Away With The Fairies Day 14

Kev St. John
Kev St. John 18 Min Read

Friday 28th November – Somehow the girls have made it out to go bikini shopping before 10am. I wasn’t invited to join them, but I’m not bothered. They don’t do bikinis my size.

Watching them in action last night has reminded me that they’d always intended to be over here on their own. I was just a spur-of-the-moment after-thought. Not even that, really. After their strip-poker prick-teasing, they’d almost left me behind. They only remembered I was there when my hand reached out from the depths of that bloody beanbag and I asked for help. And do you know what they said?

“Oh, we’d completely forgotten about you.”

It’s really hard not to take that personally, but I am starting to understand. When they’d been planning this trip they had expected to be two Essex Birds, flying wild and free in Oz. Instead, they’ve got me tagging along like a big gay third wheel. It’s no wonder I get the impression I’m not wanted. I’m probably not. What Bev said last night is probably true, I DO need to lighten up. If they want to wear more make-up than clothes than who the hell am I to argue? It’s not their fault I’m feeling left out, I’m just jealous that they’re getting so much male attention, and if I want some of my own the only thing stopping me is me. Well, me and my big fat moon-face.

And there I go again, slagging myself off. This is exactly what I need to stop doing. I’m never going to find a nice guy if I don’t think I deserve one. If Hamish ever took me up on one of my veiled threats of intimacy I expect I’d probably run screaming… but if I didn’t what would that mean? That I felt I was somehow better than him? That he wasn’t good enough to worry about? Which is surely worse. Is that the sort of person I am?

Oh, damn it brain, shut up. SHUT UP!

I’m only just beginning to realise how much Phil messed my head up. And do you know what really sucks? No matter how far I run, it’s the only thing I can never leave behind.

The Teaching Twosome had made it back to our room close to noon. We’d left them going at it like particularly vocal rabbits back at the student flat and I guess Steve’s nuts finally emptied. Nancy had grabbed their towels from their bunks and they’d headed straight out again.

“We’re off to the beach!” she trilled, far too chirpy considering the drink she’d consumed. “We’re going to sleep right through our hangovers and tan at the same time. Tara!”

I couldn’t help but notice she was walking a bit bow-legged.

“Did you have a good night?” I shouted after her, smirking to myself.

“Oh yes,” she called back. “We both love bowling.”

They can’t realise they were putting on an X-rated show for the rest of us. Or maybe they don’t care. Their squeaking and slurping had come through the walls like they hadn’t even been there, leaving nothing to the imagination. It had sounded like sexy Steve, with his rippling arms and insane eight-pack, had been using a sink-plunger in a bowl of soup.

Ah shit. Now I’m horny. Just as well I’ve got the place to myself for a bit.

Holy fuck. Why is my EX phoning me?


What an absolute tosser. And not me, I never got the chance. Phil just called, wanting to pop over. He had absolutely no idea I was in Australia, so I kept him talking as long as possible to crank up his phone bill.

Do you know WHY he wanted to pop over? Because he wanted advice. About his NEW BOYFRIEND! And no, not the bloke I caught him sleeping with, or any of the guys he’d been sexting when we were together. Oh no, this is someone else entirely. He gleefully informed me they had got together the weekend after we split up which, if I remember correctly, was about the time I was seriously considering driving into a wall.

Just for good measure, he also wanted to tell me that he’d set me up a GRINDR PROFILE. He said, and I quote, “I don’t want you to have any hard feelings, unless they’re caused by a cock up the shitter.”  Grim. After giving it serious consideration, he’d decided to give me the username ‘Chunkybutt22’ and used a profile photo of HIS ARSE because, and again I’m quoting, “it was taken from a really bad angle so it could’ve been yours from a good one.”


“You should check it out, babes,” he’d said, like he’d done me a huge favour. “I’ve put that you’re into anything so it might get even you some.” He then added, “and when I get to yours, let’s get the break-up sex out of the way. You know it’ll happen sooner or later, so get yourself cleaned up.”

Wow. He is such a massive dick. Without the massive dick, obviously.

In less than a minute, he had somehow managed to get me past shock, through anger, and into some kind of white-hot raging calm that I have never experienced in my life. It wasn’t my normal reaction. Usually when he talked to me like that I just looked at the floor and kept quiet. I took a deep breath, put on my sweetest voice, and tried to keep it from shaking.

“Whilst I appreciate the thought, Philip (he hates that), I am not about to be your NEW bit on the side thank you very much, and I have no need for your dirty profile either,” I said. “I’m having more than enough mind-blowing sex without resorting to yours or the internet’s help and to be quite honest I find all that a little sad and pathetic.” I was on a roll. “And the only advice I’m prepared to give anyone in this tragic situation is the poor clueless fella you’re now seeing, and I would tell him that his new boyfriend is as absent of morals and kindness as he is of brains and looks, and I’d suggest that he got out now whilst he still has his dignity.” I actually said that!

I then casually dropped into conversation that I was in Australia anyway so it was unlikely he had enough petrol to get to me, before shouting “Coming gorgeous!” to an empty room and hanging up on the fucker.


Having ignored it for a good half hour, I finally answered my phone when the constant ringing started to make one of my eyelids twitch. Phil had done a bit of online stalking and had confirmed that I wasn’t making it up, I was officially in Oz, and he was fuming.

What the fuck do you think you are doing there? Who the fuck told you you could do that?”


I lay on the floor as he vented, and I realised how tired I was of all his bullshit. Hearing him rant was so familiar, it was like turning back the clock, but a bit of distance from him seemed to have taken all the power out of it. When the C-bombs started dropping, as I knew they would, I quietly put my phone down and nipped out to the vending machine to get something for lunch. When I picked it up again a few minutes later he was still in full flow, unaware I’d taken a time-out, but having switched to his ‘hurt puppy’ voice which had always been effective on me.

“I’m sad you won’t let us remain friends. You said you cared for me. I really miss ‘us’.”


I felt a twinge of sympathy despite everything, but I bit my tongue instead of giving him my usual response, which was to apologise for making him do wrong in the first place. When I didn’t bite he switched straight back to Arse-Mode, and I took the phone out into the common room so I didn’t have to be alone with him.

“Are you quite finished?” I interrupted, sounding bored despite shaking like a chilly epileptic.

“Wha -?!”

I had never cut him off mid-shout before.

“I said, ‘Are you done?’ Only I’ve got things to do and people to see. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

There was a lengthy pause whilst he processed this.

“Fuck you. It wasn’t me that called you anyway, it was the vodka,” he spat. “I’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Well I regret it already,” I said sweetly. “But then, you always were a bit slower than me weren’t you.”   

And I hung up again and had a little cry.


I felt so proud of how I handled myself on the phone earlier, experiencing my first glimmer of self-respect in a long time, that I’ve gone and done something I might regret.

It had started with a healthy bit of retail-therapy. Feeling reckless, I bought some shorts that actually showed my knees and a couple of t-shirts that were not only short-sleeved but sleeve-less, after all, if no one here cares if I show a bit of bingo-wing then why the hell should I? Then I picked out a pair of new jeans specifically because they descibed themselves as ‘straight’ and ‘relaxed’ and I appreciated the irony. I’d seen the piercing parlour and I’d walked in without even thinking.

Someone had led to a small room, where they told me to sit down and ignore the screams. Within moments a cross-eyed man wearing a white lab-coat and latex gloves was leaning over me and, in a burst of coffee breath, he suggested he put a metal spike through my eyebrow. Naturally, I said yes.

Cool! I thought as he screwed the end in place. I have a piercing!

And then I found a mirror.

Oh. My. God. It looks ridiculous. I have a whacking great silver bar through my left eyebrow and it looks huge and obvious and it doesn’t fit my face. There’s a famous clip from an old black and white movie where the man in the moon gets a giant rocket in his eye, and I look like that.

Maybe the girls will like it? I thought, nervously. They’ve got more fashion sense. What would I know. And I ran back to the hostel feeling extremely self-conscious.

I found the girls sorting through a heap of designer shopping-bags. “How can knickers so small cost so much money?” Bev was saying.

“Oh-my-fuck,” said Rachel, staring at my face. She’d spotted the new addition straight away and it had made her drop her Prada. Not a good sign. “What on erf made ya do that?”

My heart dropped. “Oh…”  I looked to my best friend for her opinion. “Bev?”

She was grimacing. “Sorry, Kev. It’s really not my cup of soup.”

Great. Not only am I a munter, I’m now a munter with metal in his face.

“I just wanted to mark the occasion…”

I told them all about standing up to Twat Flaps, and I wiped a tear from my eye and blamed the piercing.

“Never mind all his crap,” said Rachel. “Are ya gonna use the profile? You could do wiv a good shag.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” I huffed.

“So that’s not a no then?” she laughed.

“Of course it is!”

At least it is until I can log in and change the password. And the name. And the photo for that matter, after all it says a lot about a person. On those gay ‘dating’ sites, if your photograph is of an arse, you’re just going to persuade people you’re an arse. Similarly, if it’s a cock shot, no-one is going to think you’re relationship material. They’re going to think you’re a cock. However, whilst I have absolutely no intention of using Phil’s grubby little sex-profile, it would be silly not to keep all my options open.


To:  “My Great British Contacts” Group

Subject: Uh oh, not again!

Date: Sat 29 Nov – 03:42


Hellooooo my little nose miners!

O deer. Looks like this could bee come a regular problem. I ma sending a topsy email in the wee hours again!

Today I’ve did my first CRAZY stunt (unless yo count molesting Harold Bishop though I swear he was up for it). I’ve gone and got myself pierced! No not a rainbow-coloured ring in my knob, but a proper subtle silver thingy in my eyebrow. It’s in my left one too as apparently that’s gayer. I’m just back from a particularly impressive drinking session with my two new roomies to celebrate how AWESOME it looks.

Four hours after we started, Bev and Rachel finally joined us (I’d say they had been busy getting themselves dressed but their skirts didn’t even cover their minges), but they didn’t even manage a drank. They decideded that Spleen, the cosy little dive we’d been in at the time, looked far too unhygienic and fled in horror. UNHYGIENIC! Pfft. They’ve no issue sticking a willy in their gobs but a sticky floor makes them scarper? They were with me for less time than it takes for them to strap on one of their pairs of their complicated shoes. Luckily, me and my more fun roomies have stronger immune systems and we stayed for another hour or two. We eventually ended the night about five stops later in The Chicane Lounge where we danced like flicking duck heads until 3am. I felt quite sexy for the last bit cos some camp little queen hung around taking my photo but it turns out I just had my flies open.


Kiev xxxxxxxxxx

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He may be Saintly in name but don't let that fool you. Kev St. John is a thirty-something Essex Boy, frustrated traveller and believes that life is too short not to cram full with awesome things.