He, He, He

Whoosh! You gotta luv long weekends.

I went out dancing at the Peel, with Tom.

I got to snog a cute guy named Harley, on the dance floor, as we danced together during the night. I could have bought him home, he had big, warm hands and red, soft lips and he was panting to be taken home.

My T-shirt was wet through, as we stood in Peel Street, at 6am, in the cold, morning air, shivering, suspecting that I could vomit at any moment. The drugs - snort, swallow and inhale - were making feel nauseous, not horny, which wasn't a good premise for hot sex. I can't multi-task at all when I'm off my head, I can even multi-task in thought, I am, absolutely, only a one-thought-at-a-time wonder, when I'm out of it.

I had to go home, I felt like shit, I had to take my wet clothes off, I had to sit down, that's all I could hang onto. My hand slipped out of Harley's, as soon as Tom said he'd give me a lift home. I headed for Tom's car on autopilot, without looking back.

When I got home, I had to lay down for an hour, quietly on the couch listening to Aretha Franklin, before that just-about-to-vomit metallic taste in my mouth would go and the sea-sickness spins would stop. I may have drifted off, nothing is very clear to me now.

I think I've been up for an hour. I'm just dazed, with a sore throat. I smoked like a bitch, all night.

I'm trying to force muesli down, you know, so at least I eat something. It tastes like shit. It's hard work. I can't do it. It's like eating sand.

Now, I want Harley! It has taken two hours for my mind to come back to him. Bugger!

Cropped dark hair. Beautiful eyes. Big lips. Olive skin. Blue singlet. Hot. If any one knows him, Melbourne area, I think, send him right over, I so want to slide my hands down his pants, finally.