Behind Closed Doors: Dirty Sheets

Some of my best and most messy nights have been spent drinking doubles of Imperial Stag (a cheap whisky) from plastic cups and dancing like no one’s watching on the very sticky dance floor of a small pub/club in Manchester. It was based in Manchester’s glamorous red light district where the bouncers kept a stash of low-end cigarettes to sell in singles to the hookers – you can imagine the place, pure class.

I’ve also made more than may fair share of bad judgements there. Decisions that could almost definitely be categorised as ‘pure class’ (in an identically sarcastic tone). Although I like to think, in this case at least, I saved myself from this bad judgement in the nick of time, even if arguably it still went one (or more) steps too far.

It had been a long night of drinking and dancing, the dance floor was thinning and as result we were getting more and more room to flail our limbs around. Clearly some lacked the staying power we had, or maybe they knew better when to call it a night. A tall, lanky chap caught my friend’s eye, you know the type; black skinny jeans far too tight to be comfortable, a non-descript dark top, probably a fake leather jacket and as I found out when dawn broke poorly dyed black hair. She pushed me into him – brilliant school girl move – and it didn’t take me long to dance my way into a lip lock. Not really what friends are for, but that should probably be where my own opinion comes in to influence my actions.

The night turned out to be a long one, but to cut the story short, I ended up climbing into his bed after the sun had risen. Yes, a city centre apartment. Yes, he lived on his own. Yes, there was minimal level of cleanliness. Yes, I should have left then…but I was young, along for the ride and willing to be open minded. We got into bed (it hadn’t been made, but I wasn’t going to hold that against the guy) and he started to fumble. The kind of fumble that is far too heavy handed and a little too nail aggressive. I’m sure I’m not alone in preferring soft and gentle, especially during early stages of flesh on flesh. So I did, as all good lovers should do, and pointed him in the right direction with a coaxing murmur of ‘be gentle’…he heard, but as he did I got a wiff of sex…

I knew the sheets could have been cleaner, they definitely had a good degree of mustiness about them but with that wiff I couldn’t help but ask the one clear direct question ‘Have you had sex with someone else in these sheets?’ His response ‘Yeah… [he paused]… I knew I should have Frebreezed them before I went out.’

Needless to say to say, I left soon after that. I’m not sure what turned me off more, the possibility of him not having showered since he last had sex or the thought that he may have never changed his sheets under the impression that Frebreeze is able to cleanse bodily juices.


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