Revenge of the Sith

According to the band Half Man Half Biscuit: “There is nothing better in life, than writing on the sole of your slipper with a biro.” I have the utmost respect for them, but they have never spent a night of depravity in the company of an energetic nymphomaniac ninja-chick.

I had been invited to a heroes and villains fancy dress themed housewarming party. It was going to be a huge night. Everyone I knew was going with their partners.

I had recently started a relationship, my first for a good year-and-a-half, with a stunning girl with a one track mind. There was only one problem (although many more came to light a couple of months later). She had a group of close mates that she always went out dancing with on Saturday night to a pub in the University area.

Boyfriends were not invited. It was girls only.

This suited me down to the ground. I like going to indie clubs or watching football with my mates. In addition, I hated the place. It was full of Abercrombie & Fitch and Ralph Lauren-wearing preppy rugby players who liked Coldplay. I didn’t see them as a threat. She did this every Saturday before me and she probably still goes there now.

So, the party was on a Saturday night. She agreed to go and made a big show of getting a pass from her girlfriends to attend. I have a fairly good knowledge of Marvel and DC, but lacked the muscular physique to pull off a Thor or Hulk. There were always plenty of blokes who went as Superman at these parties, even if it was some lazy chancer in a token “S” t-shirt.

I decided to go the whole hog. This was around the time George Lucas was releasing the Star Wars prequels. My mind was made up. I would go into a department store and buy a black bed sheet. I had got hold of some red and black theatre make-up. I wrapped myself in a bed sheet, secured with a dressing gown belt, shaved my head and painted myself up as Darth Maul. I had even fashioned a couple of lightsabers from a red yard brush. It was a frighteningly good likeness.

My girlfriend had an idea, which she was keeping a secret. She got me to run her into a fancy dress store in the city. I parked round the corner while she ran inside. She returned with a long plastic bag, grinning from ear to ear. I was intrigued.

My mates, Conor (Elmo’s roommate) and the Soprano (from She’s Gotta Have It) dressed as Alex form A Clockwork Orange and Barbarella, and came round for pre-party drinks. We were all posing for photos and getting merry when she came in.

My girlfriend had dressed herself up as Daryl Hannah’s character Elle Driver from the Kill Bill movies complete with shinobigatana sword and eye patch. For some reason, she kept closing her good eye while waving the sword about.

We were a couple of bottles in when the cab turned up.

We went into the party, where every room was wall-to-wall with heroes and villains. There was Freddy Kruger, Hitler, half-a-dozen Superman outfits (efforts varied), a few Batman attempts (some Adam West, some Christian Bale), the Flash, a very passable Silver Surfer, a very slutty Minnie Mouse, lots of Catwoman wannabes, a very poor Princess Leah, who wanted her photo with me, even though her costume was just a gold bikini and braided hair pinned into buns on the side of her head like Carrie Fisher.

In the end she got annoyed at being asked who she was supposed to be and undid her hair and put a coat on. I chatted to the host (the Joker) and his boyfriend (a Spiderman who left little to the imagination) until my ninja girlfriend said she wanted to leave.

I was happy to stay but she said she would make it worth my while. I called a cab, which arrived quickly. The bed sheet turned out to be a great investment. She got to work in the back of the cab as I tried to discuss the day’s football results with the driver, between gasps as my eyes rolled back in my head.

I tried my best to shower the red war paint off before retiring to bed, where my ninja revealed she had been wearing exquisite lingerie under her robes all evening. I was drunk, but in control and was lasting like a champion.

After a couple of hours in a drunken stupor, she woke me for a repeat performance. After a while, she stopped me and smothered in red paint got onto all fours. Then we had the conversation that will go to my grave with me.

Her (looking over her shoulder): Do you want to do anal?

Me: “[Speechless].”

Her: “All my other boyfriends have wanted to do me in the arse. I just thought…”

Me: “I… don’t… want… to… hurt… you.”

I could not believe what I was saying. It was like an out-of-body experience. As if a third person was talking for me. To this day I cannot understand what happened.

She dispensed with my services a couple of weeks later.

We moved on, her much faster than me. If I’m honest, I probably overlapped with someone else. We only really had a handful of mutual friends. I lost touch. It was easier.

Years later I Googled her. She was a prime candidate for the CIA. She didn’t have a Facebook account and the only references online were to her work email address on the bottom of some press releases.

Then I stumbled on an entry from an internet medical forum.

She posed the question: “I have been using an IUD and I’m late. Could I be pregnant?”

I wonder if she knows who the father is?

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