Dating the out there crazy kooky college student who never grew up

It’s a cold, cold snowy night, the log fire is roaring, and a little memory or two is asking to be let out.


I met the crazy kooky college student who never grew up at a gig in Oxfordshire’s Jericho Tavern.

It was an unsigned 4-act indie-band gig (as you’d expect from the Jericho) and I was happily single and not looking and seriously enjoying the music.

I had noticed her a while ago; short, blonde, nice figure, dancing like an absolute lunatic right at the front of the stage.

There’s usually one of these people at every gig, everywhere in the UK.

Three quarters of an hour later, as I pushed my way towards the front of the crowd to watch the new act on stage, she was there again; high-energy dancing to the edgily anarchic post-punk sound.

After the last band’s final number, I was walking through the bar downstairs, when I saw her heading out of the Ladies, making for the same door to the street as me.

What do you say under the circumstances? ‘Did you have a nice pee?’ ‘Hope you had a good poo?’

I opted for neither, but I held the door open for her and as she walked in front of me I just said ‘I love to see you dance like that; you look like you’re really appreciating the music’.

‘It’s great exercise. I think I’ve lost at least two pounds.’

‘You don’t need to lose any weight!’ I genuinely protested.

And she kissed me.

Smack on the mouth.

Then she put her tongue in my mouth and standing in the main door of the Jericho Tavern we snogged like a couple of teenagers, while we were cheered and jeered by the crowd in the pub.

She lived in Iffley. I gave her a lift home. We snogged some more. She invited me in to her shared house and bloody hell I said no thank you.

I took my erection home.

I called her the next day and left a voicemail.

The day after that (Monday) she called at 8pm.

She invited me out for a drink. Right now. And she was in Witney (the little Oxfordshire town where I lived) and had come out just to see me.

Frankly I wanted to say ‘No thanks, I’m in my PJs and I’m about to go to bed with a good book and some relaxing music.’

‘I’ll be 30 minutes.’

The Hollybush was almost empty. We pitched up at a table with a drink each (pint for her and soft drink for me) and talked, awkwardly at first.

Music. Where we live. What we do. Where we came from.

She was animated, different, slightly wild, a little uncontrolled, and definitely kooky.

Back at my house we threw ourselves at each other.

Her odd blend of modern, obviously second-hand, and designer clothes came off very easily.

Her body was lovely, and beautifully tattooed across her back, over her shoulders and down across her left breast. I wondered who had been given the job of tattooing the miniature hieroglyphs into the cheeks of her bum, and from the inside of her right leg to her labia.

The sex was deeply passionate, yet oddly restrained (especially given her outgoing kooky nature).

We finally fell asleep around 2am.

I woke at 6.30. She was gone.

No note, no message, no text, no nothing. Just gone.

I felt disappointed.

I don’t take people to bed who I don’t like, and I genuinely liked this girl and her oddly different kookiness.

I thought carefully and then called her; left what I thought was the right kind of voicemail.

Two weeks – yes, TWO WEEKS – later she sent me a text. She’d be at a bar in Oxford in an hour if I wanted to meet up? We could go back to her place? And have some more sex?

My heart and head are both, occasionally, ruled by my sexual urges. But not this time.

I said I was sorry but I had a busy evening in front of me. We agreed it was a shame, and said maybe next time.

Three days later she called at 2pm on Saturday afternoon and invited me to tea that day.

Her house was oddly like her; a strange mix of different styles, divergent patterns, material from many sources.

Her beautiful blonde hair had been carefully sculpted into tight dreads. The house smelled strongly of weed.

She had nothing in the house to eat, so tea didn’t happen.

I wanted to leave, but there was kissing and touching and yes I am so shallow that when she started to go down on me I was ripping my clothes off, pulled her mouth off my cock and kissed her deeply, enjoying the taste of my cock in her mouth.

This time the sex was wild and completely uninhibited and we did deep, dark, and disgusting things to each other that would shock our parents. Probably.

We had sex in every room in the house, which included her housemates’ bedroom, and dirty things happened in the bathroom, before we finished each other off in her bed.

She wasn’t obviously drugged up, but this was a different class of lover than the one I’d had sex with a few weeks previously. She was a perverts dream, and I was a mothers nightmare.

We enjoyed each other. We enjoyed ourselves.

9am the next morning I was back home, with the scent of her all over my body, and the taste of her almost locked into my mouth.

Before I fell asleep that evening I called, and left a voicemail. The next morning I called and left a voicemail. A week later I sent her a text. Two days after that I sent another text.

Six months almost to the day, and she was at another gig in a different pub, way across in a different district of Oxford.

Dancing in front of the stage like a demented lunatic.

Regretfully I slipped to the back of the room, finished my drink, and went home.