He was fit in that slightly scruffy way. Dark hair, good mouth, the kind of laugh that makes you think he is nicer than he probably is. We talked about nothing useful. Music. The Overground being a joke. How his flatmate was meant to be in Brighton for the weekend. That last bit is important. Or it should have been.
The walk back
I could have gone home. Parsons Green is a pain at that hour but it is doable. I did not go home. I went with him because I was already in the mood and I am terrible at talking myself out of a good night once I have decided I am having one.
His place was one of those converted houses off the high street. Bikes in the hall. Someone’s gym shoes. A smell of last night’s takeaway that I chose not to investigate. He dropped his keys, swore, picked them up, and did not lock the front door behind us. I noticed. I also did not say anything. That is on me as much as him.
We did not make it to a proper tour of the flat. Kitchen light on. Bedroom door open. That was enough.
I remember thinking, very briefly, that I should check my phone. Sophie had already sent a voice note asking if I was alive. I left it. I always leave it.
Before anyone walked in
He was better than I expected, which is a low bar and also a compliment. Some men kiss like they are trying to win something. He just got on with it. Jumper off. My dress halfway up. I had that tight feeling in my stomach I get when I know I am going to let the night run away with itself.
We ended up on his bed with the duvet shoved to the floor. I was on my back first, then he turned me, then I ended up looking at the ceiling because that is where the cheap paper shade was and it was easier than looking at him the whole time. Not in a bad way. I just like a bit of distance when I am close.
He asked if I wanted it harder. I said yes. I usually do. There is a point in sex where I stop performing and start using the other person properly, and I hit it quicker than I meant to. He noticed. He got rougher. Hand on my hip. The other one in my hair. I made that sound I only make when I am not thinking about how I look, which is rare for me, because I am almost always thinking about how I look.
The door to the bedroom was open. Of course it was. We had been in a rush and neither of us is the tidy type.
Then he was just there
I heard the front door first. A scrape. A bag hitting the floor. A voice saying something about the trains.
Callum did not stop.
I should have. That is the normal thing. Cover up. Laugh it off. Do the whole sorry mate performance. I did not. I froze for half a second and then I kept moving with him because stopping felt more embarrassing than carrying on. I know how that sounds. I also know it is true.
His mate appeared in the doorway. Tall. Hoodie. The face of someone who had walked in on this before and had decided it was not worth making a fuss. He stood there for a second. Properly stood there. Looked at us. Looked at the ceiling, same as me. Then he laughed.
“You two want a beer or what?”
That was it. No gasp. No get a room. Just that.
Callum said something like “in a minute” without even turning his head. I made a noise that was half a laugh and half not. The mate leaned on the doorframe like he was waiting for a kettle. Then he wandered off toward the kitchen. I heard the fridge open. I heard a can crack.
We did not stop.
The bit I keep replaying
Here is the part that makes me sound worse than I already do. Once I knew someone else was in the flat, I got closer. Not because I wanted an audience exactly. More because the damage was done and my body decided to take that as permission.
Callum held my thighs and went at me like the interruption had wound him up. Maybe it had. Some men get shy. Some men get competitive. He was the second type. I had one hand in the sheet and the other on his shoulder and I was looking at that ugly ceiling shade like it had answers.
I came like that. Looking up. Mouth open. Not cute. Not posed. The sort of messy finish you cannot put on Instagram even if you wanted to, and I did want to, in the abstract way I always do. The thought flickered through and then it was gone because I was too busy being in it.
He finished not long after. Pulled out, swore, reached for a tissue that was not there. Very glamorous. Very Dalston.
From the kitchen, his mate shouted, “I’m putting yours on the side.”
I started laughing. Properly laughing. The kind that makes your stomach hurt when you are still half naked and a bit shaky. Callum laughed too, then looked slightly panicked, then laughed again. That is when I decided I liked him enough for the night and not much further.
After
I pulled my dress back on without finding my knickers. They can live at his. Souvenir. I went to the bathroom and redid my mouth in the mirror because of course I did. Old habit. If I am going to walk into a stranger’s kitchen after being walked in on, I am not doing it with smeared lipstick. Standards. Sort of.
The mate was called Dan. He handed me a beer like we had just finished watching the football. Did not stare. Did not make it weird, which somehow made it weirder. We talked about the overground again. I said I should get a cab. Callum offered to wait downstairs with me and I said no because I did not want the goodbye to grow a personality.
In the hallway I found my knickers on the radiator, stuffed them in my bag, and left.
The Uber driver did not speak. Thank God. I sat in the back with my phone on my thigh and wrote the first line of this in my notes app before we even hit the roundabout. That is how I know I am my father’s disappointment and my own favourite subject.
What I keep thinking
People love to pretend they would have stopped. Covered themselves. Died of shame. Maybe they would. I did not. I came looking at the ceiling while a man I had never met opened a lager ten feet away.
Was it hot? Yes. Was it classy? Absolutely not. Do I regret it?
I regret not locking the door. That is different.
Dan texted Callum after I left, apparently, and said “your girl is feral.” Callum sent me a screenshot like it was a compliment. It was. I still have not replied. I might. I also might leave it sitting there because some nights are better as a story than a second date.
Sophie asked in the morning why I looked so pleased with myself. I told her the trains were a nightmare. She did not believe me. She never does.
Anyway. If you are going to take someone home in Dalston, lock the door. Or do not. Just know that some flatmates will offer you a beer and mean it, and some girls will keep going because stopping would ruin the rhythm.
I was one of those girls. I still am.