Broken biscuits and the musician

So I was kind of enjoying my week of being a good girl in the eyes of Goldie at least. I mean it does seem to be rather an effective method of ensuring idiots don’t take the piss. But then I had a horrendous fall back into Bad Girl mode the other day.

I was out (yes I’m out a lot but to be fair this was a networking event).

A guy was there with his girlfriend. It turns out that this was his 2^nd girlfriend as he lived with his other one. It was all very progressive open relationship. Very now.  But there was weird energy between them. It became clear to all that she was the demonstrative one and he….less so. She made mention of his other girlfriend like she was cool with it but she seemed brittle and on the edge of losing it. The words head full of broken biscuits crossed my mind a few times but I had a bottle of prosecco to finish.

Now normally I’m not into musicians. Probably because many are too into themselves and their craft. I can’t really say what it is. I also got bitten half to death by one so I’m emotionally scarred. But this one was sexy. And I’m into sexy men. He’s got that build like he can carry me effortlessly. Those tattoos that say take my clothes off and follow the dragons tail with your tongue. That mouth that looks like it knows how to do things. Sue me, I’m an easy sell. .

I give him a business card as he says he wants to keep in touch. He’s doing everything in the open but I still see Broken Biscuits eying me nervously. He’s a musician. Sexy yes but flaky (sorry musicians that’s just one too many forced album listens for this pop loving chica. I have some issues)

So I wonder off to another event but the queue is too long so come back to hang with these guys. During that time he’s managed to text a few times. I smile and figure he’s a flirt. But Broken biscuits is on the edge of cracking. I see it as her grasp of his waist never loosens and she leans in dangerously close on those heels as he talks to any other woman. Open relationship my arse.

Later we find ourselves having a late supper and somehow we are sitting next to each other and across the way from biscuits. We aren’t talking. We have very little to say. Instead I’m engaging the young guy who is trying to pull the other guy and isn’t having much luck. I think I’ve become his wing woman without noticing. He needs to try less. He’s starting to have that same pained expression of joviality as Broken Biscuits

Then I feel it. A whisper on my leg. Just a whisper so I ignore it. The table is very close together after all. Then it gets louder and, yep that’s definitely a hand on my thigh. Biscuits is desperately trying to engage him and I decide that this is no longer fun because she really wants this man. I’ll only have him because I’m bored. So I try to ignore the hand. He starts texting me at the table telling him to meet him at the bathrooms. I ignore the texts.

He holds my hands as I nibble on….some chips.

Now here’s the thing. I’m really not a bad girl. On the surface I can go for this guy. He’s not attached to Broken Biscuits. But I can’t do it. I can’t sit there and watch a woman hurt whilst I get off on a conquest. Especially one who would easily do the same thing to me in a heartbeat. Karma is a woman sitting across from you with a head full of Broken Biscuits trying to hold on too tightly to a man she doesn’t even have.

So I leave. I catch a bus home. I clearly didn’t drink enough.  He texts, sends me photos. He calls I ignore it. He asks me why I’m ignoring him. I tell him I’m busy.

I think I just grew up?

OK I’m off to go find a biscuit. All this talk has made me peckish

© Chelsea Black