SOME THINGS ARE BEST LEFT UNSPOKEN

The dreams were coming thick and fast, dreams about sweet girls, whore girls, ugly sluts, pretty ones, some with bones in their nose, young girls, old hags, fat chicks, thin chicks, screamers, whiners, all manner of women to keep his sleep in a state of erotic vividness. Damn disruptive. He’d wake up in a frenzy, sit there panting as the dreams wisped away into nothingness leaving only visions of isolation. He needed a shag! Desperately! Immediately! Yesterday even. Something to quell his sexual tensions. Something but NOT anything. He still had standards. The girls at the office were all nice enough, single mom’s mostly but he felt he had too much at stake to attempt any form of saliva juggling. Nothing worse than becoming an office rumor, the sexual dissection of the smoking balcony troupe, especially since ninety percent of the workforce was female. He could already feel his embarrassment rising and, as a good friend once cautioned, never shit on your own doorstep. Sound advice. So he went looking elsewhere but all the women he liked were either unavailable or hard work, and all the ones that liked him he hated. Wasn't that just nature’s little joke.

There was one girl - he met her out of the blue, took her on a date, only to find out she was married. That’s a conversation stopper right there. His celibacy was becoming critical. It wasn't like he was bad looking or anything, definitely not a candidate for troll of the year. He was simply one of those blokes seriously inept in the casual sex department. Advice from colleagues did nothing for his confidence either.
‘What do you mean you can’t get laid’ said one, a woman no less, ‘all chicks want it just as bad as guys’
She said it as though people had this fuck button on them, a button he was clearly ham-fisted at locating.
‘Where are these chicks’ he responded, thinking maybe if they were pointed out he’d have a better chance at finding them.
‘Everywhere’ she replied in abject frustration, ‘just look around you.’
So he looked around him but only found more of what he had already seen - unavailables, issues, and irritations.
‘You’re being too fussy’ said another, ‘lower your standards’ as though sex was devoid of attraction.
Better fussy than remorseful was his thinking. The hassle of swapping fluids with a stranger he didn't like seemed tantamount to prolonged emotional suicide. Some men had the taste for it, not him. He enjoyed your usual basic sentimental malarkey.

The big problem, however, was that he erred towards the masculine gene pool labelled ‘nice guy’. And nice guys, regrettably, did not get shagged. They got mislead, misused, fobbed off as fools, chumps, boneheads, doormats, lift clubs, best friends, losers, drink buyers, coat carriers, wing-men, or even (shudder) sweet, and finally tossed aside at the slightest convenience. He needed to toughen up. Instead he watched on in frustration as guys far uglier and boorish ploughed through woman after woman on a seemingly endless quest to notch-up their belts. Even when he did go on dates he couldn't hack it, at first too ‘nice’ to make the first move and then too ‘nice’ to take the plunge. And when the roles reversed and he found himself at the receiving end of a kiss, he promptly shat himself and ran.
This only led to even greater fantasies and an increase in his erotic dreams, sometimes to people he knew! In one week alone he had a racy fling with his Auntie Grace, was wrestled to the floor by Alwina, the char, and almost made it with the furniture advert lady on a sandy beach where the only thing stopping him from going in was the need to take a piss (obviously ending with a pressing sensation in his bladder). And it continued relentless until the night he got shit-faced and Cupid arrowed in a nettle of lust.

On the night in question he’d already decided he was going to get ridiculously drunk. After a long and much maligned week, the kind of week that drove people to murder, insanity, divorce, or a combination of the three, he was ready for a knees-up. With beer in bountiful supply and his scruples on forced leave he found himself in the very generous company of a woman who was the female version of him. So they both got drunk to mask their uselessness and eventually fell into each other. Their first kiss was a disaster - he wasn't ready, she was too eager, their noses got in the way. Their second kiss felt lovely and right, mouth on mouth with the correct amount of tenderness. Their third lasted forever. And then they were back at her flat bumping into things on their way to the bedroom, dreams becoming reality.

In the morning he awoke and noticed he was alone. A quick mental scan of the previous evening gave him sketchy confirmation of a woman. The second thing he noticed was that he didn't know where he was. The sheets weren't his, the bed wasn't his, and the room held none of the things he knew so well. The third thing he noticed was that none of his clothes were lying around. His trousers, shirt, socks - all gone. In hung-over alarm he fumbled around looking for his wallet. Gone. His wristwatch. Gone. In fact, all his possessions, gone. The floozy had fleeced him. With his head feeling like it might roll off at any moment he made his decision. It was not a good one. The woman returned with his clothes having just been neatly washed and pressed, wallet and wristwatch perched on top, as he was arching the most luminescent and foul smelling stream of urine onto her continental pillows in revenge.

Yes, indeed, some things are best left unspoken.