Back to the Start

I came to London to be with a boy.

We met at a club, as you do. I was young, impulsive and it all sounded like fun. We lived in a tiny one bedroom flat in East London and lasted 2 years. He was my first serious boyfriend. Sex was amazing. He made me laugh. We struggled (a lot) with money, as neither of us had any. We talked about marriage. He always thought he would make it big. I always thought he was a bad dancer.

I can't even remember my reason for leaving. We never fell out. We just lost touch in the end.

I was a bit shocked when he found me recently through the power of facebook. 

He's made it big.

#1, as we will refer to him as, now drives a Ferrari, has property in the UAE, an apartment in London and a ski chalet somewhere in The Alps. He has dated models and flies First Class wherever he goes. He told me all of this over dinner at Sketch last week. I think he might have wanted to impress me.

Anyway. He looks good. We talked. We laughed. We drank too much champagne and ended up going to The Mayfair.

I had promised myself I wouldn't drop my knickers. That I would be classy and make it hard work for him. That all went out of the window by the time we'd eaten our starters. By dessert we were feeding each other. By 11pm he was eating me.

It's been 12 years since we last had sex. It blew my mind. He was always amazing, and I have had a lot of sex since then, but he touched me, licked me, slapped me, bit me in ways that made me crave more. It was sweaty, desperate and seedy - and I loved it.

I have no intention of getting back with him. He is arrogant, flashy and full of himself. I've dated enough wankers...but I can't help but think I may be back for seconds, and thirds.

Thank God I came to London.

2 Sides to Every Story...

“When I'm good I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.”  Mae West

My name is Missy. I'm a Northern girl, living in London and loving life. On the surface, I'm very much the good girl. I am a good friend, star employee, loving daughter, sister and cousin. I wear long skirts and I do as I'm told. I keep other people happy. I'm the one you'd take home to meet your Mam.

And then there's the other side of me. The side that wears red lipstick, no knickers and drinks  champagne with strangers in hotel bars. Who laughs a lot. The real, unabashed, in control, up to no good one your Mother warned you about.

The two never meet. I doubt they've ever been in the same building at the same time. They both serve a purpose, and are both happy doing their own thing.

So why feel the need to blog about it? Why not keep it quiet?

Sometimes it's tiring not being able to talk about it. It's hard to remember what not to say. I get confused, I need advice. I need to vent.

I think this could be fun...