The one night stand that went horribly, horribly wrong… (Part 1)

A tale of foot-sniffing, threesomes and coincidence.

We all have one — a little bank of funny or shocking stories that we turn to down the pub to get a few laughs or, if we’re lucky, a couple of free drinks. If you’re British they tend to revolve around something you did whilst blackout drunk — you know, piss yourself in a club, vomit over a parent or make out with a swan.

But there is always one that is different. The one that, even as you say it, you can’t quite believe happened to you. You perfect the telling of it over the years — learning when to pause for dramatic effect and at which point people are going to spit out their pints. If you’re lucky it will be of great achievements or heroic deeds.

Mine is about a foot sniffer.

What can I say?! This is the hand life has dealt me.

I know that this is MY story because sometimes when I am introduced to a new group someone will recognize me as being THAT Lottie, the one with the story about the foot sniffer and oh my god that is hilarious and did it really happen.

It did happen. And now I am telling it to you.

It started, as I imagine many debaucherous stories do, in Berlin — a city I had just moved to. Not so much because it had ever been in my plan but because I was told I wouldn’t exactly have a job if I didn’t. Still, I was excited — Berlin seemed dark and sexy in a way that promised minor drug addiction and lots of hot sex.

The thing about moving to a new country, however, is that the glamour and excitement quickly wear off. Usually, once you’ve unpacked your meagre belongings in a grubby rented room and realise you don’t have any mates.

So, when a friend offered to put me in touch with a Berlin local she met while travelling, I agreed.

He added me on Facebook. The name he used was obviously fake and he had only one photo — it showed a Johnny Depp-esque figure with a large drill in one hand and a not-unimpressive trouser bulge in the other. Looking back, most people probably would have put him squarely in the “potential murderer” category and terminated the whole thing then and there. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. And anyway you try making sensible decisions when confronted with a weapon like that (by which, I do not mean the drill).

Despite his obvious gifts in the trouser department, after an initial flurry of messages little came of it. Time passed and I made friends in other ways — primarily work and drunken evenings out.

Then, as I was finishing up in a restaurant one night, a message flashed up on my phone…

“Do you want to meet for a drink?”.

I find that on most nights there is a point where a decision is made that affects everything. I call it the tipping point. You either decide to go home and get yourself tipsily but safely to bed or you go for “one more” — a path that inevitably leads to carnage, lost dignity and destruction (i.e. a good night).

And this was it.

Now, when the tipping point does come, I like to let fate decide for me. What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment and don’t like to be held responsible for my own actions. So, when I asked where he was and it turned out to be a bar on the next street… Well, it felt like the God’s (probably those drunken slutty Roman ones) had decided that tonight was a night of adventure…

I spotted him straight away — he was exotic, floppy-haired and sullen in a sexy way. A large scar, that only served to increase his air of mystery, ran down the side of his cheek. Overall the general impression was very much “tortured artist” — which, as far as I could tell, was a prerequisite to getting laid in Berlin.

He was with friends, so we sat in a group doing as people our age generally do — drinking cheap beer and talking over each other. Everything and everyone seemed nice and, most importantly, normal. For once, it felt like the Gods had steered me in the right direction and so I patted them, and myself, on the metaphorical back.

A couple of hours passed and I decided it was time for bed. I announced my imminent departure and gathered my stuff — but when I turned to leave, I noticed I wasn’t alone…

He walked with me out into the night air and, before I had a chance to say anything, started to guide me down the street — in what I was pretty sure was the wrong direction. I pointed this out, but rather than offer an explanation he looked me straight in the eyes with all the intensity of some Italian love scene / porn intro, before sexily whispering “come with me” in my ear. The drunken slutty Gods, I realised, were not done with me yet and before I knew it I was on a tram to who-knows-where…

Now, as a woman that isn’t afraid to talk or write about sex, it is generally presumed that I have less requirements for a sexual partner than the average website does for a secure password. But, believe it or not, I am not really a girl for one night stands. Not for any moral reason. In fact, I truly believe people should be able to fuck whoever they like and at a frequency that suits them. That said, in my experience they just aren’t very good — something I put down to the amount of alcohol that tends to be consumed and the uncertainty of the genitals you’re about to be faced with.

But I had just moved to a city of debauchery, a place where people go to lose both themselves and their minds. What was the point in doing that if I wasn’t going to experience it for myself? It also didn’t hurt that I hadn’t been laid in quite a while…

He took me immediately to the spare room — a space I would best describe as “drug addict chic”, contain as it did just a large mattress on the floor (warning sign Number Two? Three? I’m losing count). Now, if I had been under any false pretences about the reasons for our unexpected detour then this is when they would have been shattered — with his clothes falling off at a speed which I had never seen before or, for that matter, experienced since. Just put “Bruce Almighty clothes off” into Youtube and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

I stood there, fully dressed, a little dazed and wondering if he had ever considered life as a stripper for the particularly time-poor. I didn’t have long to consider this potential new arm of the exotic dancing industry, however, as this is when he began to kiss me. It was a good kiss — confident and conducted with such raw sexuality that I was sure that if there was scale to measure that kind of shit it would surely have exploded. And so I (or, more specifically, my pussy) put any misgivings about one night stands to one side and let myself go.

Then, two things happened.

First of all, he smelled my feet.

Not a small, accidental whiff — that one could put down to the beginning of a cold or a night taking narcotics. But a long, purposeful, eyes-closed, drawn out, inhalation.

Now, don’t get me wrong. This is NOT what I am into. Feet just don’t do it for me. Nevermind foot odour — which, surely, is even more niche on the scale of weird shit to be into in bed. My first thought, however, wasn’t actually around the freakiness of what was going on, but more concern — that after a day of dancing in the sun, in heavy-heeled boots, my tootsies might not smell so sweet. Honestly, it says a lot about my innate need to please people that when someone molests my feet, I am the one that is embarrassed…

But realising that this might not be the number one concern at a time like this I started to reassess the situation — was this something I could get into? This is Berlin, I told myself (honestly, there is no end to the situations you can excuse with this) everyone has a fetish. You’re basically a prude if you don’t like to sniff people’s appendages. And, really, on the list of possible perversions, isn’t it at the more harmless and passive end of the spectrum?

And that is how, in less time than it takes for a pot noodle to cook, I went from “not being into feet” to deciding that I am not at all bothered if the person I am sleeping with gets their rocks off by taking people’s socks off. Never underestimate the power of a dry spell.

Just as I was getting used to the idea, however, he asked me a question.

“Can I share you?”

“I’m sorry… what?”

“My housemate — he’s in. I bet he’d love to fuck you too.”

Just like that. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was a half-eaten kebab or the last chip. And here was me previously worried about a little innocent toe sniffing.

“Um… no.”

“Why not? British women love that.”

Correct me if I’m wrong ladies, but for all the stereotypes I have heard about us — binge drinking, politeness, enjoying a cup of tea — a passion for orgies hasn’t come up.

Now, everyone has their line. And it appears mine is somewhere between a spot of casual sole sniffing and an impromptu ménage-à-trois (or should that be ménage-à-toe? Haha. Sorry.). Because this is where I called it.

He looked forlorn and surprisingly confused — like he hadn’t just been getting off on foot odour or trying to propose a spit roast. Of course, I was well within my rights to point this out but the situation was awkward enough and I will do pretty much anything to avoid confrontation. He agreed to call me a cab, walking across the room butt naked, while I laid on the bed completely dressed — apart from one missing shoe.

If you’ve ever been in an awkward situation like this (ok, probably not EXACTLY like this) you will know that the 10–15 minute wait for the taxi is absolutely agonising. This was not helped by his state of undress. So we did the only thing there was to do — we sat on the mattress, which should by now have been the scene of carnal pleasure, and made small talk. And you thought industry networking was awkward.

This I think is where a normal disastrous dating story would end. But as I said, this is not a normal story, this is THE story. So let’s continue…

He began, in a rather bold move, by asking me if I would like to have his children. Apparently, his skin tone and my hair colour (which he hadn’t seemed to notice was of the “out of a bottle” variety) would make for gorgeous offspring.

I don’t know what is more shocking on a first “date” — the proposal of a casual three-way or a spot of spontaneous insemination. He looked at me seriously, waiting for an answer, until eventually, I muttered something about not wanting children.

“That’s a real shame. Well, maybe you could just move in?”

Normally people have a problem converting their one night stands into something serious — we, on the other hand, hadn’t even had sex but the commitment side of our relationship was apparently flourishing.

I said nothing. He continued unperturbed.

“You see, it’s a nice room. Big. And cheap. I do have someone moving in tomorrow, but that’s only for a month…”

Still I didn’t make a peep. In fact, I was starting to wonder if I could sneak out without him even noticing.

“He seems like a nice guy actually. Interesting background — part Australian and part Malaysian, with Irish roots.”

All fantasies of escape disappeared and I felt my heart noticeably skip a beat in my chest.

See, normally this would be nothing to write home about, particularly in Berlin which has an expat population best described as a smorgasbord of nationalities.

But I had a date.

The next day.

With an Australian, part Malaysian guy… with Irish roots.

I tried not to panic. Is just wasn’t possible that I was laid on the soon-to-be-mattress of tomorrow’s date, with his foot-sniffing threesome-proposing soon-to-be-housemate. There must just be loads of Australian/Malaysian/Irish guys floating around. It’s probably something that I just hadn’t noticed before, but now that I had I would see them everywhere. Like the word “bae” or chia seed pudding.

In a desperate attempt to establish this as more than my clutching at straws, I asked his name.

“Caelan.”

Fuck.

This night, I decided, was a Russian doll of weird shit — every time I thought I was done, another layer of “what the fuck” would reveal itself.

I was just considering whether it was best to come clean or curl up into a ball and play dead when I heard the doorbell ring — my cab was here. And so, with the same speed with which his clothes had come off, I put my boot back on and beat a hasty retreat.

But the weirdness, it seems, was not set to stop there…

Find out what happened next here.