Always Finding Mr Wrong

Waking up with a pounding head, a dry mouth that has to be drier than a nun's downstairs, aching limbs and a random arm draped over my waist, I struggle to get up and then stumble to the bathroom. I rub my eyes and stare at the hungover, half dead panda-eyed loser staring back at me. How on earth is this my life? Who is that in my bed? Why can I not find Mr Right? Why do I always choose Mr Right-Now? Why am I always finding Mr Wrong? Surely I have dated them all - skinny boys, fat boys, still live with their mummy boys, sorry I can't stay boys and it's not you, it's me boys. When will I ever learn? And what is that damn smell? I quickly smell under my arm and then cup my hand and breathe into it, then smell. That smell would be me - holy s**t. It's horrific, it's like something actually crawled into my mouth and died. How glamorous is my life? I’ve made it to the grand old age of 31 alive, a semi-decent job as a mortgage advisor, kept myself in reasonable shape, single, failed relationship after failed relationship, kid and cat free. I’m 5ft8, an average build somewhere between athletic and curvy. I have longish hair that reaches my shoulder blades and is currently coloured chocolate and blonde via balayage. I have a round face, a button nose and green eyes. I aren’t ugly, but I’m far from beautiful. I like to think I’m down to earth, have a good sense of humour and just an overall nice person. I donate to charity, I feed the homeless and I’m always kind and respectful to my elders. I even helped an old lady walk two miles with her shopping once, just because I couldn’t see her struggle. I peek through the bathroom door at my unknown guest; lying there in my bed. His arms draped behind his head, mouth wide open and dead to the world and clearly naked. Who the hell is he? "s**t" I curse, because there are no words to describe this. I rack my brain trying to recall the night. I tip toe through the bedroom and grab my phone from the bedside table and creep back to the en-suite. An intruder in my own damn house, while Mr c**k and Balls on my Egyptian cotton sheet is comfortably resting. There are no missed calls, just a stream of messages from the girls. 'What a brilliant night.’ 'Babe how trashed am I?' 'Call me.’ 'We need to do this more often.’ - looking at my bathroom door, remembering what is on the other side, I clearly don’t need to do this more often. Hell, maybe I need to join Alcoholics Anonymous or a convent would be a good idea. I unlock my phone and call Laura. "Uhhh" is all I’m greeted with. "Hi. Don't shout. This is a code red", I whisper into the phone. "What? Code red? What's wrong?" Laura answers me, sounding pretty rough. "There’s a naked man in my bed," I explain to her. "No need to rub it in, b***h. I take it you had a good night", she teases. "That's the problem. I don't remember. I don't know his name. Where did I meet him?" "What does he look like?" "Erm, I think tall, black hair, a slim nose. I don't really know", I confess. "Well, what is he wearing?" "Nothing. He is wearing absolutely nothing. In my bed. His c**k and balls are all over my damn sheets.” Laura bursts into a fit of hysterics "Damnn. Sorry girl, I can't help you there. But once you are free of Mr No-Name. Call me. I need to hear this" she laughs, ending the call. “Working on it. Group chat with the girls for me. We need brunch today and soon. Remember code red” I say, then hang up. Damn, some help that was. Nothing for it. I shower, wash the smudged mascara from my face and brush my teeth. Once dried, I take my dressing gown from the radiator and put it on. Have courage. Go get rid of him. I tell myself. I tiptoe through my bedroom, standing near the side of the bed he’s taking up. Seriously, why am I creeping around my own room like a stalker? I’m doing the walk of shame in my own house. I clear my throat, hoping to wake him. I wait and again clear my throat. Wake the hell up dude. I wait again. Clearing my throat doesn’t work. “Good morning” I say gently, not knowing what to say and not wanting to startle him. Again, nothing. What the hell? He’s breathing, so he’s alive. I reach out and touch his shoulder, “Good morning”, I repeat a little more loudly. He scrunches his face a little and stretches. And then, holy s**t. His eyes open, revealing the most beautiful shade of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s actually a good looking guy. Points for me. Looking closer, his hair isn’t black but very dark brown. He has nice natural brows, none of this latest trend of tweezed brows for men. “Did you hear me? Are you going to answer me or stand gawping at me?” He asks, smirking at me. Great. Caught staring like a deer in headlights. What an i***t I am. “Sorry. Bad hangover, could you repeat it?” I ask him. “I asked if you were OK. You were pretty wasted last night. I also asked if you wanted to get breakfast”, he says. “I, erm. I'm sorry. I don’t really remember last night. Did we hook up?” I ask him. Hoping I hadn’t just had a one-night stand. He starts to laugh. “It’s not funny”, I scold, beyond embarrassed. “I’m just thinking, if we had, then my ego would be very bruised right now, that I was bad enough to be forgotten so soon,” he says. I stand looking at him, confused. Did we or didn’t we? “No Emma. We didn’t sleep together. Not that you didn’t want to and not that you didn’t try to. But by the end of the night you were rather wasted, and I didn’t want to take advantage”, he tells me. “Then why are you naked in my bed with me?” I ask him. “That is a good question, seeing as you told me to take this room and you would take the other. I’m guessing you climbed into bed with me after I passed out”. “Right. So erm. I’m sorry. What’s your name?” I ask, blushing. I can’t believe I brought a man home, climbed into bed naked with him and I don’t even know his name. “My name is Mark. You look really freaked out. Why don’t I get dressed and we can go for breakfast and help you piece together the night together. It may make it less awkward for you. Unless you enjoy looking at my nakedness”, he teases. I don’t say anything. I don’t move. I just stand like a fool. He shrugs his shoulders and gets out of bed. Well, I’ll be damned. As far as one night stands go. I could have accepted this. The man is a god. He’s built, but not too big, just the right amount of chest hair. And damn is he hung. I would definitely feel if we had done something last night. “Hello. Earth to Emma” he says, breaking my thoughts. I blush. Mortified that I have been eye f*****g him without even being discreet. “I’m sorry. Yes please get dressed. There’s a coffee shop only a few minutes' walk from here. We can get caffeinated and I can show you the station” I reply, not really knowing what else to say. We walk for ten minutes in silence, stopping at the cafe for coffee, I ask him to wait a moment while I run back in to order a breakfast roll and coffee when I spot Scott setting up in his spot. Scott’s a homeless man, he had been in the army and was unable to adapt to civilian life. He’s chosen life on the streets. He’s a really nice guy, I’ve often sat and had a coffee with him and always make sure to order extra. “Is that your new man?” Scott asks me, nodding towards Mark. “I don’t know what he is if I’m honest. How about coffee tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I know?” I ask him. “It's a date, but I want all the juicy details. And please tell him that I’m lethal with my hands if he mistreats you” Scott says. I laugh, “Sure thing action man”. “I’m a little bit serious though Emma. You’re a good person” he says giving me a serious look. “Thank you Scott. I’ll see you tomorrow” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder, truly touched that he cares. He who has so little, genuinely caring for me. Mark smiles at me as I walk back over to him after giving Scott his breakfast. He looks like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Next thing I know, I’m walking through the local park with this man. With coffee: “I feel like I need to explain myself. I don’t normally take men home from a night out. I don’t want you to think I’m cheap”, I explain, not knowing why I’m trying to explain myself. “Emma, I don’t think you’re cheap and you don’t need to explain yourself to me. We spent most of last night together, drinking and dancing. I complained that I had used my max daily card allowance and would have to walk home. You told me you had a spare bed and there’d be no worries”, he explains. I feel a weight lift off my shoulder, but equally I feel disappointed. “Thank you Mark”. “So what do you do for a living?” He asks me. “I’m a mortgage advisor, boring I know. How about you?” Casual conversation always makes things a little less awkward, doesn’t it? “I’m a gas engineer. Unlucky for you, you were wasted last night. You see I’m very good with my hands.” I spurt my coffee out, choking. “s**t I’m sorry. I have a weird sense of humour”, he apologises while patting my back. “No worries” I mumble. The problem is, I wish I did know what it feels to have his hands on my body. Teasing me, pleasing me and making me beg for more. I haven’t had a man touch me since Mr Damn-Him-To-Hell cheated on me, in my own bed. I blow out a breath, calm yourself down you i***t or you’ll end up wanting to screw him here and now. “Well, this is the station. I guess I should thank you for being a gentleman and not taking advantage or murdering me in my paralytic state” I say. “You’re welcome. I put my number in your phone last night. If you fancy a bite to eat or a drink, text me or call me”, he suggests. “I sure will ‘not’, bye Mark”, I wave as I walk away with my coffee. Texting the girls to meet me for brunch in an hour at the shopping centre's cafe.