The Ivy Cloth.
The shadow of the man slipped out of the bed artistically, and he bent down the grab up his clothes and possessions that lay beside the bed. In the bed was a woman, average height, curvy, dark curls of hair, he forgot her age, and her name, which would have been troublesome in the morning if she wasn't out like a light. They had drunk a fair amount; he saw the evidence piled up by the living room door, three bottles of wine and some strange tasting bitter that had left a horrible taste in his mouth and made him want to vomit during the sex he had with the woman.
It was so easy to pick up lonely women in the bars and clubs around the centre of London; he thought to himself while quickly doing his fly and quietly and carefully as he could, as not to wake the woman from her sleep. If he did, he'd have to explain this, and better yet he'd have to remember her name. And he highly doubted that would happen.
He heard a slight moan and turned quickly to make sure she was still asleep. Thankfully, she was, she had just turned over and was now hugging the pillow. He was glad she didn't turn so that she could wrap her arms around him, and he was thankful she hadn't done so before he exited the bed in such a manner, he'd have been chained, then, and she would have woken up if he tried to free himself.
But, he reasoned with himself, that didn't happen. And all in all, he congratulated the woman, because she was good at what she knew, which was how to give an amazing one night stand. Of course he'd had better, but that was expected. He'd trawled through clubs and pubs and bars and notorious locations for their ladies of the night before. He knew how to pick out the ladies that had never done such a thing before, and the ones that had done it every night since they were sixteen years of age.
The ones that had done that were the ones that he avoided. He didn't want to get rejected on his method of shagging a woman. He'd perfected it ever since his first, which was a complete disaster, and would ruin the reputation he was sure he was building up around these places.
He wondered to himself if that was a good thing or not. Who would want to sleep with a male slag, after all? Then he laughed at himself and muttered to himself that there would always be women who were far more sluttish than he.
The woman groaned and rolled over, and he made his exit fast, as to avoid being caught by the woman. He didn't leave a note or his number, he simply found the keys, unlocked the door, exited and then locked the door behind him, posting the keys in the letterbox so she wouldn't feel the need to phone the police on him later the next day.
He sighed to himself and fingered his pockets for his cigarettes. He wrapped his fingers carefully around the lighter and pulled it out as if it were about to explode. You could never tell if something was wrong with these dangerous objects that could cause you a lot of pain. Then again, he thought sulking slightly, couldn't women be the same? He might as well just give up now and become a priest.
He laughed heartily at the idea and hailed a taxi. It was time to get out of here and go home to his welcoming flat and his not so welcoming best friend.