When you drunkenly barge through the metaphorical platform 9 ¾ into the realm of misplaced sexual attraction towards someone unattractive/unsuitable/unavailable/unhinged/all of the above. Here you are, a wild, lascivious vortex of drunk sexual energy. And so are they. You charge at each other like two tramps fighting under Waterloo bridge. It all seems to go terribly well. Until the next morning. When you realise you went to bed with Voldemort.
If the world is a place of perfect balance, it makes sense to have sex with people you hate as well as people you love. Let the bastard see what he’s missing. ‘See all this? You’ll experience it once and then have your life ruined because you’ll never have it again!’ You laugh evilly, as he gets dressed and leaves and you start crying.
You hate yourself. You hate him. But here’s the thing. You could get drunk and Facebook stalk your ex or you could have sex with Alan from Accounts who told you that you remind him of his mother. Oh, go on then.
Self hate sex part two
Alan has told you he doesn’t want a relationship. You are surprisingly hurt. He then tells you he thinks you should get your hair cut. You want to punch him in the face. But you have sex with him instead.
Mostly brilliant because you get to laugh when you want without the other person feeling paranoid.
Turns out it wasn’t forever, despite all the eye contact? But it’s OK, because now, when you think about it, you feel sad in a romantically satisfying way, like Rose in Titanic before she brutally murdered Jack by not letting him on the flaming door that was clearly BIG ENOUGH FOR TWO.
The short, fat, balding banker at the party with the large teeth, the laugh that sounded like a dog that’s being kicked and the hairy hands. Kind eyes, though. And just so grateful for the touch of a woman. He didn’t call. Why the fuck didn’t he call?
Like trying to park when you’re angry.
That’ll teach your boyfriend to forget your birthday. He wasn’t even that close to his father anyway. Or his brother.