by sibelhodge
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men's Room (and other short stories
sibelhodge
Published: 2011
Tag(s): "chick lit" "women's fiction" "short stories" humor comedy dating romance
Welcome to My World…
I’m an author of chick lit romances and mysteries. In my spare time I’m Wonder Woman! My world is sometimes wacky, quirky, and very accident-prone.
This is a collection of five humorous short stories – what I like to call true fiction. Some are true, some are fiction, and some are a mixture of both. I guess you have to decide which is which!
I often get asked if I’m like any of my characters in my novels, and I have to groan and say, yes. When you read these stories you’ll realize how, and a lot of them have inspired scenes in my novels, although names have been omitted or changed to protect me against lawsuits!
Are you ready to find out “how to dump your boyfriend in the men’s toilets”, why “yoga is bad for your house”, what the “S-Word has to do with your lady garden”, why you need to “follow that goat”, and whether “kismet” does really exist?
(Short stories total 6,500 words. Includes bonus material and chapters from my novels, Fourteen Days Later, My Perfect Wedding, The Fashion Police, and Be Careful What You Wish For)
Praise for How To Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)
“Most of these stories are laugh out loud funny, written by a terrific writer who is always capable of engaging her audience. The last story is touching and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Great job Sibel, can't wait to read more of your work.” — Mel Comley, author if Impeding Justice
Novels by Sibel Hodge:
Fourteen Days Later
The Fashion Police
My Perfect Wedding
Be Careful What You Wish For
About the author
Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her first romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.
The Fashion Police is a chick lit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Be Careful What You Wish For is the second Amber Fox murder mystery.
For more information, please visit
http://www.sibelhodge.com/
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Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room!
When I was in my early twenties, I was in between boyfriends. What? People use that term for jobs, so why not boyfriends?
Dating agencies weren’t big at that time. If you were looking for Mr. Right you could scour the singles’ column in the local newspapers looking for Mr. Normal in amongst a lot of Mr. Weirdoes, or go to a single’s night and check out the available hot men first hand.
Oh, did I say hot? Hmmm…well, if the choice was anything to go by on the first night I went, it was more like the cast of a film: Night of the Living Dead mixed with a bit of Thriller.
My friend and I got ourselves all dolled up and had a few glasses of wine, purely for Dutch courage, you understand.
I mean, we were normal and pretty damn hot (quite a few guys had told me that I was hot – I’m not blowing my own trumpet or anything!), so there must be at least two other normal, hot guys to match us at a singles’ night, surely. How hard could it be to meet a nice one?
We surveyed the darkened ballroom used for the event, and I felt my eyelids widen involuntarily. The cast was as follows…
A Michael Jackson Wannabe (complete with ankle-skimming black trousers, white socks, black waistcoat, and…wait for it…yes, a white, glittery glove). Seriously! What was he thinking, moonwalking over the whole dance floor in his own little world, bumping into all and sundry? Omigod, you should’ve seen him when Thriller actually came on! Think a werewolf meets a hippie on acid.
Mr. Property Developer, who kept bragging about how much money he was earning. I could overhear him trying to chat up a tall woman (or a man in drag, I wasn’t entirely sure). Apparently, he’d made a million pounds in the last year on a new development. My bullshit-o-meter was detecting something nasty there.
Mr. No Fashion Sense, who looked like he was about twelve and had borrowed his dad’s baby-blue-coloured suit from the 70s, matched with a yellow tie and red sandals. Yes, sandals! Hellooooooooooooo?
Mr. Creep – a dark-haired, shifty guy in the corner who looked like a ferret. I swear I could even see his nose twitching, ferrety-style, as he oggled the women. I think his tongue was out at one point and he was drooling. Ew, creep alert!
Mr. Smarmy Lover Man, whose every other word was a sexual innuendo.
Mr. Sporty (decked out in a satin shell suit), boring me about all his sporting achievements to date. Apparently, he really played for Arsenal Football Club (uh-huh! My bullshit-o-meter was working overtime tonight!). And this was pre MLOE (My Love Of Exercise) so it wouldn’t have impressed me, anyway.
Mr Every-Girl-Who-Doesn’t-Fancy-Me-Is-A-Lesbian!
I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.
We were about to down our glasses of wine in one gulp and scurry away when a couple of cute and reasonably hot guys came in. On a scale of one-to-ten hotness they were around an eight.
I glanced around the room as all the available women ran to get away from the weirdos who were trying to chat them up and rushed towards the Hotties like desperate bargain hunters at a 90-percent-off sale in Harrods.
I stood at the bar with my friend, watching with amusement. Things had just got a bit more interesting around here.
Mr. Hotty One and Mr. Hotty Two attempted to extricate themselves from the ladies, hovering around them expectantly, and the term “Cattle Market” sprang to mind.
OK, that was it. I wasn’t going to cheapen myself like this. I was young, I had all my own teeth, and I was hot (yes, I was!). I had plenty of time and opportunity to meet a nice guy, and I wasn’t going to lower myself into trying to get Mr. Hotty One notice me in between a bunch of drooling women. That was sooo not going to happen!
‘Shall we go?’ I raised an eyebrow at my friend.
‘Let me just lust after Mr. Hotty Two for a few minutes.’ She took a slow sip of her wine, seductively eyeing him over the rim of her glass. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen a fit-looking guy, and he’s fit. Your one’s not bad, either!’
I gave her an eyeroll to beat all eyerolls. ‘He’s not mine.’
But actually we did get chatting and he wasn’t A) A sleeze B) A freak C) Twelve D) A werewolf. All things considered, that was prett
y good going.
We went out for a couple of months, and he seemed like a nice guy. He was sweet, funny, hot, and not a pair of sandals in sight. Then one day he was invited to a friend’s wedding and he asked me to go with him.
What the hell, why not?
We’d finished the sit down meal at the reception hall and my boyfriend had gone to talk to one of his mates, so I thought I’d nip to the ladies’.
In I go and get into one of the cubicles and plop down on the toilet seat, when the next minute I hear two guys walk in and start chatting.
Now, I’d probably better explain that I have this nasty habit of going to the loo in the men’s toilets. It’s not intentional, you understand. I don’t have a weird urinal fetish, or anything. I think I must have toilet dyslexia. For some reason I always get them mixed up and never seem to notice the signs. And a lot of the time, there aren’t actually urinals in the men’s anymore – just cubicles – so it’s not like it’s my fault or anything. It’s a natural mistake. Although, having said that, this one did have urinals – it’s just that they were round the corner from the cubicles and I didn’t notice them when I first walked in.
Omigod, I’d done it again! Well, I’d just have to sit there and wait it out. These weren’t my friends at the wedding. How embarrassing would it be if my new boyfriend found out?
‘So, I see you’ve got a new girlfriend,’ one said with a deep voice.
‘Yeah,’ the other guy said with a knowing chuckle. The kind of chuckle that lets you know he’s used to getting the girls.
Hang on…that was my boyfriend! Hmm…I strained to hear over the tinkling going on.
‘What happened to Sarah?’ Deep Voice asked.
‘I dumped her. She was too high maintenance,’ Boyfriend said.
‘Oh, I thought I heard she’d dumped you,’ Deep Voice again.
Boyfriend snorted. ‘Me? No way, man! I dumped her.’
‘So what’s the new girlfriend like? She looks pretty hot.’
See, I told you!
I allowed myself a smug little smile.
‘She’ll do for now, I suppose. Nothing special, you know. I could get better,’ Boyfriend said, and I could almost see him giving Deep Voice a casual shrug.
My smile disappeared south. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Nothing special? Thanks a lot! I’m hot! HOT!
‘Yeah,’ Boyfriend started, ‘but at least she’s got her own place and money. Not like the last one I had to keep forking out for all the time. Might as well have a bit of fun while I’m looking around for something better. I met this other girl last week named Jenny Logan…’ he let out a slow whistle, ‘now she was hot in the sack!’
‘Oh, I know Jenny. She’s a lovely girl,’ Deep Voice said.
Ooh, the bloody cheek! So Mr. Hotty was really Mr. Serial Shagger in disguise! Well, not with me, pal!
I got off the loo as the tinkling sound stopped and reached for the door handle.
I heard zips being pulled up and gnawed on my lip. What should I do? Should I confront him here? Or let him get outside and pour a pint of beer over his head in front of everyone? I’d always wanted to do that to someone but never had the opportunity.
Taps turned on as they started again…
‘Still, I might as well keep this one around, too. You can never get enough hot totty, can you?’ Boyfriend said. ‘I’ll just keep a couple on the go in case one’s not in the mood.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ Deep Voice chuckled.
OK, so he admitted I was hot, but still…I was NOT going to let him get away with this!
I opened the cubicle door and sauntered out as Boyfriend and Deep Voice were washing their hands at the sinks, heads down.
I calmly strode to the taps, squeezed into the empty sink space between them and washed my hands. It was then that Boyfriend and Deep Voice looked up at me in the mirror on the wall in front.
Boyfriend’s eyes pinged open like they were spring-loaded as he stared at me.
‘Well, seems like it’s back to the Night of the Living Dead for you. It would appear, like my orgasms, that you are a FAKE!’ My voice rose to ear-splitting decibel on that last word and he jumped back, away from the sink as I turned off the tap. ‘Never underestimate the power of the spoken word. I can’t wait to tell Jenny, I’m sure she’ll be equally impressed.’ I turned around, narrowed my eyes at him, and dried my dripping hands on the front of his shirt as his mouth flapped open ridiculously. ‘Maybe if you had a smaller head and a bigger penis we could go far. But, unfortunately, God mixed those two up for you!’ I said, and flounced from the loos with my parting words, ‘I’m hot and you’re not!’
How to Have an Orgasm
And speaking of orgasms (fake or otherwise), after that little episode I was between boyfriends again. So what's the next best thing a girl can do? Yep, have her very own Chocolate Orgasm!
This is a secret recipe from my romantic comedy Fourteen Days Later. It's the way to any chocolate-lover's heart. Guys – I know you'll want to give your girlfriend/wife one of these fab Orgasms! And girls – you could just keep it to yourself to have your own secret Orgasm!
If you’re worrying that this recipe could be a moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips, then don’t. Chocolate comes from cocoa, which is a bean, and everyone knows vegetables have hardly any calories! So there you go: absolutely healthy then…
Ingredients:
4 squares of chocolate (I love Galaxy for this!)
1/2 of cup butter
1 cup of icing sugar
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
6 tbsp flour
How to have an Orgasm!
Preheat the to 425F.
Butter 4 custard or souffle dishes and put on a baking tray.
Microwave the chocolate and butter in a large bowl on high for 1 minute or until the butter is melted.
Stir with whisk until chocolate is completely melted.
Stir in sugar until well blended.
Whisk in the egg and egg yolks.
Stir in the flour.
Divide batter between the prepared dishes.
Bake for 13 to 14 minutes or until the sides are firm but centers are soft. Let them stand for 1 minute.
Carefully run a knife around the cakes to loosen from the moulds. Turn the cakes upside down onto a plate.
Top with some scrummy whipped cream and strawberrys and serve immediately for an instant Chocolate Orgasm!
Yoga Is Bad For Your House!
I went out with this guy once who was a bodybuilder. Actually, he was two-timing me, the bastard! (I seem to have a habit of picking cheating men.) And if you’re reading this, YES, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!
So obviously we broke up, but the lasting memory I have of our relationship was exercise (no, not the bedroom variety!).
Ever since I was a kid I hated exercise. If I could get out of my gym classes at school, I would. Here’s a list of my excuses…
I’ve got my period (always a good one, unless you used it every week).
I sprained my arm, ankle, wrist, big toe, ear, knuckle (any body part was quite good for this).
I forgot my gym kit (only worked once as they made me wear second-hand mouldy ones that had been in the spare kit box, festering for a hundred years).
I’ve got a migraine (off to the nurses’ station for some TLC).
I feel sick (ditto).
I’ve got a cold (God, no wonder I had so many at school).
I likened a workout to a Siberian Prison Camp doing hard labour. I mean, what was the point of running when you could walk around a shopping centre for hours on end. You’d burn exactly the same amount of calories and have something nice to show for it!
Even though I hate to admit it, my ex converted me to loving exercise. So much so that eventually I became a fitness instructor.
Anyway, it started off with visits to the gym after we’d split up and I’d stopped using his home gym. It was a bit daunting at first – even the appli
cation form to get a membership card was challenging. After the usual name and contact details came the hard ones…
1) Sex? Answer: thanks, but no.
2) Age? Answer: thirty but look much younger.
3) Occupation address? Answer: anywhere.
4) Occupational position? Answer: standing, but occasionally sitting down.
5) Do you have a heart problem? Answer: probably will in a minute.
6) Do you suffer from breathlessness during exercise? Answer: sometimes during sex, but that was a long time ago.
7) Do you suffer from palpitations or unusual heart flutters? Answer: only when I think about someone special.
8) Do you have any back problems? Answer: only when I did a handstand when I was very drunk.
9) Are you allergic to anything? Answer: men who cheat.
10) Have you had any operations? Answer: I think I had a lobotomy once, but I can’t remember.
11) Do you enjoy a healthy eating programme? Answer: yes, started an hour ago.
12) Have you suffered from any illnesses? Answer: hangovers.
13) Do you suffer from any other problems? Answer: accidents frequently happen around me.
Next came the induction as the gym instructor showed me around. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered one wall and various exercise benches were laid out in rows. There was a huge stack of free weights in the corner, ranging from tiny, weedy ones (I’d definitely be using those) to monstrously large, hefty-boy ones. Several of the Hefty Boys, with muscles which rivalled the gym instructor’s, huffed and groaned as they lifted weights in pairs, shouting out the number of repetitions they had done and checking themselves out in the mirror. Scary!