Ever since I started doing this column I have stereotyped myself somewhat as a bit of an Edinburgh fanatic. I breathe, eat, sleep and shag in this wonderful city, and, as daft as it may seem, sometimes girls cannot even compare to she that is Edinburgh. When the Festival was on I found myself getting fidgety, wishing that the tourists would leave my city alone. They raped her, using her for what she could give them and not appreciating her in the same way that I do. Nobody will ever love Edinburgh as much as me. Not even the Scots who have lived here all of their lives. I cannot help but watch them with narrowed eyes as they wander the streets with their fucked up accents and idiotic kilts. They are ruining my town. And I feel I must protect her. Because nobody else I know will.
Now while I may seem slightly more obsessive than normal over she that is my life, I had this realisation that it was only I, in the whole of Great Britain, who loved Edinburgh as much as me the other night. Fucked off my face as usual, I approached two girls on Princes Street, who looked as though they were appreciating the fine curves and beautiful form of the architecture in the road. ‘At last!’ I thought with glee, as I sauntered over to them with a cigarette in one hand and a wrap in the other. ‘Two women who may understand why I love this great city as much as I do!’ My heart does a jump as I realise that I am magnetically drawn to the brunette who is now scouring the pavement with shy grey eyes while her friend looks high into the sky. Has this girl been alarmed by the beauty of Edinburgh like me and is now shy in her presence? Has she been overwhelmed by her character, her charm, and her slight ironic wit and is now considering her desire for this town? At the time I felt as though nothing could stop me and I had found my one true soulmate. I approached her. I knew we would have a bond.
‘You love this city, don’t you?’ I asked her, as her friend jumped into a car and sped off towards the grottier end of town. ‘You see what I see, don’t you? You feel what I feel. You love this city more than anything’. She spoke. She too was English. And I was glad, because Edinburgh secretly hates the Scots. ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ she asked me, with a slight northern accent that added an edge to her soft features and almost nervous demeanour. I jumped at the chance. Finally I had found someone with whom I could speak freely about the city with. ‘How long have you been here?’ I warbled quietly to her, as I swayed down the road and she tripped along, in her heels that had mud stains around the bottom. ‘Half an hour’ she whispered, as she took my hand, and led me towards a tourist bus. ‘I was waiting for you’. As we climbed the stairs towards the top of the double decker I felt myself become aroused. I blushed ashamedly. Was I finally about to cheat on my one true love of Edinburgh with someone who loved her also? Or did the feelings that we shared for the city mean that it wasn’t so much of a coupling but a threesome, where we rejoiced in Edinburgh’s amazingness and developed our love for her between us? I looked into the brunette’s eyes and sat down at the front of the bus. She placed her hand in my lap. Time disintegrated as she rode me whilst reciting names of all of Edinburgh’s streets and shops. I have never been so turned on. The girl wasn’t bad, either. I had found Edinburgh incarnate as a woman!
‘Seventy quid mate’, my brunette whispered into my ear, as I hugged her for dear life while keeping one eye on the Scott Monument. I turned to her aghast. ‘You’re charging me?’ I cried, desperately trying to remember if and when I had entered into such an agreement. ‘Seventy quid ain’t that steep’ she growled, closing the street map of the city that she had placed on the seat behind us as she fucked me senseless. ‘You should be grateful I didn’t charge more – fucking shittest fuck of my life – never met anyone who got turned on my streetnames before. I was aghast. Some girl, some vindictive, nasty, money-grabbing whore had taken advantage of me, my city, and all that Edinburgh entails for a few quid and a laugh at my expense. I was outraged. But I managed to flop my cock away and throw a few Scottish notes at her without bursting into tears. And then I walked away.
How could I have been so stupid? I often end up pulling prostitutes my mistake and don’t begrudge them their wages once that have bought me to climax, but I have never been so disgusted with myself. I honestly thought that I had found someone who believed in the city as much as I do, someone who loves it and cherishes it with the same deep desire that drives me and my existence. I was wrong. And I had been too easily led. As I slowly dragged myself home I found myself being consoled by the very city that had distracted me during my encounter with the prostitute. And I began to get turned on. ‘Oh Edinburgh, Edinburgh, why do you haunt me so?’ I cried out at the top of my voice, disturbing the sleeping pigeons high in the trees. I rushed back to the Scott Monument and pulled down my trousers. I was hard again. I would wank in front of the monument as an apology for screwing a girl when I should have been making love to Edinburgh, my fine city and one true love. My hands began to move.