I left London feeling like a two dollar whore. The events of the previous night slowly finding a way into my concious thoughts through the haze of mint mojitos i had still been consuming only a few hours before.
The invitation said 'open bar'. I should have anticipated the consequences of this. The whole evening had been a glamorous affair. London's elite, including a recently named and shamed footballer and prestigious entrepreneur to name a few. The men in crisp suits sauntered between flirtations with beautifully dressed women and intense business-minded discussions with other men. You would have been hard pressed to find a mixture of the two. It was their breasts, not their brains that the women had on display that night.
His name was Jack (i didn't care for his last name, he didn't care for mine) and while at first i was aware of his intrest being purely directed at my long legs and short skirt, i was keen to prove (if not to him but to myself) that it wasn't impossible to indulge in interesting conversation with a girl of 18. I thought i was doing quite well. He seemed fairly smitten (i mistook his frequent fetching of more mojitos for courtesy rather than a ploy to get me drunk) and we chatted for hours on life, love and politics. I felt free to divulge my young age (he was only 30) in the hopes that he would make allowances for any ignorance that made itself known during our conversation and look on it as endearing rather than idiotic.
The end of the night came (as i quickly realised, this was only the 'official' end to the night). The staff were sent home and cabs (including mine) soon arrived. As i stood shivering, not wanting a fun night to be over, and the reality of work the next day (it was a Tuesday night) to set in, i felt Jack's hand on my shoulder and his warm, cigar tainted breath in my ear. His invitation was appealing and expressed with only friendly sincerity. He claimed there was an 'after-party' (perhaps i should have questioned his definition of after-party sooner) in the penthouse suite, where men and women from the party had continued to drink.
My judgement somewhat muddled from the effects of the open bar, i finished my cigarette and, hand in hand with this friendly stranger accompained him through the plush hallways of the hotel and up to a beautiful suite where the women had apparently already started Wednesday's work-handing out blow jobs apparently. In the middle of the living room, the beautiful decor was tainted by the sight of one obese male party goer indulging in what i can only dubiously conclude from my rather profound inexperience of them, was an orgy. Lines of coke were spread across a beautifully carved table, being paid as little attention as the orgy members from others wandering in and out of the room. I couldn't help but think 'some desperate addict would sell their left leg to shove that up their nose, and yet here these people are, practically pouring it into the carpet.' Talk about social distiction. 'Mind you', i concluded, 'these basterds might be bloody minted, doesn't stop them from being totally morally bankrupt though does it!'
I tried to inspect the chubby fingers of the orgy master for the inevitable tan line of a recently removed wedding ring but the seedy lighting of the event prevented such observations. I turned to find Jack, who had already poured me a gin and tonic and was eagerly thrusting it into my hands. I told him i had to go, that it was late and i had an early start. If it wasn't the uncomfortable tremble in voice that exposed my true feelings, it must have been the sudden absence of enthusiasm for drinking that i had displayed earlier. Jack told me it was ok, that he understood but that he wanted to talk to me before i went.
Whether it was curiosity or manners that made me follow him into (what i quickly found to be) the bathroom, i will never know but even i knew through my alcohol sodden sense that bathrooms and strange men are a recipe disaster. I tried feebly to strike up conversation about the bathroom fixtures but Jack failed to be impressed and if anything my interest in the sink fittings seemed to arouse him more (it was clear i had turned on his faucet!!!) Taking into account the harsh lighting of the bathroom and the abundance of awkwardly placed mirrors my reasons for wanting to leave became two fold: i would not indulge in sexual leasions with strange men, particually when our surroundings were so utterly unflattering.
Therfore, despite quiet defiance throughout, i let him kiss my neck for the obligatory 3 seconds (this can always be pushed up to 5 depending on external factors such as looks, money, charm etc) before feigning some sudden moral intervention and pushing him, perhaps a little too violently, away. Grabbing my bag as sobriety hurtled my way, i hurried out of the suite to the shouts of 'fucking tease' from Jack's previously eloquent mouth.
'Fucking tease' I ask you!? Is the kind of derranged world men live in, where to accompany them to an 'after party' having been promised good company and great alcohol is in reality an invitation to drag us to the bathroom and suck on our necks? Perhaps i should have been more forceful, but i had truly hoped that my polite refusal would lead to an amicable goodbye. Should have known better really shouldn't i? That is (i hope) the last time i mistake motive for manners and seedy for sweet. From now on, any man that buys me a drink will be treated with the utmost caution. Any man that buys me two, can fuck off.
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