I wasn't too sure whether or not to admit to this at the time, a little event that happened when I was in New York a few months ago.
I had spent the night sleeping on a sofa after a frankly appalling evening in a bar I didn't want to be in, and with a ladyfriend who clearly wasn't bothered about speaking to me, preferring to chat to and get back rubs from her male friends instead.
We'd got back to her apartment later that evening, saying nothing to each other as we prepared for bed. Once in bed, my ex couldn't even summon up the words 'Goodnight' after I'd offered her the same sentiment seconds earlier.
So I lay there, really thoroughly pissed off for about four minutes, then thinking 'Fuck this, I can take a hint', and storming off to her couch in the living room.
And on her couch, I continued to think; thoughts of anger at myself for assuming I could just turn up at an ex's apartment in a foreign country and think all would be cool, thoughts of anger at her for being cold, thoughts of shame that I'd travelled all that way and put us both through this.
And as I continued to think and squirm and fidget and - ultimately - when it became clear that there was no way on earth I was going to get any sleep that evening, I devised a plan, a cunning and symbolic scheme that would pass some time, entertain me and, in an almost poetic sense, exact some revenge:
I was going to have a wank on her sofa.
I was in a t-shirt and jeans, with my coat over my torso, the hobo's duvet. I fumbled around my pocket for a clean tissue and began to grow in every sense as my mind conjured up images from my Memorywank; sex with ex-girlfriends, filthier girlfriends with bigger tits than Spurnwoman in the next room, and images of Tera Patrick in some of her more vocal movies. Undoing my jeans, I pushed them and my boxers to my ankles, and got on with the task in hand, feeling both gratified and a little bit disgusted with myself all at once.
The perfect crime, releasing all that pent up anger and energy in a positive way, plus I was very accurately wanking on her sofa.
Daylight is trying to force its way into the living room through heavy curtains. I squint as I regain consciousness and realise that I am cold and my coat has fallen to the floor during the night. Oh yeah, I'm in New York.
I could hear my ex-girlfriend's Petite Pretty Flatmate storming about the apartment and I wonder what she'd make of me lying on her sofa. I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep. Then I open them in alarm.
Didn't I try to have a wank last night?
I sit up. I am naked from the waist down, an unused tissue lying on the floor.
Despite being ruthlessly alert when I began pleasuring myself, I clearly couldn't even turn myself on. I had fallen asleep mid-toss, slowing down the strokes until, cock in hand, I began to snore.
The worst part is the fact that my ex's New York apartment has no door to the living room. It is an open plan space, with the only doors being to bath or bedrooms. This can mean only one thing; on exiting their rooms, my ex and her Petite Pretty Flatmate would've had a no-holds barred view of me snoring loudly on the sofa, pants round my ankles, and holding my brain.
I chose not to discuss the matter with either of them that day, and I have kept quiet about it ever since.
No wonder I'm perpetually single.