Liam/memory block

He rescued me from a situation which probably would have ended with me being punched by another girl. So it had all started off rather strangely.

I had been out with a group of people I barely knew. I had just got back in contact with an old school friend, Anne, after several years, and they were her friends. She had invited me to come out with her and her ‘gang’ – three guys and two girls. One of the chaps had taken an interest in me (not my fault) and, after a few drinks we shared a snog. I was about 24 and single, so it was no big deal.  But it was a massive deal for Anne’s mate Carol, who was his ex-girlfriend, and trying to get back with him. But how was I to know all this history? As I said, they were virtual strangers. And she did that repressed ‘angry bitch’ thing, telling me to ‘fuck off’ with a smile on her face, and to leave her friends alone.

Liam showed up in the background somewhere in the middle of this altercation. He looked familiar, probably because he had been in all the same cheap, scruffy pubs I frequented in the mid to late 1990s. He asked if he could buy me a drink and we got chatting after I walked away from Carol and co.

He was kind and sensitive and the way he looked reminded me of the type of guy I went for in my student days – dreadlocked dark hair, pierced nose, new age hippy/punk. I was beginning to believe the entire incident was fate.

Liam had a slightly odd existence. He worked in a factory and lived in a house on a very low rent in exchange for allowing his landlords, three Sikh brothers, to store crates and crates of lager, that they sold on the side, in his kitchen. They even allowed Liam to consume some of it. (But it was the super-strong metallic-tasting cheap stuff favoured by street-drinkers in the UK, so this wasn’t exactly a great perk.)

I remember lots of details about Liam, such as the various tragedies suffered by members of his family, his strange tattoo that looked like a black blobby ghost, his penchant for The Stranglers  and his rather scary dog which looked like a mastiff/pit bull cross and snapped at most people (luckily not me). In fact, I also recall that the dog got stolen after he left it tied up outside a pub.

But, for some reason I have no recollection of sex with him, apart from two occasions. I remember sex with people before and after him, but for some reason, very little about what Liam and I did – maybe I had sunk a couple of cans of the acrid liquid stockpiled in his kitchen. Or maybe, it was just not memorable or remarkable sex.

So, my lasting memory of him was the summer evening we went for a walk in the woods and came across a bent over tree. Its thin trunk came out at a right angle, almost like a bench and was just wide enough to sit on. Within minutes we were kissing passionately and his hand went down my jeans. There wasn’t much foreplay, as it became rather frantic. I took one leg out of my jeans and pants while he unzipped and reclined on the tree. I climbed on and we frantically bonked, keeping one eye open for dog-walkers. It was exciting and exhilarating, as this was my first tree sex (I know I’ve covered this topic several posts back). I did not orgasm, but was very aroused by the closeness of his lean body, the smell of the wood and sensuality of the tree.

We quickly adjusted ourselves after he shot his load and carried on walking, saying ‘hello’ to passers-by.

The other occasion was when we had sex via me sitting on his lap, facing him, as he sat on my toilet. Why this stays in my mind is a mystery to me.

The relationship didn’t end well. I recall him becoming increasingly depressed and demanding and me not knowing how to cope. Seeing him became a chore and I was starting to fall for one of my male friends. So, it ended and rather messily. I told him it was over; he left and stood below the window of my apartment shouting out my name, so my 200 or so neighbours also knew it was over. There were then a series of drunken phone calls at 3am, until I unplugged my phone. Still, it was preferable to being punched by another girl.

 

Catch my blog – drunkenslutmum.co.uk

Posted in Cliterati Magazine and tagged as , , ,
2 comments Submit a comment

Leave a Reply

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

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>