Getting Laid.

Getting Laid.

The trials and tribulations of a girl looking for Mr. Right. She's kissed a lot of frogs, but now she's found her Prince Charming and unfortunately he's a little unattainable -being that he's engaged to her elder sister and all. But, is love worth a family rift with your favourite sibling and being disowned by your whole family -who knows? Autumn certainly doesn't and she's left fighting her feelings and caught in two minds -what should she do? She's always been high on ethics, being vegetarian and all, but when her morals are put to the test will she falter, or will she stand true and come out the other end unscathed?

Prologue.

I'm swirling in unimaginable depths of tragedy and pain. I've been an idiot, a class A fool and yet even as I make these revelations it is too late. Too late to save my blackened soul from everything I have done, what if they find out? What will I do then, I have only just got them back.

Chapter 1.

I am Autumn Summers, and despite current evidence suggesting the opposite my name is not composed of every season. No, Winter and Spring dare not stray towards me, lest they too lose their identity in the greedy vacuum that is my name.

Anyway, I am going on a date. A blind date -to be exact. My hippie, gothic, pop music addictee of a best friend has set me up with the owner of her favourite tattoo parlour. Dave Garland. A man whose body is inked out to the max and who probably has a red Mohican as well as multiple piercings -not exactly what I'd call my type. Then again, I don't seem to be getting anywhere with my so called 'type' so obviously I'm going wrong somewhere -at least, that's what I told myself when agreeing to India's blind date extravaganza.

Being that I've never dated a punk rocker before I am at a complete loss as to how I should dress. Thankfully, India -a serial dater of punk rockers and the like- is at hand. So far, however, I don't think she's been all that helpful. Her suggestions have consisted of shaving off one side of my hair, piercing my nose and wearing big ol' grimy men's boots. I can't say I've been thrilled with her suggestions.

So, at a loss of anything better to do I decided to dress as I usually do. Despite the fact that for once I wasn't dating some suited and booted womanizer. Squeezing into an uber tight PVC mini dress that exposed an awful lot of cleavage and thigh I tried to tell myself I wasn't a slut. Though the mascara eyed whorish looking girl who stared back at me begged to differ. It wasn't my make-up, I'd actually consider myself a dab hand at that malarkey, it was the sket dress and the mile high stripper heels. What can I say, being a shortie heels are a necessity and the higher the better -as far as I'm concerned.

Looking at me India scratched her fluorescent pink dreadlock adorned head, tilting it to the side. Without words I knew exactly what she meant, being childhood pals does that to you, there was something missing. Currently, my lips were lathered in pink gloss but it just wasn't working. It was far too cutesy for my auburn locks and the smoky eyes I was working. I sent India off on a mission to the bathroom while I searched through the rubbish dump that is my room. I spied the lipstick tube I was looking for just as she returned and handed me a tissue. With a swipe of the tissue the gloopy pink mixture was gone. A dark red, burgundy sort of colour now decorated my lips and it was rather more fitting.

I would have pecked India's cheek in our signature farewell ceremony, but my burgundy bejewelled lips made that a tad difficult so instead I squeezed her in a bone crushing hug before rushing off to catch the bus.

I don't own a car, being that I've sort of cut myself off from my parents since the age of sixteen -when I eloped to the capital city of England; the centre of my world, my dreams. London. Actually, as it turns out those dreams haven't come true yet not exactly what I was hoping for, or planning but nonetheless I like to think I'd still have come here if the future me looked back at my sixteen year old self. Anyway, I didn't leave in the I never want to see you again sorta way, more in the I can make it on my own kinda way, turns out I can't quite make it enough to pay for driving lessons let alone a car and insurance. But, I like to think of myself as a bit of a free spirit and I just didn't fit in on the suburban side of life, though I don't know how much of a free spirit I am or whether I'm actually just normal and I fancied wearing a mini-skirt rather than one that fell below my knees. I'm an artist. I like to say when I'm in that free spirit mode, as if that one tiny aspect explains every questionable thing I've ever done or will do. I think it also happens to be what my parents tell their posh friends when they ask about me -the black sheep of the family. Thing is, I'm a bit of an underachiever when you consider my parent's expectations or my siblings who most definitely filled those expectations. I come from a long line of scholars my Grandfather was a university lecturer, my father -and his son- a barrister, one of my brothers is a surgeon and I think he specialises in brains though I can't say I've ever paid too much attention there's a bit of an age gap, my other brother's some kind of scientist who works at that place in Europe somewhere, the next and final brother followed in my father's footsteps. And now to the females in my family, my mother is a psychiatrist i.e. she deals with crazies, so, it's a little embarrassing when she can't handle her own daughter -or so I hear. On to the golden girl, meine schwester, she's a stockbroker, terribly boring much like the person she pretends to be. As you can see from the detailed analysis of my family tree a beautician or 'artist' is hardly up to scratch. The common one my brothers like to use is 'what do you do talk for a living?' and I quietly smile and say in return 'actually that's hairdressers' though deep down I feel a sense of betrayal for saying so -India's a hairdresser.

"Oh bugger." I exclaim, a little too loudly for propriety or for me to be considered anything remotely close to a Lady. Then again the way I'm dressed already throws that assumption out the window, you'd have to be blind to consider me Ladylike. As I think this I feel a slight pang in my heart, ripping it a little -just because I dress a little slutty I seem to be good for one thing and one thing only. Getting laid. Then again, I can't think of too much else I'm all that good at, except I am known for doing a mean French manicure which if you ask me is an essential in a woman's life.

I could see the big red bus approaching the bus stop and here I was a little too far away to make it, unless I ran. And running in six inch stripper heels is quite the obstacle. These straps also happen to be too tricky and time consuming for me to undo in time to sprint and make it, they take long enough to fasten when I'm not in a hurry and my fingers just never seem to work when I'm in one. Left with no alternative I started to run, stripper heels and all, to the bus waving my hands like a lunatic in some vain attempt at catching the attention of the driver. I've never been too proud of my athletic ability, mostly because it's non-existent, so when I failed to catch the big red double-decker it wasn't too much of a surprise. Albeit, it was still a giant disappointment.

Now I was going to have to catch a cab, and they're too expensive for a beauty school student struggling by with the earnings of a waitress. India and I consider the black cab to be a thing of luxury. It's cosy interior is a treat we rarely indulge in. However, here I was hailing a black cab only to have some piece of junk with thick smoke puffing out of the exhaust pipe and 'gangsta rap' blasting from the speakers pull up in front of me. The window was rolled down and a head was stuck out. The driver was a skinhead, with baggy graffiti laden attire and bling so abundant it blinded me.

"How much?" He asked, his smirk firmly in place and not without a few gold teeth. Yuck. This fella made me want to barf, not to mention the rap music blaring from his speakers. If there is one thing I cannot abide it is rap music. My mandible dropped to the dirty gray concrete slabs that made up the pavement. What? Was this blingified idiot calling me a hooker because it certainly looked that way from where I was standing. The cheek of this jumped up hoodlum. I'm not a prostitute, I'd never whore myself out for cash, I've never even considered it. I mean can you imagine it, I expect I'd have to deal with people like this disgusting specimen before me on a daily basis. No thanks.

Planting a sexy smile on my full lips I cupped his chin in one hand gently. I then leant forward, flicking my tongue over my lips, as I went in for the kill before smashing his nose into the dashboard. Woops. An ear tickling grin smeared itself over my smug face as I took in his bleeding nose that I'd just made crooked if I was lucky. Aware that this gold toothed thug was the type to hit a lady I then swiftly made my departure. I'm well aware that it was an overreaction, but as my auburn roots suggest I have a quick temper and a fiery one at that and... well, I had just missed the bus.

Careful not to stand on a street corner I once again began waving my hands about to catch the attention of a cabbie. Two went by without stopping before the third pulled in and I hopped in.

"Barry!" I exclaimed when I saw the overweight and balding driver, his pudgy face was friendly and familiar.

"Autumn?" He asked swivelling around to get a better look at me. For some odd reason whenever I hailed a cab it always turned out to be Barry who I had hailed, well maybe not always but a fair amount of the time. Not that I minded, Barry was a stand up guy. There was no underlying fear that he'd lock the doors and whisk me off to an abandoned car park. "Where to?" He asked, grinning and showing his discoloured and wonky teeth -ahh to be English.

I reached into my clutch bag, adorned with the Union Jack -what can I say I'm patriotic- and after a little rummage plucked out a crumpled bit of tissue paper with an address written on it in illegible handwriting.

"According to this..." I started, squinting as I tried to read what I had deemed to be illegible. "I have no idea." I admitted after numerous fruitless attempts at deciphering this unfathomable code, I mean it was written by a man what did I expect? Has anyone else noticed that men have appalling handwriting, it's an illegible scrawl -always- I've yet to meet an exception. It must be that Y chromosome of theirs shaking things up.

"Let me have a look." Barry said, shaking his head at my incapability's and snatching the bedraggled tissue paper from my fingers. Well of course he'd be able to read it, he's one of them.