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    CLIQUE STORY: I slept with an arsehole

    When you’re with your mates, there’s always a moment when you run out of funny stories to tell. It’s often at this very moment that you get out your secret box, the one kept safe and warm at the very bottom of your pocket: the complete arsehole you met on Saturday night. Nothing exceptional, you’ve met a heap of arseholes in your time, all wrapped up in pretty packaging, with a bow on top.
    I’ve personally had my experience with a huge arsehole, a world champion.

    He was a fairly normal guy, although he was showing off a bit with his “tortured artist” look, fake vintage biker jacket and little earring. But hey! You’re in a bar on rue Oberkampf in Paris, you should have been more careful. He and his mates are all 2am-kickout survivors. The other survivors are you, with your drunken facial expression, and your two single girlfriends, who are screaming with laughter and occasionally bursting into tears. And then there’s that guy over there, who at first is funny, cool, and almost cute. Oh yeah, and he’s been seriously chatting you up since you got there, which – let’s be honest – is a nice trip for your proud, secret-princess ego. Nevertheless, you’ve barely started the first drink of your looong night, and you’ve already haughtily announced to you friends: “Him? God no, his cheesy chat-up lines are way too full-on. And he’s wearing a biker jacket, there’s no way anything could happen.” It just goes to show that pride comes before an arsehole.

    At kicking out time, when you’re ushered outside politely, but firmly enough to not make a fuss, the biker jacket grabs your arm, which is flailing after the final, disgusting shot made with Bailey’s, vodka and tabasco. He then takes you by the shoulders, looks at you intensely and comes straight out with it:

    “Want to come back with me?”

    “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” (Yes, you like to pretend to resist a little).

    “Listen, I really want to go home with you. We don’t have to do anything, but I think you’re awesome, you’re so cool, and so beautiful…” and blah blah blah arsehole flattery.

    “OK, but we won’t do anything, right?”

    “Sure, where do you live?”

    And there you go. You’ve given in, in less than 30 seconds. You shared a couple of bad jokes between shots, and you’ve already given in. And the worst bit is he lives so far away you’re forced to spend an hour convincing taxi drivers to take you back to his, despite your worryingly drunken state. The guy’s snogging your face off, more with his hands than his mouth come to think of it, and the taxi driver resorts to shouting.

    You stop snogging, and before you’ve even had time to catch your breath, your not-so-gallant knight in shining leather says: “Oh yeah, I haven’t got any money on me”, with an insincerely embarrassed expression.

    “No problem.” Before you’ve even asked what his name is, or engaged in any form of pre-coital conversation, he’s greedily sucking on your face again. You should really see it coming, from this arsehole. It’s all in the details. But the idea of holding a naked body against yours and feeling a little human skin seems to be your only priority.

    When you get to his fairly dirty studio flat, you immediately spot a hairband, a pair of knickers and a second toothbrush above the sink. This guy hasn’t told you everything. But then, you haven’t really asked him much either.

    You’ve barely had time to take off your coat or put down your bag when he jumps on you like a dog humping a leg, and pins you against the wall like he’s trying to be Patrick Swayze. But while you’re kissing him, you can’t help feeling a little less single, a little more desirable and a little more desired. And during the 30 seconds you’ve spent persuading yourself this guy’s the hunk of the year, you’ve ended up naked on your back, with the guy licking the arch of your foot with his entire tongue. What. The. Fuck?

    You subtly try and make him meet you halfway, but no, he grabs your foot. He loves your foot so much he’s actually deep-throating it. You, however, remember everything your feet have done during rush hour on the metro. “Fuuuuuuck! What the fuck am I doing here?!”

    “Listen, feet aren’t really my thing, just so you know.”

    “Oh yeah? I love it…”

    And he’s at it again, even more than before, sticking his tongue between your toes. You feel a rising feeling of intense disgust, followed by another wave of “What the fuck am I doing here?!”

    But by the time you’ve processed all these thoughts, the guy’s already on top of you, stinking of sweat and beer. He’s already inside you. By the time you’ve realised he’s inside you, he’s properly inside you, and raring to go. You sober up suddenly:

    “Um, please don’t take it badly, but I’m not really feeling it. Too much to drink, you know…”

    “Come on, just lighten up…”

    What an arsehole thing to say, “lighten up”… If you’ve got to this point, it’s probably because you’ve “lightened up” a little too much. And doing something you don’t want to do has nothing to do with balancing your chakras. You just DON’T WANT to sleep with him anymore. And it’s not because you’re in his stinking bedroom getting your foot sucked off – which revolts you, as it happens – that you owe him a night of wild fucking.

    “What are you doing here then?”

    “Well, nothing. You seemed nice, and you said we didn’t have to. I just came back to yours.”

    And he replies, with a sigh:

    “Pffff, typical…”

    This arsehole has managed to make you feel guilty.

    “I’m sorry.”

    But why are you apologising? He didn’t pay you to be there, and as far as you know there’s no minimum service to be expected if your libido goes on strike.

    The not-so-hunk looks offended. You can’t really blame him if his virility’s taken a blow. He was so happy, he thought he’d rounded off his night. And so you, oh learned psychologist of the male mind, you try and reassure him that his testosterone shouldn’t be pissed off:

    “It’s just that we’ve had a lot to drink… And I don’t know your name, I don’t even know who you are.”

    He stares daggers at you, so coldly compared with his charming persona on show for the last few hours:

    “Listen, just don’t bother, alright? I don’t care, I’m going to bed anyway.”

    He grabs his pillow and the duvet, and turns his back on your in one swift, angry movement. And falls asleep. You’ve never felt so useless, even though you know you have every right to “not be in the mood.” What’s the problem?! But you clearly see you’ve failed to perform the role you were assigned.
    For this guy, your sole role in this world was to sleep with him, tonight.
    From the moment you refused, you didn’t have any purpose other than thwarting his evening. Dismissal for gross conduct, and it could have been so fucking simple!
    He was out with his mates, they were drinking loads of beer to get pissed on the cheap, he pulled a girl who was a drunk as him, and the next day his life would follow its normal course, but with a nice “release” bonus
    And you had to come and fuck things up with your principles.

    When he starts snoring, and you haven’t stopped looking at the ceiling, despite the four cigarettes you thirstily chain-smoked, you realise you’ve never wanted to be somewhere less. So you get your clothes, in silence, and you leave.

    My world champion.

    It’s a shame, because if you’d gone about things a little better, if you’d made the smallest effort, you’d have done pretty well.

    Your only job was to make me want to sleep with you.
    Your only role was to put on some cool background music when we got to yours, offer me a joint, which we would have finished, tell me a few things about yourself, make a couple of jokes or even move me a little.
    We’d have exchanged little glances, which secretly meant “I really want you”. You’d have looked at my lips, which I’d have noticed, and I’d have wanted to devour yours. We’d have jumped on each other like savages, and we’d have lied to each other, skin to skin, for a whole night.
    And I might even have let you lick one of my toes, seeing as you’d done so well.

    But you were neither a sweet little arsehole, nor a clumsy arsehole, but a COMPLETE Arsehole. You won neither my nostalgia, nor my tenderness. You’ll be a good story to tell my friends, at best. Really, a big round of applause. You’ve made the group of Complete Arseholes very proud. You’ve worked hard at climbing the ranks to attain the ultimate position of Complete Arsehole.

    You know, you’re lucky, you’ll never be unemployed:
    Complete Arsehole – the world’s oldest profession.

    Society Arsehole Clique Story

    Justine Paolini
    Sometimes she's an actress, sometimes she writes, sometimes she travels
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