50 ways to leave your imaginary lover

And so it ends, the brief obsessive one sided love affair between me and the unsuspecting barman.

Not with a bang on top of the marble counter, but with a silent and unnoticed whimper.

Last night I washed my hair, got to sleep around 2am and woke up incredibly refreshed and bright eyed. I applied so much makeup, my own mother wouldn’ta recognised me. I entirely obscured all of those pesky features that make me who I am, added a short but otherwise non-threatening dress and a pair of flat boots and left the house looking about as damn fine as I am capable of with only half an hour’s prep time.

I flounced into the bar and hello… sexy barman is right there waiting for my coffee order. I order an Americano to stretch my barman facetime to its utmost. I’m so excited, we are so going to have a conversation I can tell…

He shouts across at another customer who is leaving, some joke that elicits a ripple of laughter.

I have no idea what he’s talking about so I just try to look friendly over my nervous smile (it don’t come easily to me) and wait for him to devote his time and energy to the preparation of my beverage and that solid customer-barman bonding conversation I long for…

The customer pauses at the door and they exchange some unintelligible banter.

He leaves chuckling. Barman leans over the bar to me in a conspiratory manner that sets my creepy little stalker heart all a flutter…. and explains the joke to me. He probably saw the weird fearful smile plastered on my face and thought I needed to be put at ease that they were not discussing the black market reselling of my organs or something.

So he explains the joke:

“He’s my girlfriend’s dad and he’s 45, and tonight I’m having a party and as I’m 20 all my friends who will be there will be 20 or 21…” and then came the explanation of the joke but after I heard the words girlfriend AND I’m 20, I was lost in a spiral of despair.

The whole obsessive fantasy of mine regarding my lovely barman disolves around me like drain cleaner going to town on toilet grime.

He’s 20. He has a girlfriend… I could overlook the girlfriend if he was older because I think once you have been in a couple of shit relationships you stop bothering with the whole fidelity thing… unless you’re a nice person, or whatever. Anyway he’s 20 so he’s either A) a total shit, or B) convinced he’s with his soulmate. Either way… also, Jesus lapdancing christ, I didn’t have much fun in bed with 20 year old guys when I was that age myself, I’m certainly not going back there now… As well as fuck man, no wonder he has such a lovely friendly gorgeous face, he hasn’t been whipped across the buttocks by life and her bitch-ass lessons yet (crying take the pain,you optimistic little shit…through delightedly gritten teeth).

I watched him juggling cups and saucers… only yesterday that seemed like a private circus of flirtation put on for me and me alone, and now instead I connect the dots between how nice and friendly he is to me, and how nice and interested he seemed in that old crone’s lumbago complaints yesterday. Oh man. I am the old woman. He is just believably friendly.

I am a creep.

I knock back my steaming hot Americano in one burny swig.

I smile weakly at the rejected barman I had originally been aiming my bizzare stunted flirtations towards. He was friendly too… he’s definitely in the desirable age group of “between my age and 35…” But I don’t have the heart or stomach or any of the internal organs required to start afresh with yet another barman… to build up the nervous chatter and fleeting eye contact… no. This is the end… My barman lust ends now.

I trudged over to H&M to try on those jeans again. I mused over that if I am going to be attracted to 20 year old boys I will have to start wearing jeans to put them at ease. I tried on the jeans and just couldn’t bring myself to accept people seeing how big my ass really is. I mean they didn’t look that bad… but then I tried on a black dress (yes another black dress) and I gave myself some serious lady wood so I had to buy it. Damn I look good in that dress. I am wearing it tomorrow to a party.

So that lifted my spirits a little.

I felt so enthused about looking amazing in that dress that I sauntered over to the bar where the original, neglected hot barman works.

What the hey, one last dejected lap of my stalking circuit, a solitary goodbye to a hobby that at best promoted hygiene and looking after my appearance and at worst was a little bit psycho.

He was there. He was friendly. He’s hopelessly hot… and definitely at least my age. But I was looking at him and I just felt a massive sigh of disappointment over how long I have lived here and how much energy I have put into building my creepy fantasies over these barmen who have no idea of any of the crazy that is bottled up beneath my slutty looking but quiet exterior. It makes me shudder to imagine how many weird guys there might be out there who have used me thusly in their own freaky fantasies, and I none the wiser. Gross.

And it’s all based on very very little…. they are just friendly barmen. They are just the only good looking men who are not ridiculously old or crazy looking who are friendly to me and smile at me. It’s sad. I just want a metaphorical pat on the head and for some attractive men to approve of me. My self worth needs it. Don’t even start me on how much my crotch needs it.

I just feel like some weary worn out thing with makeup and a load of dresses and a tendency to obsess over men who I then beat myself up over because I consider them out of my league.

This is messed up.

I haven’t had sex since the end of August also.

I’m just tired of getting all dressed up and there not being any takers.

I know I’m leaving here in mid January early Feb, but damn it feels like forever.

And what will I do now that I no longer am frenzying myself over some indifferent bartender?  What reason do I have now to put on slap in the mornings? You know it’s really hard to constantly make an effort with no positive reinforcement.

I totally get Mrs. Havisham staying in the same stinky wedding dress… what’s the fucking point anyway?

I feel like if I do eventually give up on all this effort (well, in fairness it’s not THAT much effort.. under my tights I am very hairy) it will mean I admit defeat, and go back to my pre-makeup state where I had to get by on my personality and we all know that may be awesome as fuck but it’s not exactly sexy when I rant about things. No way man. I want to stay in denial, keep aiming high and then scuttering away before I can be rejected.

I’m so glad I’m a woman, or I’d probably still be a virgin.

Oooohoooo why do I feel so shit? I just burst the bubble of my sad little delusions, there was no rejection! I shouldn’t feel so shitty but I feel seriously shitty.

If you have a heart, please could someone just secretly pay a male model to come up to me and tell me I’m beautiful. That would (sadly) sort me right out.

Womenfolk: I apologise for being such a floundering representative for y’all. I know there are worse representatives, like the insufferable wenches in tampon ads and the hags peddling senokot (gentle laxative for the modern constipated woman) while swapping recipes with their aged mothers… but still.

I fully intend my next post to be not about mooning over a barman, and not about me being sad that I don’t get hit on.

I need to buy groceries anyway so you never know you might be in for a supermarket visit related post.

YAY motherfuckers!


8 responses to “50 ways to leave your imaginary lover

  1. You must seriously be in some sort of parellel universe. Maybe they respect you or think you are TOO good for them, so they don’t hit on you. It’s really the only thing I can come up with. The men in this country are sporcaccione. Consider yourself lucky they aren’t harassing you at the bus stop fatasizing on blow off on your tits, slapping your ass and walking away. YOU have to do the slapping and walking! But DON’T bring one you your place, they are parasites disguised as house pets.

    • Oh dear lorrrd I do get hit on at bus stops… but by elderly men in tweed jackets with drool on the front and yellowy grey bears, who call me “bistecchiiiiina” or “patatina” in a cackling witch voice. URgh. I don’t count them. Also some mentally… I don’t know, but not 100% mentally capable guys sometimes ask me weird long winded questions on the bus. I have also had one guy start masturbating while sitting beside me on the bus. And I have been asked for a pair of my underwear on two separate occasions. And I have had my ass grabbed twice. But it’s only the weirdos so I don’t count it… then I go out to a club and they are all too short or else I avoid making eye contact because it’s too much pressure and I freak out.

  2. Whenever I read about this new Barman of yours, Lionel Richie’s “Hello,” starts playing in my head.

    Chin up lass, there’s plenty of more handsome men you can stalk in this world.

  3. I was a “barmaid” for a long time (9 years), and I might be able to give you some insight. It was an unwritten rule that if you are going to be behind a bar, you need to do two things. 1, make huge tips, which is easier accomplished by 2, getting regular customers. Regular customers were acquired by acting available but never BEing available. The more they like you and think they might get to hook up with you, the more often they come in, and the bigger tips they give. Cha-ching! $$$$$ So I’m definitely not saying that you will never hook up with a bartender, because some of them ARE horny bastards who find their hook-ups through their customers… but the ones that make the best money are the ones who never give it up and keep ’em wantin more! :D

    • Hey… well I would totally agree with you there except, in Italy, you don’t tip bar staff. Or anyone. At all. I don’t mean like, people are stingy… no, tipping is just not a thing. But I don’t think I’ll make it happen anyway… I’ve given up on my barmen, I think they are just really nice good looking guys, and anything else is me deluding myself and getting carried away…

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