Column: Chilli is a drag

As I stirred the chilli con carne for tonight’s tea, watching the wooden spoon slide through the brown gloop, my thoughts turned again to Perforated Pete. This was the cause of our end. Chilli con carne. Well, at least a contributory factor.

After our sneaky graduation night intermingling, I was keen to have at least one more encounter with Perforated Pete, maybe more, even though my departure from uni put over 150 miles between us.

Living back at home with my parents meant some careful, discreet planning. But my friend Lu lived nearer to him, so I planned to stay with her for a ‘week’ – in fact four nights with her and two or three with PP. I was fizzing with excitement at the prospect of his cheeky smile, pretty hazel eyes, smooth toned body and long light brown hair.

So, I got my four days with Lu over with (well, it wasn’t such a trial, really) and boarded the train for ‘Gloomsville’, my university town, hoping the gloom would quickly dissipate with a warm bed and hot man…

As I walked through the ticket barriers at the station there he stood, sexy smile, leather jacket, ready to grab me for a kiss and naughty bottom pat.

It emerged that he was having a house party that evening and wanted me to help him ‘get ready’. Thinking this meant tidying up a bit, putting crisps in bowls and pouring out drinks, I nodded.

We had a quick cup of tea, took my bag upstairs and dived into his bed to get reacquainted. I was relieved he had remained just as delicious and gorgeous as before and would have been happy for us to hide in his room for the next two days, only popping out to use the toilet and get drinks. But no, there was work to do.

I pulled out something that said 90s Grunge/Alternative – probably a black dress and stripy tights accessorised with 50 jingly bangles, pale make up and lots of black eyeliner.

Then it was PP’s turn. He had sat in bed, stretched out, his head propped up with pillows watching me get changed and apply my makeup. Most men at this point would have gone downstairs and switched on the telly, so it was a little unnerving for one to take any interest.

“Can you help me with my makeup?” He asked, as if this was an ordinary question like asking me to  pass the salt. “Erm…ok,” I replied, a little confused. I’d had a bit of warning with my last lipstick-wearing boyfriend – he had dressed like Robert Smith from The Cure from day one. But PP was all black tee-shirts, leathers and army boots.

So, after getting us a couple of bottles of lager from the fridge, PP took over the ‘getting ready’ sideshow and I did my best ‘not-at-all-shocked-or-surprised’ performance. First a black leather lace-up basque came out (“so, we’re going more fetish, than Dick Emery-style drag,” I thought, slightly relieved). A pair of fishnet stockings and matching thong were next. He finished with Doc Martin boots, almost saying “I may be a man chick, but I am still a Grunge bitch at heart.”

To my surprise, I found this all quite arousing, particularly the bulge in his thong and his pert, smooth buttocks now being framed and highlighted by fishnet and leather.

So, make up time. He sat on the bed patiently while I decided what to use on his already beautiful face. As I started to apply eyeshadow – I told him his skin was too good to cover with foundation – I knelt down. But this was rather uncomfortable so I convinced him that the only way to do it was to sit on his lap, my legs straddling his. I could feel his firm cock rubbing against me through his leather thong as I brushed dark purple and grey powder on his eyelids. I couldn’t resist gyrating against him and kissing him softly as he seemed so submissive, just sitting there with his eyes closed while I painted him. We had to stop for the lipstick, though, but I lingered enough to enjoy pressing against leather and thong a little longer.

When I’d done, he looked stunning and I realised I was with a man who was prettier than me.

As the party guests arrived, PP was repeatedly complimented on his look, with the odd joke from the men. But he always had a witty response or was happy to laugh at himself. I didn’t get much time with him, just the odd kiss and squeeze, but his main priority was mingling and being admired by everyone. It was becoming clear that this was largely a party for himself to show off his ‘Grunge slut’ persona. Everyone else was in their regular clothes, so it wasn’t as though this was a theme night.

Luckily there were other people I knew so I wasn’t left in the corner and I had the smugness of knowing that, for the moment he was flirting with every man and woman in the room, but it was me who would be sharing his bed and enjoying his body later.

The morning after couldn’t have been less glamorous. Fag butts, beer cans, cups and glasses containing dregs of liquid. I mucked in with him and his housemates in the clean-up. It was the least I could do.

Then PP enthusiastically announced he was cooking us tea. I asked what he planned. “Chilli con carne!” He proudly announced. “But what are you making it with I asked?” He seemed confused by the question and wrong-footed by my not simply accepting this great thing he was doing for me.

“You know, just chilli,” he replied, bewildered that I seemed to have never encountered the dish before. “Yes, but with meat?” I asked. It dawned on me that we had never been in a proper eating situation together before – our first night had been crisps and party type food and before that we had just been at a pub or club.

Oh dear – he had no clue that I was a vegetarian. Should I tell him or put my principles to one side and keep my mouth shut (only opening it to shovel in spicy ground beef)?

“Oh, I’m vegetarian,” I replied, my inner voice winning its fight to be heard. There was silence and his face dropped. He had clearly thought that his chilli was a winner with the girls but now he was being robbed of his moment of glory. I felt terrible and detected the wind changing and ‘you’re not welcome’ vibes radiating from him.

His housemate – let’s call him Max – stepped in and concocted something with green peppers, onions and cashew nuts. Funny, really, because he had been hanging around me like an excited puppy whenever PP and I weren’t holed up in the bedroom. The food had been Max’s chance to impress me, but while it was edible it didn’t really taste of anything.

After that incident, PP seemed to cool towards me and would be glad to see me go the next morning. We kissed, cuddled and bonked a few more times, but it felt like he was just fulfilling a contract.

Back home, PP and I just had one phone chat, then nothing. I wasn’t broken-hearted, as there was no future in it – he was actually a bit vain and arrogant, even though he was very fanciable. I have seen pictures of him on a social network site and he still looks stunning, although the hair is shorter and he is now married with kids. Max rang me at least half a dozen times, wanting to take me out, but eventually gave up.

I was only a vegetarian for about five years and will now happily eat chilli con carne.

 

Read more on my blog – drunkenslutmum.co.uk

 

Posted in Cliterati Magazine and tagged as , , ,

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *