The single girl at a wedding.

Where better to restart than what can only be described as my friends favourite escaped. Now, whilst this isn't a tale or sex and sluttery, it is both hilarious and horrifying (for me, horrifying for me. Everyone else thinks it is marvellous).

It was a few months ago now, yet i am still traumatised by what unfolded at the family wedding I had been dreading for months. My dreadful cousin, who I have never particularly liked, was getting married and I was, surprise surprise, single. Once the horror of RSVPing to my 'plus 1' invite with a 'just me!' note attached had subsided I came to the realisation that the only way I was gonna survive that day was by looking drop dead gorgeous and getting absolutely steaming. And that's exactly what I did.

The big day had finally arrived and my dress was fabulous. My shoes; amazing. My hair; well, it was one of those rare days when everything just goes right for you. I should have fucking known karma was brewing a special load of ridiculousness for me. Even the sight of my bitch of a cousin looking stunning didn't ruin my mood! I was hot, single, and there were a lot of groomsmen. Cock. Fest. Therefore, when we arrived at the golf club to a champagne reception I grabbed a glass and got stuck in mingling with the bridal party. I think it was prosecco actually; my uncle is as tight as a ducks arse you see, and it went down far too easily. Four glasses later they were ready for us to take our seats and I definitely needed mine. I decided, after taking three attempts to focus my vision to read my name card at my seat, that I'd better be sensible and pace myself for a while. I even intended to swerve the unlimited supply of wine at the table and genuinely believed myself right up until the rest of my table took their seats. There were my parents and younger brother (not so bad as they're wine-o's like me), my hipster cousin who I hadn't seen in years and wanted to discuss Syrian liberation (snore!) and uncle knob head with his latest fling. It was she, common as muck and insisting we were SO similar, that tipped it for me. 30 seconds of her telling me it was freaky how much we had in common was enough for me to take the bottle of Pinot from the centre of the table and fill my glass, to the brim, and place the remaining juice next to it.

I was thoroughly entertained for the rest of the evening, in my drunken state, particularly when uncle knob head told my 18 year old brothers girlfriend he would have 'given her one' had he been 20 years younger; this gap in age didn't faze him for too long however as shortly after he thought it appropriate to hump her thigh, much to my amusement. Anyway, this is all irrelevant. You get this picture; family wedding, single lonely girl, fabulously expensive satin dress and free wine.

After the meal the groomsmen all seemed for than happy to keep me entertained, and the black sambuca flowed! For fucks sake though, why is it always black? I think each thought they were getting lucky with me, and if what I tell you next hadn't happened, they ALL probably would have. However, nobody got any of me that night. The last thing I remember, and this is very important, is downing 2 black sambucas and a pint of Carling with an ex-marine at the bar, then running straight for the loo.

Some time later (I say this as we still down know exactly how long) I woke up in a black box. Yes, you read that right. A box. I was sat on the floor of said box, designer heels still on and digging into my thigh, in complete darkness. Confused, drunk and a little bit panicked I proceeded to bang of the sides of the box, crying for help; alarm bells were sounding in my head. Had I died? Had I been buried alive? Had I been kidnapped? Why did I never make friends with Liam Neeson?! Why was there a toilet in the box with me? Wait.. what? I felt around; it was definitely a toilet. And opposite it a door. To a cubicle. I was in a toilet cubicle in the golf club. But why had the lights gone out? As soon as I opened the cubicle door alarms began to sound. And not just in my head; this time the alarms were real and loud and most probably waking up half the neighbourhood as I stood there, drunk. What's a girl to do when she's passed out in a toilet, been forgotten about and locked in golf club over night? Run of course! And run I did, to every door I could find, all of which were obviously locked. However even after shit loads of alcohol this girl still has her head screwed on and I knew where I could escape. I shoved the bar and flew straight out of the fire exit and across the golf course. I was a fugitive, on the run from the law and probably very angry owner. I knew it was only a matter of time before the police showed up, thinking somebody had broken in (when I had in fact broken out). I finally made it back to my house, keyless, and with nothing left to lose broke into my neighbours back garden, scaled the 6ft fence in my satin dress and ended my night sat on my mums back lawn throwing pebbles at her bedroom window, hoping to arouse them.

To this day I still question why the bar staff didn't check the toilets before locking up. That is when i let myself think about that very humiliating night. Wanna hear the best part of it all? A friend of a friend works there and has seen the whole thing on CCTV. Fucking cringe.

Pause: my wardrobe has grown

No longer a student. No longer have free time to write about sex. No longer on 27.

Since my last post in 2011 I have graduated, wiped my laptop and slept. And not alone. So, in an attempt to continue this blog, I am re-writing my list of conquests. I am also realising that the copious volumes of vodka I consumed whilst at uni may have had a greater effect on my brain than I had originally anticipated; I cannot remember how many notches there should be on my bedposts. Awkward, right?

I've text a few of my friends in the hope that they might remember a few names that have sank in the sambuca that's flooded my head too frequently of late, however I'm still waiting for replies. I tried scouring my facebook photos in the hope that the flash of a face might awaken some memories... and then I was reminded of the school girl fancy dress nights and times I crawled home in flat shoes and decided maybe that chapter of my life is better left forgotten.

Luckily enough for you fine ladies I have since made plenty more memories and mistakes which are all entertaining, embarrassing and down right dirty. So in true fashionista style I now have more than 27 dresses, most of which have only been worn once, and too many I can look back on and think 'oh god why'.

Please, enjoy!

Dress 2: The boy next door

The thing about the boy next door is, well, I was still with dress number 1 when dress number 2 (just my casual jeans and a tee ensemble) was so carelessly slung across my conservatory floor. Yes my morals leave a lot to be desired, but at least it makes all you other anonymous sluts out there feel better; I aim to please. So anyway, he lived across the street from my house, and I thought he was gods gift to me. Problem was, we seemed to have established a very good 'friendship', because we both had sweethearts we were with. Even though I fancied the pants off him, things stayed that way for at least 6 months.

It came to the end of my time in high school and I always had friends over at the weekend celebrating our new found freedom from exams and teachers and school, and there was usually copious amounts of alcohol involved. On one occasion my best friend went missing, and was found curled up in my dogs kennel. Another saw the same friend parading in front of my parents in my step dads tight whiteys, but that's another story all together! Anyway, I fuss what I'm trying to say is things usually got out of hand, and my child hood sweet heart never could handle his Lambrini, so it was often the neighbour left at the end of the night helping me clean up and extract WKD bottles from the conservatory roof.

There was one night when we ourselves got too drunk to tidy. In all fairness we gave it our best shot... we usually set up camp in the conservatory so we could all listen to some 'tune-age' as we would call it, whilst we drank our under-developed brain cells away, so that's where our clean up began. And ended. To this day I don't know how I went from nudging bottles into a corner to bouncing semi-naked on top of him in a room made entirely of glass, but it definitely happened. Then there was a little bending over and lying spread eagle of the coldest of tiled floors, before it was all over as fast as it had begun.

I did feel a little bit guilty for cheating, but mostly I felt robbed that I couldn't tell the whole world of this amazing notch my bed post had achieved! I mean, now he's a serious munter who I wouldn't touch with a barge pole (not even for giggles) but back then, when I had only slept with one magnetic young boy, he was a god amongst humans. And I was the human he had so carelessly chosen to fool around with when drunk. Yes, to say I was proud would be an understatement. The love story ended there though; he started dating another of my friends and I decided that sticking with what you know is always a safe option and stood by my sweetheart.

However, my boy next door had done filthy things to me I never knew possible, so knew my fairy tale wasn't going to jump to the happily ever after chapter just yet; there was way more drunk sex to come. And I was ready for it.

Dress 1: Childhood sweetheart

So the first dress to hit the bedroom floor was probably my school uniform (cringe). It was my with my childhood sweetheart; I used to think he was the best thing since sliced bread! We had done the awkward try a few times, but to no avail; he was either trying to stick it in my belly button, or I was crossing my legs, or something along those ridiculous lines that meant we had never actually sealed the deal.

It was at his house, on the bottom bunk of his (at the time) incredibly cool bunk beds, where the magic happened. I say magic, because there was clearly another force at work that day. Never, in the history of losing the big V, has it happened quite like this. I'm going to tell you exactly what went down (literally) that fateful night, and I swear on my shoe collection it is the gods honest truth. Please don't judge my magnetic vagina.

So there we both are, lay on his bed watching Pirates of the Caribbean, me staring longingly into Johnny Depps eyes as he talks about rum and the lack of it. He (my guy, not Johnny Depp, although I freaking wish!) got a little bored, so we retreated under the covers and started to fondle. I was still staring longingly into Johnny Depps eyes, I mean, have you seen him?! Things were getting steamier in the bunk bed though; we were now both naked from the hips down (except socks, of course) and he was about to go down. However, might I remind you I was young and in love, and still a hopeless romantic, so just as he was sliding down I pulled him back up from between my legs for one last smooch. Afterwards he would taste like vagina, and I wasn't down with that shit. Much to my shock, believe me, I felt something slip between my legs, where his tongue would have been hadn't I stopped him, and into me. Oh dear. I actually remember my exact words, "Please tell me that's your fingers in there?". It definitely wasn't his fingers. I had lost my virginity, by mistake, while gazing at Jack Sparrow dancing around a bonfire. What the actual fuck?

Of course I didn't make him remove it, although I was absolutely petrified, and his inbetweeners-esque thrusting still haunts me to this day. Now when I look back at the day I lost my virginity I feel a little bit robbed; I like to think that Johnny had got me so riled up and horny that I was just wide open, ready for anything to slip in. Truth is, my fella probably just had an extremely small dick. My friends believe me as little now as they did when I rang them, 5 minutes after the magic happened.

Dress number 1, my childhood sweetheart; magic, magnet or meant to be?