I don’t think I got any action my first term at uni, apart from when #20 visited for a week or so. I got off with him but I wouldn’t take him back. Other than that, I sat around moping about the microbe boy. I smoked cigarettes and drank Hooch and focused on being sad and dramatic. I developed a couple of half-hearted crushes in the hope of a distraction, but it wasn’t much use.
The day after my nineteenth birthday, I took the bus down to Hull. The journey seemed to take forever, and I mean, who goes to Hull? I was met at the bus station by a boy I knew from the internet. I had a friend in Cheltenham who was in a band and I was going to go to their Christmas gig; the boy in Hull had a motorbike and he was going to give me a lift.
On my first night in Hull, we went drinking in Spiders, a legendary alternative club, and eventually I made out with him. At this point I discovered he had a girlfriend, which he had kept conveniently quiet, but he didn’t want us to be seen kissing in public. Back to his place, then, and some semi-hot action, but not that hot. He wanted to have sex and I didn’t. The second night, he suddenly developed some guilt about the whole girlfriend issue, and packed me off to the arctic spare room with an army sleeping bag. Things felt a little strained.
It was almost 200 miles to Cheltenham. Long hours on the motorway, in the rain. It wasn’t super fun but it was still more interesting than the bus. We slept next to each other on the floor at my friend’s house, but we didn’t get off again. Not quite. It felt awkward.
Anyway, I still have this unfinished stream-of-consciousness piece somewhere that I wrote around that time. I was trying not to care what people thought of me, I was trying to act like I was the lead role in my own film. I think #24 thought I was weird. That’s okay. I don’t think we contacted each other again after the trip.