We’ve all done it. Haven’t we? I mean, obviously, I am a raging degenerate with absolutely no morals and very little self-respect, but come on. Even if you haven’t, don’t try and tell me you’ve never for one minute thought about it.
I’m talking, of course, about the ex-girfriend’s ex-girlfriend. That forbidden fruit, that notoriously unhinged, that unfortunately much better-looking ex of the ex-girlfriend, who must be religiously avoided and never, under any circumstances, bonked after an awkward date in Ku Bar. I’ve already said too much, haven’t I?
It started at university with a girl called Clare. In the end, I was with her for four years, but at the beginning, I ACTUALLY EVEN LIKED HER. She had an ex, called Lou, who was in no uncertain terms described as a total maniac, who had broken Clare’s heart and probably single-mindedly masterminded the atomic bomb too. The thing was, she went to the same university.
Now, I’m not a complete douche. I didn’t do anything with Lou while we were there, but we did meet, and I must confess I always harboured something of a curiosity. As a performing arts student, she was, by her very nature, extremely difficult to ignore. And I really did try my best, partly because she was intensely annoying but also under pain of agonising death from Clare.
Anyway, the years passed. I drank my bodyweight in Heineken a million times over. I somehow passed my degree. I moved to Bristol and shouted a lot at men in rowing boats for a while. Then Clare and I broke up. After four years, it wasn’t exactly the easiest goodbye, but I eventually managed to cut the piano wire and ran away to London. It was here, in one of life’s weird twists, that I would come to meet with Lou again.
And it was Lou who got in touch. I received a random Facebook message not long after my move to the city, where she just so happened to be – and, before I knew it, we were in Soho, catching up with life, self-consciously tearing up beer mats, and discussing at length my now ex-girlfriend’s state of mind. History, as you can see in lesbian circles, inevitably repeats itself.
As was to be expected, one vodka led to another and we found ourselves kissing at the top of the Green Park tube station escalators (Victoria line branch, for those taking notes). It all went downhill from there. I mean, literally, we got the escalators down to the tube. Hours later, in one very uncomfortable double bed in Brixton, it was over. After all, where is there really to go with an OTT drama student who just so happens to be your highly possessive ex-girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend? Except, perhaps, very far away?
I was lucky. This time I got away with it. Next time? There won’t be one.
Twiggy is a writer from London where she works for a broadcaster and occasionally makes girls cry in bars. As an avid traveller and enthusiastic lesbian, she regularly zeroes her bank account and liver. There are more homosexual witterings available at www.lesplay.co.uk or @twiggybond.
All the Lesbians I’ve Ever Slept With will be a regular feature at Citizens For Decent Literature.