I'll tell you a little story...
Not so long ago, in a professional capacity I took my friend to a gig being played by musicians (if you can call them that) with something of a cult status in the industry. They're famous, there's no doubt about that - but more as an act than individuals, and it's doubtful whether they'd be recognised in the street. Anyway, we got invited to the after show party where one member of said 'act' seemed to take a shine to me and asked if we would like to join them backstage for drinks. I hasten to add (and I know readers, you'll find it hard to believe I can be this naive...) I thought nothing of it, other than friendly/professional chat. After all, I genuinely didn't find him attractive!
A drink. Also known as SEX.
At this point and in hindsight I should ask a rhetorical question - why, when someone shows an interest in talking to you, should you automatically assume (with only limited evidence) that they want to fuck you? In my opinion, it would be terribly arrogant to do so! I mean, think about it. Can you imagine bringing this up to set them straight, only to be told the person doesn't even find you attractive?! The shame.
Anyway, I digress. There we were, backstage. With a glass of wine I sat next to said man on a leather sofa and we talked, opposite us my friend sat next to a member of his band, and they talked. We talked mainly about work, in case you're wondering. There were a couple of mentions of us being beautiful, but I chose to ignore that. To the best of my knowledge, I did nothing to lead him to believe I would be stripping off later and all seemed to be well. After half an hour or so, my friend and I then got invited to see their tour bus. A tour bus! Tres excitation! It's worth remembering by the way, that neither me or my friend fraternise with many celebrities, so this was a rare (and somewhat pathetic) treat. The tour bus was plush, as you'd expect. Like a winnebago with tinted windows. Guitars strewn about, an Xbox and a widescreen TV, drinks, more leather sofas... I spent a lot of time deep in thought, planning the decor of my own bus when I get asked to tour Waterstones. Before I knew it, we were being ushered out of the tour bus and into a nearby hotel, because the after show party had been cut short by the venue and the crew were expected. (In hindsight, the signs were apparent, I do realise this; but you realise a lot in hindsight.)
In the hotel lobby whilst waiting for keys to rooms that had been checked into earlier, the man in question seemed to have an obsession with the hotel's jacuzzi and whether or not it would still be open. At this point, bells were ringing but it wasn't as easy as you'd expect, to make my excuses and leave. I'm a writer and I had my own ulterior motives. I was hankering after this guy's little black book of A listers. And he definitely has one. I can handle this, I thought. Play it cool, steer it around. I'll get him so interested in my conversation that he'll think far too much of me to waste the night exchanging bodily fluids!
Moi?!
Upstairs, my friend and I parted company as her new 'friend' led her to his room and I was being led in the opposite direction with you know who. In his room (with no double bed, a minor offering from above) I sat awkwardly on a single bed pushed up against the wall. So awkwardly you might say, that I was trying too hard to not look awkward, which clearly had the opposite effect. I probably looked like I was ripe for a good seeing to. As he came and sat next to me I jumped up and escaped to the loo to consider my options. Do I -
A. Leave now to avoid further trouble?
B. Stay but continue to be coy and either - win by convincing him I'm not his type and befriending him instead, or - risk driving him crazy and eventually being chucked out on the grounds that I'm a cock tease?
C. Fuck him and hope for the best, although knowing full well that if I did this I'd never hear from him again and I'd be branded one of his cheap tour sluts.
Not tonight, dear.
As I surveyed my slightly overgrown bikini line, mis-matching underwear and the simple facts that I didn't fancy him and I have an ego myself, I wandered back out into the bedroom, imagining the best way to execute plan B. It wasn't easy. I had to be next to him and while ever I was next to him, he was trying to kiss me or was licking my neck. (Which I'm ashamed to say felt fucking divine and left me with slightly damp knickers.) I made some jokes about him doing this every night and having a girl in every city, which he calmly denied. Then I told him I was married. To which he answered "What's a bit of harmless fun between adults?" What is it indeed, when you're outrageously attracted to someone, and I was quickly being convinced. Eventually he managed to kiss me properly, mid conversation. His tongue was slow and gentle, then hard and probing, and for a split second I reverted to plan C. Then either God intervened or my brain engaged. I stood up and moved onto the other bed (two singles, remember). "I can't do this, I'm sorry. I didn't expect it to come to this, I know we were getting on but I thought we would just be friends..." (In other words, listen cunt - if you're under the impression I'm that easy, you've taken one too many pills. I call the sexual shots. And I'm no-one's groupie.)
I genuinely expected him to be nice about this, but as it happens, he was anything but.
"You want to be friends? Ok, what the fuck shall we talk about? Hmm? Shall we be best fucking friends?" He spat the words at me with pure venom from across the other side of the room where he'd walked to, pacing and fidgeting with what seemed to be anger waiting to vent. The priceless contacts I wanted slipped from my grasp, I was getting fuck all from him, like he was getting fuck all from me.
"I'm leaving." I said, fumbling to try and get my heels back on quickly, which isn't easy when they're lace up shoe-boots and a size too small. He wasn't planning to let me off that easily...
"I mean for fuck's sake, what the fuck are you doing in my hotel room at 2am, if you aren't going to fuck me?" (Questionable.) "You want to be friends? Grow the fuck up!"
Wow. Despite my shallow intentions, the words cut my own ego sharp and easy, like a knife through butter. He hated me. And all because he wasn't going to get laid. Somehow I got my shoes on and left the room, slamming the door behind me.
Fuck.
I spent the next forty minutes in the street, trying to make contact with my friend and waiting for my husband to pick me up. It wouldn't have been such a long wait, had I not decided to tell him everything on the phone before he even left. (We have a relationship built on honesty and open-mindedness above all else.) I was seething and shivering. It was only a few degrees and I'd left my fucking jacket at the venue. Eventually my friend came walking towards me, being chaperoned by her squeeze of the evening, his coat wrapped snugly around her shoulders, his arm around her waist. Now she hadn't fucked him (whether or not she was willing to is irrelevant -) but he hadn't flipped out like a spoiled brat who'd had his teething ring snatched off him and rammed up his shit covered arse!
I'm still wondering whether I was wholly to blame or whether a more reasonable man might have taken the sexual rejection a little more pleasantly. Either way, the black book still in sight I gave him another chance to accept the hand of friendship with a casually worded facebook message and a backhanded apology the next day. He's yet to reply...
I defy any woman to have handled this better without losing her self respect.
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