Bad Kat's back in town!

Dear Diary,

Monday was good. I liked Monday. Mainly because a) “Bad” Kat made a welcome comeback, and b) I got to return to Liverpool and see Kyle again. I'll start at the beginning:

I had to go back to uni to pay a re-enrolment fee (coursework issues – ie: me not handing it in – prevented me graduating last year) and Kyle said I was welcome to stay over, and even go on an epic bender. However, upon finding out that his boyfriend would be staying over, and therefore, I would be delegated to the sofa, I made an educated decision to stay at someone else's. Gary hadn't texted or even spoke to me in a while, and apparently he had an exam on Tuesday, anyway. Excuses, excuses...... So, into the suitcase went the Cheryl dress, the hair straighteners, silky matching undergarments, heels, and contact lenses.

Purposefully got a late evening coach, as Kyle's fella was coming over to drop some stuff off, and I wanted to avoid him. Partly because I felt bad about “what happened” last time I was there, and partly because I don't actually like him that much – he has a way of talking to me that makes me feel incredibly thick. However, he seems to have changed slightly – he was perfectly nice to me, and even commented on my weight loss (Yes! Yessssssssssssssssss!!) when the dress was on, saying it was very flattering and complimented my figure. Aw. Kyle did my hair whilst I did my make-up, and the end result was WICKED. Decided not to bother with tights, but instead had a vigorous shaving, moisturising and sunbathing session, so my legs were all shiny-looking (I did all that at home, before anyone thinks I'd be as gross as to shave in someone else's flat).
Boyfriend eventually left us to it when I triumphantly produced two bottles of Magners and rough wine – so we sat out on the balcony, drinking, watching the sun set over that magical skyline, and listening to music. Sweet. That is what my life should be like.

Not much to be said about the evening, really. We headed into town, singing "Cecilia" and discussing our lives. As it was Monday night, the place was like a ghost town. We slammed tequilas, got free drinks from our friend back in the bar we went to last time. Kyle took us round in a complete circle in an attempt to find a hidden bar, and inexplicably kissed me when I started smacking and ranting at him. We found the hidden bar (where have all these new buildings in Liverpool COME from??) and got free cocktails, as he knew the manager (how does he know EVERYONE?!)

Me: “How much is that?”
Manager: “Don't worry about it, OK?”
Me: “Wha....?”
Manager: “It's on the house!”
Me: (*after a pause*) “I love you, and I want to have 17 of your babies”
Manager: (*raising eyebrow*) “Is that an offer?”
Kyle: (*dragging me away*) “Come ON, Kat!!”

We made a quick obligatory stop-off in the gay district, which was pretty shit. Although that is where I met Barry, at the bar in an old haunt that had been made-over – but actually looked worse than before. He told me his name and bought me a drink – I started singing Barry White songs to him (which was tricky, as I only knew “You're my first, my last, my everything”). But instead of backing away slowly, he laughed and carried on chatting to me, being all Irish. I suppose he was quite attractive, in the right light. Kyle, sensing the immediate chemistry (or obvious look-out for a shag) between us, started scowling at me and told me he was leaving – and that I'd better be back at his before half 10 in the morning, or he'd go to work, leaving me locked out. What a fucking charmer. Wisely decided not to mention every single time at uni he's left me alone to go pull someone – or let me make my way home alone when he was supposed to be staying over so he could go get a shag.

30 year-old Barry and I, using some inexplicable,slightly-stunted-version-of-the-mating-ritual, wordless agreement, soon decided to leave, obvious that we'd be going home together. (Well, I suppose I MIGHT have used the words; “My friend has his fella staying over, and I don't want to go back and hear them having sex – I need somewhere else to sleep!”) Plans were scuppered as his friend (who he was staying with) wasn't answering his phone or the door. I jokingly suggested a hotel – at which he flew across the road to grab a taxi. He thought I was serious. Eeep.

Sure enough, we pulled up to a small, shiny Travel Lodge. Hung back shyly as Barry tried to convince the receptionist that he'd booked a room on the Internet, despite the fact that it was a) 3am, and b) very very obviously not true. I smiled at the receptionist, clutching my clutch bag and trying my best not to look like a blatant dirty stop-out, which was difficult, as that is in fact what I was. Eventually, Barry decided to simply give up and pay up, handing over his card and forking out £70 (SEVENTY POUNDS!!!!) for a room, while I stood there making all kinds of horrified faces, offering to chip in (despite only having eight quid left in my bag) and waiting for the inevitable; “You know..... £70 is a lot of money..... I'm not sure I want to have sex with you THAT much.....” However, we soon got our key, so off I strutted to the lift – feeling pretty chuffed and confident in my sexual abilities, so great that they could make a man splash out seventy of the Queen's English pounds to have sex with me, despite only meeting me an hour ago. Until I realized 2 things:

1) I most probably definitely looked like I was a prostitute.
2) He technically had nowhere to sleep – so it was a logical solution.
3) There was the slight possibility that Barry hadn't been laid in a while, and didn't mind paying a lot of money for it to happen.

Once up in the room, things took a natural progression. He inexplicably put the TV/radio on, which meant that for the second time in my life, Radio 1 was a background to coitus. I lay back and listened to the insufferable Lady Gaga perform a highly annoying and unusual acoustic version of “Poker Face” and thought about how much I'd like to poke HER face. And then had to try not to laugh at this excellent joke-ette, as Barry was currently removing his trousers – and I didn't think somehow that laughter would be an appropriate reaction to seeing his pork sword. Which, incidentally, was very nice – just the right size, length and shape. I sure can pick 'em!

He seemed very keen to make the most of the night, by attempting to work through what felt like the ENTIRE Kama Sutra. We went from the bed, to the sofa, to the desk, back to the sofa, which was twice as exciting due to the fact that he was able to pick me up and carry me. What was he, a MACHINE??! Although it was fairly obvious that he was thinking; “Fuck it, I've paid seventy quid for a room I'm only using once – I'm going to recreate every porn film I've EVER seen!” Didn't have any complaints, except for when he did that thing all men seem to do at one point – get a little carried away, and try, mid-shag, to gather my legs up under their arms and force them above my head. Now COME ON, I know I'm flexible, but Christ, I'm already concentrating on a billion other things, don't add INJURY to the bill!
Had a very odd conversation about half way through. We were lying side by side on a 10 minute break, waiting to see if the flag would fly again, when he came out with this:

(*looking sideways*) “Shit!”
(*alarmed*) “What?!”
“Your breasts are HUGE!”

Quite why he felt the need to point this out, or why he hadn't noticed an hour and 20 minutes ago when I'd first undressed, I didn't understand.

“They are indeed.”
“Seriously..... they're enormous!”
“I had noticed”
(*sounding like he's trying to explain something important*) “But..... they're HUGE!”
“............. Fair point, lad.”

Yeah, I have a tendency to utter Scousisms sometimes, especially when I'm in the city and ESPECIALLY when I've had a few. Hell, I only have to be there for an hour and I'm wearing “sunnies,” chewing “chewies” and drinking “bevvies” and saying “lad” or “like” at the end of sentences. Like.

Other than that, there wasn't much to say about the evening (or rather, early morning). Despite being quite rough, it was fairly hot, even though there was the inevitable 20 minutes or so when the 18 Carlsbergs that were sank take their toll. And the snoring was death-defying, and sadly I had no Ipod with me to distract. Which was a shame, as I had “Saw 5” on there now, which would have at least helped me escape the cacophony (although, hopefully not to the point where I'd run a blade through my arm up to the elbow). I only got about 3 hours sleep, the knob.

The next morning was very alarming. Woke up with pain in my head and contact lenses in my shoes. I don't even remember removing them. The contacts, not the shoes. Lay back and listened to Chris Moyles for a while, resolving to listen to Radio 1 more often – presumably having it on in the background as I slept brainwashed me. Barry, naturally, was asleep and snoring still. I remembered the vaguely threatening texts from Kyle, saw that it was half 9, and slowly got out of bed to find my clothes. Stared annoyed-ly at Barry as I slung my dress on, inwardly cursing him not waking up for morning sex. As I ran around the room, collecting my 95 bangles, I decided it was probably best to just go. Maybe leave a pleasant note on the pillow, something along the lines of:

“Thank you for paying £70 for this room so we could have somewhere to bonk! Bet you don't remember that, sucker! But you definitely did. And don't worry, we definitely did bonk. You were rather good. I like your tan lines, and your penis. Thank you for clearing away the cobwebs – it's been a while! January, to be precise. Well, have a good day. Sorry I didn't stick around, but I need to go placate my angry gay friend – and you weren't awake for morning sex anyway xxx PS: For future reference, just when you're about 2 seconds away from flinging someone onto a bed, for the love of god, don't choose THAT moment to point out that you're shit at sex. It's a massive turn off, and you were quite good at it, anyway. Better than some I've had before. But yeah, avoid that - as a normal person would probably give you a Look and leave. Luckily, I am not normal, and I hadn't been laid in 3 months. Take care, lovely Irish man!”

But just as I was considering this, by some strange force of nature, my phone alarm started loudly belting out “Mercy,” and he chose that moment to wake up. He looked very baffled – maybe the appearance of glasses on my face made him forget who I was.

“Hey”
(*confused-ly looking at me*) “Hi......?”
(*feeling the need to be helpful*) “You are in a Travel Lodge!”
“Yeah...... Where are you going?”
“Oh, nowhere, I just felt like....... you know, putting my clothes on”
“Were you sneaking out on me?”
“Not remotely! I just.... (*panicking*) thought.... that.....”
“Yeah.....?”
(*trying to be saucy*) “......you'd like to remove them again.....?”
“........OK!”

A few minutes pass.

“Wow!”
“What?”
“You've got HUGE tits!”

How much had he actually forgotten about what happened a mere 5 hours ago?!

“I know. They ARE attached to me! And you told me last night.”
“But..... your tits are MASSIVE!”
(*failing to understand why this has been confirmed five times in the last six hours*) “Yes. Yes they are............. Do you want to (CENSORED) ?”

Anyway, soon after a good bout of morning sex (during which he inexplicably told me I had nice skin), we were both dressed, ready to face the early morning, he furiously trying to phone his mate, me texting Kyle to tell him I was on the way. Went and stood in the foyer, blinking in the gorgeous morning sun, and trying to ignore the fact that I was in a dress and heels, with a clutch bag and bare legs. Which was like a neon/glitter sign announcing that I'd stopped out in a dirty way – as nobody EVER wears a dress, heels and bare legs in the morning, or even the day. Not at 10am, anyway. Not even in Liverpool.
Jumped in a nearby taxi, while Barry announced he was off to find a bar. At 10 in the morning??! Maybe he was off to drown his sorrows at handing over £70 for one night in a hotel? Who knows. I didn't ask. What I did do was give him an awkward little goodbye kiss on the cheek and told him it was nice to meet him. And then, for reasons I still don't fully understand, I shook his hand.


Got back to Kyle's at twenty past, who thankfully DIDN'T uphold his threat to go to work at half 10, leaving me stranded. He was just as hungover as I, and clearly planning on throwing a sickie. Not that he told me, but it was pretty obvious by the way he opened the door, walked in a zombie-like trance back to his room, and flopped like a dead fish back into bed. Very nearly felt bad for waking him up - before remembering all the times at uni he'd left me on nights out to go home with someone. So instead of feeling bad, I concentrated on feeling hungover (and a little bit smug) as I pulled on my comfy jimjams and flopped into bed with him. I had a night of hot uninhibited hotel sex, he probably had boring, comfortable relationship sex. If ANY! I think I know who's winning! Actually, thinking about it, I'm not sure which one I'd rather have. Surely loving, comfortable sex with someone you love is better than sex with a stranger who only wants you because you are THERE and said Yes, no matter how exciting and illicit. Hmmm.... Now I'm depressing myself.

Woke up a few hours later, with Kyle making sexual noises down my ear – an old joke we used to play whenever we stayed at each other's flats – usually meaning none of us could get to sleep for at least an hour, as we'd be waiting for the inevitable groaning, and pissing ourselves laughing at the mere thought of it. He excitedly demanded I provide every little detail, moment and position of the night, almost to the point of providing illustrations. Afterwards, he fell back asleep. I sat on the balcony listening to my Ipod, stretching out luxuriously as the wind tried to blow my hangover away. It didn't. Eventually went back in and curled back up in bed.

Both woke up again at 2pm – rolling pathetically around in bed and feebly moaning about how much we wanted food, but not actually able to contemplate the thought of finding it. Eventually left, and had a GORGEOUS fry-up, sat outside one of our favourite cafe's. We walked up to uni, I paid my re-enrolment fee (Yessssssssssssssss!!) and, in a fit of celebration and nostalgia, bought a packet of BabyBels. I ate them on the way home, whilst making Pacman noises (to accompany the making of Pacman shapes out of the wax) singing the BabyBel song, and annoying the hell out of Kyle.

Back at his, we spent several hilarious hours jamming away on his keyboard, just like in the good old days when we composed crazy-ass songs about hamsters, birthdays, and cocks (among other things). His boyfriend turned up after a while, so I awkwardly lay and read my book while they hung out. Eventually he left, while Kyle got ready for work and I packed my suitcase.
Walked back to the train station, wearing my huge face-covering sunnies to avoid seeing anyone properly and hopefully, being recognised (I was terrified of bumping into Zara, Leanne or Renee). Had a scary moment where I walked past someone who looked EXACTLY like Zara. It may even have been her, she sure was staring at me a lot as we walked past each other. Maybe she was trying to work out if it was actually me – as I had short, red hair, was not wearing my distinctive glasses, and wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, which she probably wouldn't have expected on me. Incidentally, nothing happened, we just carried on. Am I ever going to be able to go back to that fair city without constantly looking over my shoulder and fearing bumping into old friends? Grr.... Fucking Gary. I bet they've not fallen out with HIM.

Sat on the train in a complete haze, experiencing the kind of hangover that lasts all day – which I only seem to get when in Liverpool. Just as I was looking forward to an early night, snuggled up in bed after a plate of warmed-up tea, my phone rang. It was the bloody pub, asking me to come in. Figures. Dad had to come pick me up from the station, I had about 9 minutes to wolf down some tea, change my clothes, have a wash, and generally make myself feel and look like less of a dirty hobo.

So yeah, thus concludes my little trip. Acting on Alice's sound advice (that “Bad” Kat was more interesting to read about), I was “bad” again. Well, bad as in “good” - in a Michael Jackson-esque way. Some may disagree, but I suppose the good that came out of it was that I got laid – and for one night, almost became like a prostitute, and not even in a bad way! Well, I suppose the fact that I didn't get paid is bad, I could do with some extra cash! And I suppose it was bad that I could look Kyle's fella in the eye without feeling ANY guilt about what happened – except for the guilt I felt about NOT feeling guilty (if that makes sense). But hey, Kyle's the one who started it, he's the one in a relationship. If he can do that and look at his boyfriend without feeling an ounce of guilt, then I should be able to as well. Fuck it, it's not my problem.

The shift at the pub went well, by the way. Rather strangely, working got rid of my hangover more effectively than a fry-up, BabyBel or walk in the sun. Intriguing!

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