So as you all know I have a nigistent ex aptly named Nigistence 36. Not his birth name. The break up was caused my his obsession with my butt and an inability to demonstrate any emotion other than turned on and possessive. That said he’s teachable and willing to learn. So ‘hard’ to let go.

Anyhoo I was out and he started his usual whatsapp interrogation as to where I was and with whom. Sadly I was in Shoreditch trying hard to make conversation with an old friend of a friend. I didn’t take to him when we met and not a lot had changed in 6 years. He was still a nob. I tell you this so you can understand why I said he could come when he asked if he was invited. The ex that is. I needed the distraction.

He said he was on himiss-being-angry-breakup-ecard-someecardss way. In typical African fashion that meant that he was going to be two hours late so I put up with drunken 20 somethings trying to convince me I looked their age and I should smile and dance and drink. Fekkers..

Nigistence 36 finally turns up and admittedly he’s looking cute. I do a mental check and yes, my underwear is sex compatible. This could happen. Just one last time for old time’s sake?

But, t’would appear that he is busy whatsapping someone else. Sigh. Men aren’t slick and as a woman I can smell another woman in the ether like a nun smelling smoke in the girls’ locker room. He was totally busted. I decide he’s not worth the underwear after all and he leaves muttering some lame excuse about going to the farmers market the next day and exited stage left.

Fuckwives  him. T’would be a shame to waste the underwear, right?

Wrong. First I was approached by a youngster who doesn’t remember watching Mandela leave prison. He did the universal signal for, ‘care to dance?’ then proceeded to robot and crunk his way through a number. I had to step back for fear of being elbowed by one of his more enthusiastic floor slides. Then I was grabbed by a gropey trucker called Dean whose relationship to deodorant had died that night. He kept trying to get me to dagger and wine to dance music. I did manage to avoid the dude with the dead eyes and his birth year tattooed on his neck. This was bloody Ex’s fault. If he hadn’t have tried to play me I’d be back at his watching him play Xbox by now! He has an electric blanket so to be fair I didn’t mind.

I finally decided that my body couldn’t take the injury and I ubered stage right. On my way home Nigistence 36 chose to share that he was home and hadn’t gone anywhere afterwards? So his sure thing didn’t work out? As I sunk into my lekky blanky I smiled smugly because, If I wasn’t getting any, neither should he. Yes I’m petty. And nobody knows how to wind you up like an ex.

Still bruised though. I beg someone teaches these youngsters how to d24010620ance without causing me injury.

© Chelsea Black 2015

Chelsea Black is a writer. Romantically seeking her Fubo (future boyfriend) she often gets distracted by misadventures. She is currently working on her second book, first baby (sperm to be confirmed) and first real career. Chocolate and cocktails are food groups