My friend, let’s call him Frank for the hell of it, brought round a friend of his so we could all drink at my place before we went to this club. “See what I told you about the music, dude?” Frank said to #121. “She’s totally trapped in the nineties.” I battled against feeling old. Frank was 19, #121 was 21, and I was 26. So what, right?
The club we went to was sort of fabulous but mostly pretentious and shallow, so I had mixed feelings about it. Mostly, everyone there seemed to be delighted with how way-out they were supposedly being. I have never been much of a club person, and I never dress up or make much of an effort. My green-haired days were over and I was taking a back seat. #122 tottered over, told #121 he was hot, and kissed him. This was #121’s first ever kiss with a boy, and when #122 had left the vicinity, #121 told me that he was a bad kisser. So I asked him to demonstrate exactly how #122 had kissed him, and then we improved on it. I don’t think I had had any agenda before that moment arose, but it worked well.
#121 was quite sweet, cute, and full of compliments: all good points. Also, he was in a long-distance relationship that was supposed to be monogamous: not my problem, but after we’d gotten off together two or three times, I felt a bit weird about it and figured we shouldn’t. His girlfriend sounded really nice, and I guess having any information at all about who she was was enough to make me feel guilty. It wasn’t a big deal as such, but I was still into my newfound freedom and delighted to be getting off with someone who was nice to me, who I was attracted to, who I felt safe with.
We fell out of touch eventually, although #121 did try to set me up with an acquaintance of his I’d been keen on (Personal Ad Girl, who makes an appearance in IDST#4. Talk about non-starters). I think his girlfriend came back to Edinburgh and they moved in together.