It was a night like any other. But this simple mid-week drink would annihilate a long-standing relationship with my second favourite thing in the whole world: the dirty martini.
It started on a cushy sofa, in a dimly lit corner somewhere in Shoreditch. He and I had sunk into its folds to wash away the day’s strains with some well-earned cocktails.
“I’ve never tasted a dirty martini”, he said “can I have a sip?”
“Of course,” I answered, handing it over. Frankly, I didn’t want to share, I was being polite. My glass was purrfect: the old-school shape, coated in a frosted shimmer. He lifted it to his nose and breathed it in, instantly, his eyes glazed over. The first sip sent his eyelids dropping shut, like the shutters of a convenience store after a long day of trading. He leaned back, savoring it. His eyes flickered open to smell and sip again, but this time, his sip was more of a lick. Again it sent him sloping backwards. I felt excused from the table, it was just him and my drink, but as he lifted the glass for a third time, I interrupted.
“Ahem”, my hands gestured for my glittery drink to be returned.
Scrambling for one last whiff and mouthful, he said, “God, sorry, it just tastes exactly like her pussy.”
One of my best friends had basically just gone down on my martini. And I’m not going to lie, it totally grossed me out. In fact, my own sip felt like a violation of the relationship he’s shared with the glass only a moment earlier.
And that, dear readers, is why I no longer drink dirty martinis.
I am BadAngel, the martini correspondent and it’s my job to share martini stories with you gorgeous Toyboy Warehousers. They won’t always involve oral sex, but as we all know, it’s usually better it if does. For those of you who are interested in having martini flavoured ladygardens of your own, my above-mentioned friend has suggested a super-food diet involving things that look a lot like dirt. Apparently his ex was all over that.
Until next time, bottoms up.
