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2. Don't shit where you eat

Before we get into the ‘Dick’ of The Dick Diaries (I promise… it’s ‘coming’ soon...) I do feel I need to provide a little more backstory.


By the end of September 2020, my ex and I were on the rocks. I was finding comfort in my friends, but particularly a group of colleagues who had become regular drinking buddies and a great support system during the difficulties of dealing with a breakup during a pandemic. I had become close with two colleagues, Kate and Ollie who I carpooled with every morning.


In October my partner and I officially broke up. We agreed he would buy me out of the flat we owned together and I had two weeks to gather my things and vacate the property. I wanted to make the most of my last week in the city and my last week in the beautiful apartment I’d worked hard to buy. The ‘rule of six’ was still in full swing, so naturally, the celebrations involved a table at a cocktail bar and drinking with my work friends.


I had my eye on one guy, Harry, who I’d been flirting with relentlessly at work. Harry and I continued our flirtatious banter into the evening. The odd brush of the hand and touch of the foot for the first time since being single was really exciting. When the 10pm curfew hit, Harry and I walked hand in hand with the rest of the group back to my flat for 80s music and more booze. It wasn’t long before Harry and I found ourselves alone on the balcony. The tension was there, we leaned in and shared a brief, awkward peck on the lips. Not quite the lust-filled, heated moment I had imagined, but I was still optimistic. Shortly after the event, however, Harry became irritable and his whole demeanor changed. He left rather abruptly making excuses about being tired. (I would later find out that he had a girlfriend, and went back to hers that evening).


By midnight the party was down to three: Me, Ollie, and Kate. Kate was so drunk she asked me to lick pepperoni pizza off her elbow (she’s vegan). As Kate slipped around on my wooden floors shouting ‘nice one bruvaaaaa’ Ollie and I agreed to end the night for her and carried a very drunk, shoeless Kate to a pre-ordered cab.


I could tell from the moment we were alone the two of us were going to have sex. As we walked back into my apartment, Ollie made a comment about the sexual tension between us, which up until this point I had been blissfully unaware of. We agreed on it like it was a business deal. Something that needed to happen for both of us in a clear-cut transaction.


As we went into my bedroom I suddenly got the feeling of dread you get when you’ve been on a long holiday and come back to the steering wheel of your car thinking ‘can I still do this?' I had slept with the same person for three years and, towards the end of the relationship, probably hadn’t had sex at all for three months.


The first major issue we encountered was our size difference. I am a small 5ft2 woman, Ollie stood at nearly 6ft9. I tried to lean in for a natural kiss and missed, ending up on the chin. We fumbled around with our clothes and did the three standard hook-up positions: missionary, doggie, and cowgirls helper (which for those of you who can’t be bothered to google that like I did, is ‘girl on top’). Of course, like all foolish men, Ollie tried to push my legs up at various moments. I endured the strain of my tight hamstrings pretending that I did bend in these porn-worthy positions, hoping that it made me come across as experienced, sexy, and confident.


Once we were done, we got changed in almost silence. He made an awkward slightly sarcastic comment about seeing me on Monday.


The next morning I had a message from Kate. ‘I left you and Ollie together last night… did anything happen?’ ‘No.’ I lied. ‘He got an Uber shortly after you did.’ ‘That’s good’ said Kate. ‘You don’t want to shit where you eat.’

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