So... This is Awkward

By Harry Newhouse

Harry Newhouse, a scientist, Oxford graduate, and general nerd, moves to New York and sets his sights on finding the girl of his dreams. Unfortunately he is not very good at girls, or cities, or America for that matter, and this book follows his bizarre journey as he dives down the rabbit hole of online dating.

Things quickly spiral out of control when he makes the surprising discovery that quite a lot of girls want to be tied up and spanked, and that he also quite enjoys tying them up and spanking them. Harry re-tells the funniest and sexiest highlights of his kinky dating adventures, presenting his stories in an honest and non-idealised fashion (with plenty of English self deprecation thrown in too). Composed entirely of true stories this book also tackles some of the prejudices and myths that surround the subject of BDSM, and provides interesting snapshots of the diverse personalities that Harry encounters on his adventures.

Through a process of trial and error, (emphasis on the error), Harry becomes more adept at seducing ladies who want to fulfil their submissive fantasies. Distilled from over forty different dates these stories contain a few life lessons that are hard to sum up in any dating self-help guide. Despite some success with the ladies, the true romantic connection that Harry craves proves to be a lot harder to tie down, and require skills that aren't printed in any bondage manual.

His many dates drive Harry to explore the city's many different neighbourhoods, and eventually he begins to feel at home wandering down New York's steaming avenues. As we follow his twists and turns it often seems like the girl of his dreams is hovering just around the next corner, but will he ever catch up with her in time?

*

This book is a comic memoir with frequent descriptions of sex. It tries to paint an honest picture of Harry's own particular brand of insecurity and the strange evolution of his masculinity, and also introduce some of the diverse and non-stereotypical range of people that are attracted to kink. This book should be a good reference for anyone dating in this age of tinder, okcupid, and fetlife, and also show everyone that, however weird they may consider themselves, they're really not as alone as they might feel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Newhouse
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224494071

Book preview

I

T.he G.irl O.f M.y D.reams sits across from me, her fingers wrapped around a craft beer, disturbing its cold sheen of condensation with watery finger trails.

Candlelight flickers across her face as she leans forward to sip her drink. Her hair hangs down freely and casts moving shadows across her softly smiling cheeks. She has a damned pretty face, but then she’s T.G.O.M.D. so I’m bound to say that.

Those dark eyes suck mine in; I’m afraid to look away and I’m afraid to keep staring.

So how many girls did you have to date before you found me? she asks.

Errr... Too many? I reply, breaking her gaze to look upwards, as if the memories are somehow hidden amongst my eyebrows.

Any crazy stories? she presses.

Definitely! But I never know where to begin...

Dating future perfect

Get on your knees! I instructed, pointing to the floor in front of where Piper was sitting. She had already been stripped of everything except her thong. Her nipples stood erect in the slight chill of my apartment and the edges of her mouth betrayed the hint of a smile as she slid forward off the seat. Yes sir! she said, knees coming to rest on the coarse rug below us.

I focused on her and not the rug; its black and white zigzag pattern made me feel a little dizzy, and the weed we’d smoked was not helping matters. Piper’s deep brown eyes were locked with mine and the room had taken on a warm-soft-and-transient quality that made it easy to forget where I was and exactly how I had got there.

*

I’d met Piper for the first time a couple of hours earlier. We’d traded small talk in a midtown wine bar, having decided on a Sunday evening rendezvous through a flirtatious exchange of character limited text messages. I had sent her a promise of ‘a solid pre-Christmas ravishing’ along with a picture of a disturbing number of sex toys. Somehow this had tempted her out of Brooklyn and through that cold December night. All I had to do was walk west a couple of blocks to the nearest drinking establishment that still had a semblance of class.

It’s funny how much can change in a year; 12 months ago in December 2012 I owned precisely zero sex toys. I had only been on one awkward coffee date since moving to the city, and I had felt so insecure about meeting a woman for an internet date that my main concern was keeping my lunch down. Now though I was commanding a lady I had just met to get on her knees in my apartment.

New York really does do strange things to people.

*

Give me your arms! I said, producing a length of red cotton rope from a drawer.

Piper knelt upright offering me her limbs to bind, uncharacteristically quiet now the game had begun. Beforehand she had talked confidently about all subjects; her West Coast accent had a certain dry tone, often tinged with hints of playful sarcasm. She wasn’t afraid of saying what she thought either. After smoking up, we’d started talking about the pictures on my wall... That one I took when I went to New Zealand a couple of years ago, I’d said, waving my hand at a photo of an appealing blue lake surrounded by lush greenery.

Tell me about New Zealand!

Well I drove around the North Island first with some friends. Then I rented a car and drove around the South Island by myself, visiting a few people here and there...

"No, tell me about New Zealand!" she insisted.

Ha... Err... Ok I guess that wasn’t very descriptive... So, I mean, all the nature and wildlife is just so different there. I loved how all the birds sounded strange. Listening to the morning chorus made you feel like you were in another world. Some kind of prehistoric jungle.

That’s more like it.

I think one of my favourite experiences was the first morning I woke up on South Island. I continued, finding myself in the groove of the memory, I’d slept in my rental car, parked in this spot between the forest and the sea. It was amazing waking up to the sound of all the birds and the distant waves from the Pacific. Anyway, I went down to the beach to watch the sunrise, you know, as you do. It was like this sandy beach, with lots of rocks and stuff, and I was standing there, still waking up, taking in the smell of the sea, when suddenly I heard this loud snorting noise right beside me, and I realised that some of the rocks were actually fucking sea lions. I was surrounded by these guys who were just hanging out on the beach, ready to bask in the morning sun. They didn’t seem to care that I was standing there, so we all just chilled together and watched the sun come up. It was pretty awesome.

That does sound pretty awesome, she said, taking a drag of the weed and slouching backwards to stare at the ceiling with a smile.

*

I wrapped two strands of rope around her arms, around and around and around. Satisfied, I took the two ends and threaded them between her wrists, completing the ‘modern two column tie’. I tightened the cinch to ensure her hands couldn’t wiggle free.

Such a fucking boy scout, she muttered playfully.

Hush you, I replied, tying the final knot out of reach of her fingers. There was enough rope left to act as leash to lead her arms by.

Follow me, I said, leading her towards my bed, but stay on your knees!

She shuffled her knees across the floor, bound arms outstretched in front of her as I kept tension on the rope. I tried to emanate just the right amount of playful menace as I tied the rope around one of the bedposts. Leaving her haltered there I moved forward and started to pull back the black duvet.

I told you I’d keep my toys out for you...

Flinging my duvet aside revealed the intimidating array of sex toys; the ones I had previously sent her pictures of. When spaced out carefully they covered more than half of the bed. There was a lot of rope for roping, a flogger for flogging, blindfolds for blindfolding, candles for candle waxing, a large hook with a ball on the end for butt-hooking, clothes pegs for pinching (or hanging laundry, if I’m in that kind of mood), chains and padlocks for chaining and padlocking, a ball gag for volume control, a paddle for paddling, and a butt plug for making toast.

I let Piper take in the view and her nervous silence persisted. The traffic light safe word system had been pre-agreed, saying ‘red’ meant ‘stop everything’, ‘yellow’ would be interpreted as ‘tone it down’ and ‘green’ could be transcribed as ‘shit yes, more of that!’ At this point though, silence was all I needed to hear.

*

Piper didn’t seem like the sort of girl to be easily intimidated. She’d moved to New York after graduating college, brimming with ambition, like so many of us ‘bright young things’. A high-flying job in public relations or journalism had been her goal and that she’d got into a competitive PR internship program, though she had to work extra hours as a bartender to make ends meet. Eventually the public relations lost its charm and the bar job became her main source of income. Piper wasn’t afraid of trying out novel ways to make money though. She’d worked briefly as a dominatrix in an established dungeon, but it hadn’t been her vibe; Too much acting, and I found it too hard to keep a straight face! She’d said. Foot fetish parties were one of her more lucrative side ventures, and having guys pay her hard cash to kiss her feet or paint her toe nails was reportedly a lot less soul sucking than the regular nine to five. She’d met all kinds of guys through this business venture. Some were a ‘little old and leery’ she said but others just young and shy. Despite this variety of clients, she’d formed the opinion that having a foot fetish was subtly telling about someone’s overall personality, and those relationships had always remained strictly professional.

Tonight, however, was not a commercial transaction. She was seeking her own pleasure, even if she wasn’t yet sure what form that pleasure would take. Or how much pain would come first.

In terms of what she liked, I’d gleaned that she was into both guys and girls, and that she also preferred to be submissive. It wasn’t so much that she enjoyed pain and being dominated, but rather that she loved the idea of being the source of someone else's kinky pleasure, ‘to be their personal fuck toy’ so to speak. She found the idea of ‘being used’ was also in itself somehow a turn on, although this was still dependant on the calibre of the person doing the using.

She also loved getting fucked while high on weed. It was just one of life’s simple pleasures.

*

I loosened Piper’s rope halter from the bedpost. Get on the bed! I instructed.

She hesitated as the sex toys were in the way, then stood up and began to clamber over them uncertainly, trying not to kneel on the uncomfortable looking chains. Her knees created wells in the soft mattress though and their cold metal links slid down against her skin.

Ok, maybe I didn’t think this all the way through, I muttered and cleared a space for her amongst the various tools of stimulation and restraint.

Where do you want me? she asked

Just here, on your hands and knees, I replied.

I tied the rope binding her wrists to the metal rail at the top of the bed frame. Clearing some more space amongst the chains, impact toys, and penetration devices, I joined her on the bed. I was about to start tying her legs when I noticed something. Oh, we’d better get rid of this first! I said, looping my finger into the side strap of her thong, and yanking it down to her knees. With a few cooperative knee shuffles, her last item of clothing was cast aside and absorbed into the mound of toys.

I ran the soft rope through my hands in order to find the mid-point and I watched Piper’s naked form hunched in front of me; her peachy butt pointing towards the heavens, gloriously  exposed. I proceeded to tie her upper and lower legs to each other so they were trapped in a kneeling position. She wasn’t going to be able to escape like that, and it also allowed more ready access to certain areas than if I were to have tied her ankles together.

Ropes whipped back and forth as they were threaded and looped. I was working with somewhat over-frenzied concentration and realised a little more calm and poise would improve the impression of dominance I created, ‘Take your time and savour the moment!’ I thought to myself, while sliding the rope over her hamstrings ‘she’s not going anywhere’.

*

Piper had brought the weed at her own suggestion and we smoked it out of her little one hitter, (which in this case had been cunningly disguised to look like a regular cigarette). As one might expect from a West-Coaster she carried good weed. I don’t smoke tobacco and when someone hands me a joint I often struggle to find the balance between inhaling nothing at all or sucking in too much and triggering a bout of purgatorial coughing. This smoke slipped down almost too easily though and my lungs weren’t tickling at all after the first puff, so I assumed I hadn’t inhaled properly.

I took a big second hit just as the room started to swim.

After a few minutes of staring blankly into space, I relayed the following report:

Shit. I’m quite stoned now.

Oh no, I’ve ruined you! she said, laughing.

*

Recovered to a state of mild intoxication, I finished the knot securing her second leg in the kneeling position. I blindfolded her for good measure.

Are you feeling sufficiently helpless? I asked.

Yes. she replied.

I caressed her hair, gently at first and then taking a firm hold of it I pulled her head backwards to see how her face looked, half shrouded by the black leather of the blindfold. I leant in and kissed her on the lips, and just as her tongue began to touch mine I pulled her head back further, keeping myself just out of reach. I ran my hands slowly down her body until they reached her ass; the first spank can really set the tone of an evening. ‘Should I be playful or more serious?’

I hit her hard, leaving a red-edged handprint that faded to white where her skin had felt my bones. She gasped and pulled against her ropes and I hit her again, and again, and again, relenting only when my hand was stinging wildly and her ass had turned the colour of a ripe tomato. I ran my tingling hand between her legs, teasing her roughly.

How sensitive are those nipples? I asked.

Errm kind of? I don’t know, she replied.

Well, there’s only one way to find out! I said, picking a couple of clothes pegs out of the toy mound. Now hold still!

I peered underneath her, feeling a little like a mechanic inspecting a particularly sexy car. I positioned the first clothes peg over her right nipple and slowly let it pinch down, taking the whole tumescent nip in its jaws. She inhaled with a slight hsssss noise, but held still as instructed. The second peg was quickly applied to her other nipple in order to bring some symmetry to her pain.

In the darkness of her blindfold the pain must have seemed inescapable. Next she would have heard me rummaging in the toy pile, followed by the sensation of flogger chords being dragged slowly across her back - a tantalising warning of imminent pain. Then the caressing strands pulled away suddenly with a threatening ‘swish’ as I took aim.

*

The wine bar had been quiet that night when Piper had slipped through its heavy doors, escaping the biting cold and plunging into steamy warmth within. I’d watched her scanning the gloom for me. Candles lit the tables and low hanging bulbs illuminated the bar, behind which a barmaid said Hiya! to my date with a cheerful southern accent. I called out to her before she got embroiled in bar side conversation.

Piper? and she turned, spotting me standing there in my dimly lit nook behind the door.

Hi! she replied.

After a greeting hug, she slid onto the raised bench beside me, which was upholstered in creaky black leather that squeaked quietly as we adjusted ourselves in the candle light.

We talked, we laughed, we drank wine. We got to know each other a little. Maybe at the time it seemed like we got to know each other a lot. However, now I look back through the fog of memory, I realise that ‘little’ might not be a small enough word. Perhaps there is some deep tragedy in how close it’s possible to be to someone in one moment and how far away they can be in the next.

*

I fucked Piper enthusiastically. Her body was criss-crossed with thin reddened lines where the flogger had been to work, some of which swelled slightly; a muted protest of the flesh. I held the flogger in my hand still and lashed her occasionally to add some variety to the thrusting. My other hand grasped her hip, holding her bound form in place while she balanced on her knees.

As I fucked her I could feel her body changing, the inner geography I was ploughing was different from the hills and valleys it had started out as; rather than being furrowed into submission the landscape was fighting back somehow. Maybe it had something to do with the weed, but I’d never been so acutely aware of these changes before.

I imagined some kind of internal lotus blossom was unfolding within her, but fleshy and tumescent, and I hoped this meant some fantastical orgasmic prize was close at hand for her. Dropping the flogger I grasped both her hips and focused all my energies on fucking her hard... and then harder, and harder, and harder, and harder, and HARDER, AND HARDER, AND HARDER, AND HARDER, AND HARDER, AND HARDER, AND...

And then little bright dots started to swim through my vision and the room started to spin.

‘Shit... that’s not good,’ I thought.

Just need to take a time-out here, I said, withdrawing unsteadily and reaching across to the night stand to grab some water. I gulped it down and shook my head to fight off the dizziness.

After lying motionless for a moment I realised Piper’s blindfold had slipped and she was peering out at me from under it with a somewhat quizzical expression.

Sorry about that. I said The room started to spin. I thought it was best to take a break instead of passing out on top of you.

Seriously?

Yeah, sorry! Thought it was the smart move, considering how immobilized you are right now.

Errr...  Yeah, I’d have been like ‘What the fuck!’

I’ve never passed out during sex before, but that weed was pretty strong and I got a little carried away there.

It’s ok, she said, clearly unimpressed.

I continued to lie beside her.

Are you ok tied up there? I’m just gonna take a quick breather.

I’m ok, she said. Then, after a minute of consideration, Actually could you take these pegs off my nipples? They hurt like a bitch.

Ha, sure.

I obliged her and then lay regaining my composure for a while longer. Piper slumped over to her side as far as the rope and straps would allow.

Did you cum back there? I asked

No, not yet, she replied.

Ah, ok, I said, I thought I felt something going on though.

I mean, I was enjoying myself, she reassured me.

I’d slept with a decent/indecent number of women at this point in my young adulthood. Before I moved ‘across the pond’ I could easily count the number of girls I’d had sex with on one hand, or one finger, if you’re really going to insist on accuracy. On the night I met Piper I’d been living in New York for a little over a year and after exhausting all accessible digits I decided it was somewhat crass to keep a running tally of ‘conquests[1]’ anyway.

Despite this wealth of recent experience, spotting a bona fide female orgasm still foxed the hell out of me. I knew clues to look for; internal contractions, an arching back, thighs squeezing, fingers gripping tightly, the vocals of course, and then the limp placidity that often follows. However, the confounding factor was the sheer variability of the sample group; some women would make deeply orgasmic sounds, coinciding with peaks of physical activity several times during sex. I’d finish, thinking the job had been well done, consider moving into spooning and napping mode, and then wonder why the prospective little spoon still kept rubbing against me so energetically. On the other hand there were the women who fucked quietly, didn’t seem to slow down, speed up, or go limp at any point. They just maintained a steady state of moderate enthusiasm, making me think there was some threshold of arousal they had not yet reached. During a breath catching period I might then inquire: Did you get close there? and they might then make a quizzical face and reply; Yeeaah... I came like five times already!

Before returning my attention to the rope-bound Piper I grabbed a second bottle of water from the kitchen fridge and downed most of it. The dizziness had passed, so I pulled my hostage back up onto her knees.

I might just have to keep you like this for my personal entertainment, I said.

Piper tensed and groaned as I entered her again. I spanked her with one hand, taking occasional swigs of water with the other, defying all assertions that men can’t multi task. With just a finger’s width of cold water left in the bottle I up-ended it over Piper’s back. The cold water splashed over her warm skin and she gasped with surprise, arching her spine, and tensing against the ropes. A futile reflex to the cold insult.

Thought you might want cooling down, I commented snarkily and continued to fuck her.

Now her nipples were peg-less I reached underneath her wet, slippery body with both hands and squeezed her possessively.

You’re all mine now! I muttered in her ear.

I bit her back and shoulders, my teeth leaving brief craters of reddish purple. The bed slowly migrated away from the wall as the kinetic energy of fucking escaped through our bodies, limbs, and ropes.

Approaching climax now with my hands on Piper’s tits and my arms under her body, I lifted her up, pulling her against her restraints, and forcing her backwards onto my cock. We grunted and gasped and the metal bedframe played its own violent concerto.

*

I flushed the condom down the toilet. I KNOW I’m not supposed to do that. It was an impulsive decision of convenience that I immediately felt guilty for, and I tried to remember to be a better person next time.

Returning to my bound plaything I lay down beside her, and staring into her eyes she could see the question pass across my face.

What is it? she asked.

Just wondering if you enjoyed yourself back there, I muttered uncertainly.

Are you kidding?

Kind of. Just checking!

My god, you’re such... a girl! she laughed.

*

I don’t think I’m going to cum again. I said, lying back exhausted Shall we call it a night? You can crash here if you like.

I don’t do crashing, she said, in a resigned kind of way.

After lying a little longer with our bodies peacefully entwined Piper, now untied, shifted her weight to her elbows and brought the moment to a close.

I can put some clothes on and come wait with you for a cab if you like? I said as she untangled her underwear from a small pile of chains.

Why would you do that? she replied, slightly abruptly

Just offering.

I think I can manage.

We exchanged a last brief kiss by the door of my apartment. I wanted to say, Let’s do this again sometime! but stopped myself, wondering if I’d stand a better chance of seeing her again if I acted like I didn’t care about seeing her again.

Her hand twisted the door knob and then she was free. My feet were still planted in the spot where we’d kissed as I watched her leave. I stood there motionless and listened to her footsteps padding away down the hallway.

I let my apartment door swing closed slowly under its own weight.

I could hear the elevator making its little ding noise a few doors down. Then there was a loud ‘THUD’ as my door came to rest in its frame, and the latch engaged with a final metallic Click-Clunk.

Welcome to America!

So here I sit in my midtown apartment surrounded by my self-assembled Ikea furniture and typing away on my little laptop, whose fan is making an excited whirring sound for no apparent reason. I am ignoring the messy bed to my right, the pile of washing to my left, and the dirty dishes sitting in the kitchen sink. I am also putting off various minor errands that I should really go run out there in the tentative spring air.

Maybe I should get dressed at least? No. I write best when there are other tasks I should be doing. There are things I ought to write about before I forget the details, and if I don’t write the story as I’m living it I’ll probably just get it even more wrong. So these words are going down now before they all get overwritten, even if it means I’m stuck in my dressing gown, or ‘bath robe’ as they like to say over here.

*

I first stepped into this apartment a little over four months ago. It was October and I was relieved, jet-lagged, and weighed down by the two suitcases and one backpack that contained everything I owned this side of the Atlantic. My new ‘studio apartment’ - or ‘flat’ as I call it, despite my gradual lingual assimilation - was an empty expanse of brown vinyl with no furniture except for a single abandoned chair. I had prepared for this, brining an air mattress and a sleeping bag to sleep with. After Oxford grad-student dorms my tiny new flat felt like a full on penthouse, with its own bathroom and everything. I was thrilled at the prospect of having my own space and not having to interact with other humans unless I wanted to.

However, the highlight of my flat struck me through the window as soon as I walked in; there was a helluva awesome view! The Empire State building stood front-and-centre, with the glistening city spread out all around. I was here, I was living it. This was what adventure felt like.

Adventure though could be a serious hassle. I had to organise the paperwork for my new job, sort out a new bank account, buy a new phone, buy furniture and kitchen utensils, find a new internet provider, sort out the electricity bill, get a social security number, get medical insurance, get a new drivers licence. The list went on and on, but, overwhelming or not, there was no choice but to plough ahead, and so I sorted out a folder for my paperwork and braced myself for the fray.

The fray that greeted me was not quite the one I expected. I got my internet and email up and running first, and into my inbox dropped an alarming subject line.

"ALERT:HURRICANE WARNING"

Don’t worry! Said my new co-worker when I asked them whether to be worried; We always get these warnings this time of year. Usually these Hurricanes just blow off into the Atlantic. It’ll all be a load of fuss over nothing!

*

As Hurricane Sandy darkened the sky and sent clouds of leaves spiralling up past my tenth floor window, it was looking less and less like a load of fuss over nothing. Stock up with provisions and fill available containers with water read the advice on the news websites. My only available containers were a couple of fizzy drink bottles I hadn’t yet recycled, my tiny travel kettle, and a miniature saucepan I had somehow squeezed into my luggage. Nevertheless I filled them diligently.

My provisions were the products of my first NY shopping trip and consisted of a loaf of bread - which tasted disgustingly sweet compared to English bread - a jar of peanut butter, a box of cornflakes, milk, and a large packet of cheese puffs. I had intended to buy more, but the milieu of alien brand names that filled the shelves of my local Gristedes had been as overwhelming as the prices. I only half-filled my basket before fleeing the store, eager for the arrival of a Tesco or LIDL this side of the Atlantic, (as well as my first month’s paycheque).

It was safe to say I wasn’t well prepared for a natural disaster, but as the clouds marched across the skyline and the raindrops coalesced on my window I decided it was best to stay inside and wait it out. At around 9 pm the power went out, and every tower block in sight went black except for the Empire State building. Ghostly flashlights began to dance in some of the windows, and I hunkered down in my sleeping bag to sleep off the last of my jet-lag and wait for it to all blow over.

*

The power was still out the next morning so the lifts weren’t working. An emergency ‘exit’ sign was the only light on in my gloomy hallway, and informed me which door led to a staircase.

Ten stories down and back at street level I left the lobby to discover a scene of subtle carnage. Emergency vehicles were everywhere, in front of me a metal telephone booth had been wrenched from the thick bolts that once held it down. Caution tape was strewn liberally between almost every available post and tree. There was collapsed scaffolding, signs at jaunty angles, and street lights dangling from broken wires. Further along the street the storm surge had left its own trail of destruction. Mud, tree branches, sandbags, random lumber and even stray vending machines were piled across the road. A stiff wind still rocked the trees, and a wooden gangway from some construction site was nestled amongst their half-crushed branches. Hoses pumped water out of ruined basements as business owners looked on, each absorbing the shock in their own way. Everyone was stunned, you could see it in the confused way people walked around, the city had been laid low by the forces of nature and it was an eerie place to be.

My phone didn’t have signal so I couldn’t tell the outside world I was alive. Despite all the men in hard hats scurrying between Con-Ed vans and manhole covers I felt weirdly isolated as I wandered aimlessly with my camera, snapping up the strange destruction.

That evening I went in search of hot food, but I made the mistake of walking south rather than north. This just took me deeper into the blackout zone. The creepiest thing was the lack of crossing lights at street corners; there were no red or white men to tell you when you could walk and when you couldn’t. It felt like civilization had simply ceased and the people left on the streets were now nomads wandering through the wind-blasted shell of a lost civilization. As it got dark people got their flashlights out, and I, alone and flashlight-less, started to feel exposed. Police cars would race past occasionally with their sirens blaring, and since I had no internet or radio to tell me if there were rioters, looters, muggers, or even zombies I should be watching out for, I made a hasty retreat to my room and another peanut butter sandwich.

To begin with the chaos had seemed almost exciting, there was a thrill to witnessing a headline-news first-hand, but after a day without heat, internet, electricity, or water the excitement had definitely started to wear off. By the morning of the second day it had permanently evaporated; I couldn’t shower, I couldn’t make tea, I couldn’t check Facebook, and I couldn’t even flush the toilet. Things were shit.

There was no one around who I felt I could talk to either, except perhaps for the building super-intendant or ‘super’ who had greeted me when I first moved in. He had enough on his plate though. Perhaps, if I had not been the self-conscious person I was then, I could have gone to some bar and chatted up some friendly lady. Then maybe I could have traded my body for food that wasn’t peanut butter based, and, for everyone’s benefit, perhaps a shower too,. No, I was not that guy, and I’m still not that guy, but now I know where the bars are at least.

Fortunately on day two of the apocalypse some text messages started to get through. After informing my parents I was still alive I managed to make contact with an old friend on the other side of town who still had power and offered me space on their couch. To get to him I walked for three hours across Manhattan, past dangling cranes, snow drifts of leaves, rubbish, and cars crushed under fallen trees. There were a lot of policemen with guns standing around and looking severe. If I had found the courage to ask them about the public transport situation they might have told me that all the buses were running for free and I really didn’t need