The Bloody Massacre


‘Work it girl, work it, own it, own it’ my friend hollered slamming my taxi door shut as I sped off in the direction of Ranelagh. I checked my face in my phone, the girls had drunkenly reapplied my make up in the toilet of Roberta’s and I had the fear that I resembled an Ooompa Loompa instead of the ‘ridebag’ they all told me I was.
This was a 1am booty call, a confident call I made full of bravado and ‘sure feck it, what have I got to lose’ gusto when I was swilling G&T’s. And now my booty was in a taxi and I was extremely bloody nervous.
We met a good few times and had had a handful of dates sporadically over a couple of months. He was an investment banker and spent weeks at a time in London and New York before jetting back Dublin. I met him at festival a few months before, he was a mate of mates and we flirted outrageously all night but we were far too drunk and festivally to get it together. We met again at a friend’s wedding a few weeks after that, this time we kissed but nothing more. He was ridiculously good looking, privately educated, ex-schoolboy rugby player, cocky and arrogant. He wouldn’t have been out of place in a Ross O’Carroll Kelly book. Another successful brunch date, and chemistry laden drinks one night that ended early due to a red eye flight he had to catch meant I was
dying to have some proper alone time with him. So when I text him saying ‘Hey you home tonight?’ he text back straight away inviting me over.
Make no mistake I liked him, this wasn’t gonna be a one time deal. Which is why I went into full on panic mode in the back of the taxi when I realised I hadn’t shaved my legs. I inched my black skinny jeans up past my shin and felt a briar like bristle of hair.
‘Um, excuse me Mister taxi man, can you stop at a petrol station please’
Fifteen minutes later I was ringing his door bell with a 5 pack of Bic disposables festooned in my bag and a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies exploding in my stomach.
His apartment was stunning. Clean, white, stainless steel everywhere. Think Christian Grey but with less millions and in Ranelagh. As soon as he opened the door he pulled me towards him and we started passionately kissing.
I wanted to just go for it but the unopened razors were buzz killing my mojo. I gentle pushed him off and coyly asked if I could pop to his bathroom. He pointed me down the hall and offered to pour me a glass of red wine while I ‘freshened up’.
His bathroom wouldn’t have been out of place in ‘The Dean’. Black and grey tiles, wall to wall mirrors, rainforest shower heads and perfectly aligned toiletries neatly displayed on shelves. It was immaculate. I hoped to god he had a cleaner who came twice a week and that it wasn’t just him being extremely anal.
Ripping open the pack I shimmed down my jeans and drunkenly slathered some of his Molton Brown Pink Peppercorn shower gel onto my legs. Fuckkkkkkkkkk. The cheap razors immediately nicked my shin, badly, and I started pumping blood. Shiiiitttteeee. The blood was dripping on his pristine white tiles. I used up all his toilet roll pressing down on the nick/gash.
‘Hey you ok in there?’ he called after 10 minutes of me almost dying from blood loss. He blatantly thought I was doing a poop. Mortified. ‘Two secs’ I said pulling back on my skinny jeans praying that they would stop the bleeding. He was outside the door with wine in hand a quizzical look on his face. I hopped on him, trying to distract him. It worked, minutes later we were in his bedroom sitting on his 2000 count Egyptian Cotton sheets.
God this man was so hot I forgot about everything except his arms and lips on me. He moaned softly, then more loudly, then a full on ‘Oh my god, what the fuck, you’re bleeding’! My sheets, Jesus, Christ’.
Ten minutes later I was back in a taxi. The mortification being too much for both of us to bear.
I promised to buy him new sheets.
One’s I think we both knew I would never be sleeping in.

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