Wham Bam, I'll Text You Sam

A no-strings overnighter plucks the lesbian heartstrings

I recently had a sleepover.

I don’t have them very often. I’m not a big fan. I had enough of them back in the 20th century in London, before t’internet, when you had to meet people in bars and clubs, talk to them - and then take a slow, sobering, brightly lit, night bus trip back to yours or their bedsit in Zone 3.

Nowadays I’m very used to having my King Size all to myself, thanks. And not having to be civil, or horny, in the morning. Or remember names. When you get to middle age, you tend to wake up feeling less refreshed daisy than unearthed corpse. 

And that’s when I sleep alone, starfished.

So, wham bam, I’ll text you Sam, is more my style. I know it sounds ungrateful, but ‘you can fuck me all night!’ seems like more of an imposition than an invitation. (Even when the other guy isn’t snorting coke like Henry the Hoover.)

That said, it does happen occasionally. And isn’t always as awful as I make out.