Mystery!

There is a phone number in my mobile’s contact list. True, it’s something you would expect to find in a contact list. But I have no idea how I got this particular number. And to make it more interesting, the mobile number in question belongs to my hot tutor from last year.

This is like unexpectedly finding a ten dollar bill in your pocket. Only better. Because with a mobile number, it’s much easier to stalk someone.

I do wonder though, how did his number appear in my phone? For someone who has a perfectly good office number and doesn’t like meetings outside class hours, surely this is out of the ordinary. I ask my coursemates if they have it as well (i.e. I wave his number in their faces, dancing and singing “Na na na na na!” in the manner of a five-year-old with the latest must-have toy). But it appears that I’m the only one able to ring him up at all hours of the night. For phone sex help with my thesis.

Help me out here. So far, I’ve only been able to come up with two possible scenarios:

1. During a tutorial, I left my phone lying on the table while I walked over a friend to discuss something/copy his answers. He must’ve taken that golden opportunity to snatch my phone up and quickly key his number in.

2. He gave me his number after a wild night of debauchery and sin. Unfortunately, the alcohol and drugs involved had erased my memory of the night, leaving me inexplicably pleased with myself in the morning. Also slightly confused over waking up with handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

He may still be waiting for me to call.

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It’s been a whole five posts since my last ‘Bloke’ post. Time for an update, I think.

On the bloke front, it’s been a big week and a half. Remember KI? Freckly surfing and kung fu hotness. Met him three awesome weeks before I was due to leave Perth last year. Awesome because I fell pretty hard for him and not only did he not run screaming in the other direction, he appeared to feel the same for me, a little at least. Having said that, I didn’t jump him when he dropped me off at the airport so nothing was resolved. And because things seemed to die down while I was away, I then spent the next three months trying to get over him. Not very easy when certain things reminded me of him.

Nick Cave on iTunes? KI.

Black pinstripe slacks? KI.

Martial arts of any kind? KI.

Macadamia nuts? KI.

Pinecone? KI.

Random guy on the street? KI.

You get the idea.

I tried to keep myself ‘distracted’ though, and by the time I returned to Perth, I was very close to being over him. When I met someone with the same name, I no longer felt the need to writhe naked on sandpaper then have a bath in lemon juice. I had made so much progress that by then I only wanted to wash my eyes with Tabasco sauce. It’s all about making little steps.

Then a week and a half ago, KI invited me to his birthday celebration/commiseration. Nice gesture, but I would have been an idiot to turn up. He would have been there with a brand spanking new girlfriend and they would have spent the entire night making smoochy sounds and calling each other “cuddlebunny” and “pumpkin”, while I downed tequila shots at the bar and wrote myself a reminder to stock up on sandpaper. In blood. Because pens are for wusses.

Wisdom is overrated.

Because aided by copious amounts of beer and vodka, we ended up licking the back of each other’s throats. Again and again and again and…I lost count. I had a neckache by the end of the night (he’s a lot taller than I am). And things were said. Like how he wanted to kiss me at the airport but didn’t want me thinking that he was a dirty old man (even though he is). And how I wanted to pull him into a dark corner every time I went out with him but didn’t want him thinking that I was a horny 21 year old (even though I am).

We made plans to see each other on Monday. He had to cancel because of work. So we made plans for dinner on Thursday. He had to cancel because of work. So we made plans for him to get a tattoo the next Monday and to watch a movie later during the week. He didn’t cancel.

He just didn’t call. Or turn up. Or text. Or answer his phone. I called four times. Any more and I might as well get a tattoo myself – ‘STALKER’…on my forehead. He hasn’t even been at work all week. I know because he’s always online at work and I’ve been watching my MSN window like an abandoned puppy. Of course, he could be lurking offline, but I’m not entertaining that possibility because that would mean that he’s avoiding someone. Potentially me. So possibility not entertained.

It may not be me after all. Because he didn’t turn up at kung fu last night (I quit last year, so I asked a friend). And KI wouldn’t miss kung fu if he could help it, he’s the sort to turn up to class with a broken arm and dislocated ankle. So whatever caused him to miss last night has got to be pretty big.

Christ, the suspense is killing me.

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Token nudes are always fun. You know that it promises to be an awesome night out when the token nude rocks up. Everyone cheering, cameras flashing, fingers pointing and stories to tell the next day. It's great to be able to count on someone to take their kit off after a few drinks.

Until that someone turns out to be your other half. At the snick of a zipper, you shut your eyes in despair, praying fervently. "Please please, don't let it be him." No such luck. Oh look, there he is, yanking his pants down. The shirt is long gone, buttons scattered on the floor. You can only watch in growing horror as he spanks himself and pretends (oh god, let him be pretending) to hump a hapless stranger. The same person who only an hour ago promised to treat you like a princess is now attempting to give you a lap dance.

My boyfriend passed me a photo the other night. Some twat on a bar top, thrusting (yes, thrusting) at the camera with his pants down. What an idiot, I chuckled. He was lucky that the shot was cut off at the neck so he couldn't be identified.

Oh how I laughed. Until I recognised the underwear.


A slightly more decent pic

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