not altogether unpleasant. I smile awkwardly, registering this hideously intimate embrace I’m in with a perfect bloody stranger and think of something – anything to say. My unknown partner thrusts his mouth to my ear and says over the music, “Do you own a bird!?” in nothing more than a shout. With a bemused look on my face, I shake my head, “Oh right,” he replies, “it’s just that you look like you could use a cock-or-two. Heh heh heh.”

I almost vomit. I lean in and tell him that that was the worst joke I’ve ever heard, and if it was a come-on then he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself. He grins back cheekily and explains that he’d seen me dancing and thought I was pretty; could he buy me a drink? Completely put off by that awful joke, I shake my head, he shrugs and he leaves me with a kiss on the cheek. My friends ask why I didn’t go with him – he was ridiculously cute after all and had a bit of a beard which I always find sexy, and even though the joke was bad, he was still nice and maybe I should have got the drink he offered?

I was kicking myself now! For all the times I would have given anything for a good-looking guy to approach me at a club, when one actually does, I turn him down. This leads me to the realisation that while I am charismatic and sexy and funny and completely worthy of romantic male attention in my head, in reality I think you’re taking the piss. I can therefore conclude that I am now and probably after this display of my lack of romantic prowess, always will be an awkward virgin. Sorry. 

#1

Extraordinarily unremarkable. An oxymoronic phrase, but one which applies very well to my life. I've ambled through life thus far. Nothing terrible has befallen me in my 19 years on this earth, nothing even remotely exciting (exciting in a grand sense - I'm not talking about trips to Alton Towers) - I haven't even broken a bone. Still, there are occurances which have been notable, and I'll probably write them down on here so I can read them back and cringe.

My life currently is probably the most exciting it has ever been. I am living hundreds of miles from home with people who have inexplicably become my best friends.

I guess I'll begin.

I am nineteen years old and currently studying History in a welsh university. I live in halls with a group of people I have come to love like family  - which is weird considering we've known each other for less than six months. At the moment, my life consists of friends, family, alcohol, music, movies and work. In that order. Before I came to university, I had a marvellous group of friends with whom I am still in contact, but I wasn't very social. I could sit in my house for a week straight without speaking to, meeting up with or texting any of my friends and it wasn't until I got to university that I realised how bad that was. Now, I spend most of my time sat in the flat kitchen with everyone. We go out to bars and clubs regularly and get blind drunk - it. is. AMAZING. All of a sudden I know people out and about and smile at them. I get invited to flat parties and pre-drinks and everything is wonderful blah blah blah.

I am quite shy though. Anyone who knows me well will tell you that's bullshit, but it's not. When I meet you, I will smile and say hello, maybe join in your conversation a little, but I won't be able to be myself. The thing I am proudest of is my personality and sense of humour and the reason I don't get it out right away (lol) is because I'm worried you won't like it - or me. So I wait for you to like me before I am myself around you, cause then I know you'll love me.

The only thing in my life which is lacking is my love life. I am a virgin. I have never had a boyfriend. I have only ever had one sexual encounter in my entire life and I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it. I'd like a boyfriend; I'd like someone to think I'm so funny and cool and pretty that they want to tell everyone that we're together, but I haven't met that guy yet. I made out with a guy in a club once - on one of the most drunk nights of my natural-born life - I hated it. He kissed badly, wouldn't let go of my left arsecheek and practically begged for me to take him back to mine.
I like to think that I don't need a boyfriend. Society likes to think I need nothing more. Truthfully, I don't know what I want.