No more drinking, ever, ever, ever, after the last disaster, so I spent a night playing Skyrim with my friend Steve. I am so far ahead of him in the world of Skyrim, it is embarassing. I feel like queen of the nerds.
And we had a good time… stayed in his room passing the controller back and forth til 3am and would have spent the night and probably wound up doing something regrettable except I knew my parents would see me crawling in the next day and assume the guilty truth. So I left before anything stupid happened. Thank fuck… I felt like kind of a jerk though, realised I was still kind of flirting when I really don’t want to do that with him.
And I mean, we had nothing to drink and I only JUST managed not to sleep with him. Really I can take absolutely no credit for this achievement, if he had made the slightest move in my direction I would have pounced. I was so sure my problem was the booze, it felt so liberating and simple…. all my stupid tramp antics can be linked back to the booze! But even without a single drop, the slut-beast takes over and I start to do my “plump up my boobs and hike up my skirt a bit every time he goes to the bathroom” move. Also I switch my smiling from round faced and guile-free to naughty, playful… insinuating.
If you notice a girl you are hanging out with starting to look increasingly slutty and dishevelled as your sober night wears on, it is probably on purpose. It is a pretty stupid technique and has never yielded good results but I cling to it like my mother clings to rescue remedy.
I didn’t even WANT anything to happen. I just wanted to amuse myself and feel attractive, I guess. Shouldn’t be doing it with friends, though.
Anyway, that was back in my mum’s neighbourhood. Since then, I have moved into my own place as I already told you, so I am at least back in my cuccoon of solitude, masturbation and total control over fridge contents…. And I’m away from the dangers of having a male neighbour who is also bored and trusts me in his bedroom late at night…
Now I can commence the good kind of socialising… the lively array of multicoloured things to do and people to see and civilised busses home because my place is so handy and easily accessible from the big shmoke, Capital City, Dublin baby….
Unfortunately, this all looked like it would be much easier when I was in Italy.
My immediate plans for a bustling social life were my new neighbour and ex housemate, who I have twice made plans with but he has exams coming up and as a mature student actually takes that shit seriously, so he keeps bailing on me. He promises to go out on a mad one at the end of the month but misses the point- I actually don’t want a mad one, I want a cup of tea and to gossip about people neither of us have been friends with in four years….
But I have a reverent respect for studying, it’s so alien to me… I shrug and I guess I’ll see him when his exams are over, I try not to take it personally.. Who knows how easily the delicate student psyche could be tipped out of balance… I certainly don’t. It didn’t take much to distract me, I dropped out in my first year due to scheduling conflicts with my social life (ie. I liked to give the weekend a good three days berth for hangovers, and college demanded I showed up sometimes…)
Then I have a friend from school… we have kept in touch but only seen each other a handful of times in the past 6 years… she’s going through a late-starter’s torrid love affair with drugs and parties. It gives me a heavy heart because I have been there, done that, and hallucinated the t shirt was trying to kill me. I don’t WANT to do any more drugs, but it’s pretty fucking impossible to spend time with people who are doing all the crazy fun stuff and stick to the beers. I always think I can do it, and I am always wrong.
But I wanted to see her. She’s fun, she seemed keenest of all my old cronies to catch up and hang out…. So I said, ok, we will go out. BUT NOT A MAD ONE.
I don’t want to go out on the session. I don’t want to drink anything that will make me drunk. I don’t want to be offered a line a pill or a… anything. NO DRUGS. PLEASE.
Ok ok no drugs.
She picked me up at my place with another old school chum in the back. Hooray! Reunion time!
We had a few beers in her house, a huge-ceilinged Georgian place full of pre-Paddy’s day giddyness and although I insisted, there will be no serious boozing, the spirit of celebration took a hold of me… My light beers were punctuated with realisations like “I live in Ireland now, hooray!” and “I have these nice friends here, hooray!” and “I don’t have to drink much, I can just drink a BIT!”
And so we landed in a taxi, five of us, and I thought I was the sober one so I adopted an educated and elegant voice and engaged the taxi driver in polite conversation about taxi etiquette. The other girls were drinking their remaining beers in the back of the taxi… We took photos of ourselves and whooped and I yelled “spring break, woo!” and “this is gonna be off the hook!” repeatedly. I might not have been the sober one actually. The taxi driver soon gave up on me and turned the radio on.
We hit a bar, had a SMALL beer… my friends were in the toilet and took a while to come back. I steeled myself to reject the inevitable offer of pills. Georgia pursed her hand over mine and I bellowed “NO! THANKS BUT NO!” and so she withdrew and I felt a tremendous chorus sing victory inside my head.
It took me about three minutes and a millilitre of beer to change my mind and sidle up to Georgia and ask her, actually do you have a pill there for me please… she offered me a little half. That’s enough for me, cheers. I haven’t had a pill in a year. Actually that’s a lie, I had one at new year…
Shit. But anyway, I have zero resistance to pills and the like any more, so I guess a half would have some sort of effect on me. My mother likes to tell me these stories about her youth and I KNOW they are totally airbrushed, I just know it… and in her stories she basically cycles five miles from her house, has a half a glass of cider or something, and nibbles an eighth of a pill and dances for 12 hours solid before cycling home without remotely putting herself at risk. She always tells me these stories, like she expects me to come out with my own drug stories to share with her, but I won’t because whether or not she is telling the truth, she probably believes her tales by now… and what I used to get up to would probably give her a heart attack.
Anyway I had just eaten the little bit of pill and was returning to my friends, feeling a bit like my mother, but at least safe in the knowledge that I would not be getting too mangled on a half and my friends were bound to be worse than me, when across the room, a face dawns recognition on me.
WHAT the FUCK?
My ex boyfriend. The one I told you about… maybe… anyway he was the only boyfriend I ever had who was nice to me. Obviously I was incredibly mean to him in return. And there he is, all friendly and handsome, just standing there with some people, including girls I recognise from my facebook stalking sessions.
He gives me a hug and looks genuinely happy to see me.
We exchange how are you’s and surprise and bewilderment at bumping into each other here, a pub neither of us frequent, on my first night out in Dublin. I’m so glad I look nice. He looks nice. I don’t mean I’ll go there… he just looks nice, I can introduce him to my friends without being embarassed. Nice to have ONE ex I can do that with…
Then he turns around and presents to me… his extended family… who are visiting him… oh jesus. I just remember I have recently dropped a half a pill and I’m certainly not used to taking drugs any more so I am about to come up properly, and although it’s only a half… urgh. Don’t want to be getting too enthusiastic or chewing my face in front of my ex’s folks… who I stayed with, who know me… who probably think I’m a horrible bitch… argh.
I think I behaved myself. I think so…
We chat for a bit.
I find my friends, try to dance… realise I’m actually not really getting anything off that pill and can’t dance yet.. maybe I’m a little bubblier than usual but it could easily be the beer kicking in. Need to be in a much worse condition before dancing can happen.
Go outside for a smoke. (I have bought a pack of tobacco for the purposes of social smoking when drunk. Bad idea. But I’m not going to smoke any more once it’s finished, I swear…)
Talking to some Swedish men in lepracaun outfits. For some reason. I tell them I am Belgian, from the Italian speaking part of Belgium. They don’t realise this is bullshit and there is no Italian part of Belgium. I realise it’s not a whole lot of fun tricking them, they are too drunk…you need the gullible but sober Italians to get any satisfaction from the sport.
I duck away from the Swedes and rejoin my friends.
Now for the guts of the evening.
So earlier, with Georgia and another old school chum, a name cropped up… talking about people we used to hang out with and who’s doing what, who’s pregnant, who’s fat… who beats up their girlfriend….
A name crops up. Ross. I perk up. I used to like Ross. In fact, I kissed Ross on two occasions back in the day…. I really quite liked Ross. We had English together, and he was pretty much the only boy I knew who was any good at discussing “deep” subjects…. who was also, of course, tall and good looking.
But he always had a girlfriend. We kissed this one time and I wanted to take him home with me, but he slipped into a crisis of guilt and self-flagellation… Arrghh I have a girlfriend… what have I done? ARGHHH!
And so I just acted all blase like I didn’t give a crap, because obviously I wasn’t going to be his beast of burden and have to deal with all this sentimentality shit and eventually just get hurt.
So I shut it off, and fuck it… although I do remember feeling a pang of, damn it, I NEVER meet a guy I actually like… and am attracted to… at the same time. But I shrugged, took some more pills, and danced like a freak until the sun came up and settled into place and we all got taxis home and I never saw any of them again.
And then he popped up on facebook. And I saw he was still with the same girlfriend. And I saw he was still pretty damn hot. But I wasn’t going to waste my time thinking about some dude I shared a classroom with 6… 7? 6 or 7 years ago, who has a long term girlfriend and who I probably don’t even remember properly.
And then his name cropped up in conversation in the car, and Georgia says she saw him a few weeks ago, in bits, all drunk and depressed because he had broken up with the girlfriend. And I felt giddy with the possibilities… like, obviously I’m not just going to bump into him randomly, but….
And then I’m outside this pub, smoking a pointless cigarette, shrugging off these two creepy (ie. not attractive) guys who are trying to put their arms around me and lean on my shoulder, and I look around for anyone I know…
And there he is. Ross. A couple of metres away from me…. looking pretty fucking attractive in a shirt and jacket, looking like a proper man…
And maybe I run over too enthusiastically and he won’t remember me, it has been 6 years after all, and we never spent that much time together… but before I know it his face lights up and he gives me a kiss on the cheek and his arm slips in around my waist and he talks in close to my face and he’s asking me everything, am I back, am I really back, and where am I living, and am I married, oh separated, no way, and it’s so good to see you…
He’s talking with his cheek against mine. He tells me, “you’re younger than me, you’re 24…” and I ask him how he knows that, and he murmers “facebook” and I think of all my creepy facebook stalking of his page, and dare I imagine he has done the same with mine? I find it hard to believe that someone else… would lurk around the net like I do… he must be very drunk to admit that….
It’s geeky and it strikes a chord with me… Obviously, cringe for admitting it… I would never, ever, ever admit to the facebook lurking I do… have done… will do… but it, like so many other minor, offputting, warning sign things a man can do, endears him to me…
Vulnerability! Honesty! HE LIKES ME! It’s music to my ears…
We’re talking, he’s saying… he’s saying he thought about me so much… over the years. I’m taken aback… I really didn’t think of him since school, not until I saw him on facebook and looked through all his photos, just a little bit. Why would I? It’s not like I really thought he was so special, I just liked him… I have liked a lot of guys since, more, he’s just someone interesting that resurfaced.. But it’s nice to hear, so I say I have thought about him too, and it’s not a lie exactly but I definitely don’t mean it like he said it. It’s flattering but I do find it hard to picture this good looking, intelligent guy with a hot girlfriend, thinking about ME all these years.
6 or 7 years…
Anyway. I’m happy basking in the appreciation. He tells me I’m just as hot as he remembers… and I feel a flicker of annoyance because, actually I hoped I had gotten hotter. I guess my figure is neither much better nor worse, but I like to think I have improved since I was 17-18. But hey… I guess his memory paints with an airbrush too.
It’s still a lovely thing to hear.
Seriously, I was only just thinking the other day, how no hot guy will EVER think about me in such an obsessive way as I think about hot barman. But here is a hot guy… a hot, smart, nice guy… and he’s here telling me he liked me so much in school… he thought about me for years…
I am wildly happy to be complimented so much and by someone whose opinion I actually care for… (because he’s hot)
I would be wildly happy with a tenth of the nice things he is telling me. I think joyfully of how I want to take him home, to my nice apartment… my big bed… I have lots of condoms… it’s perfect.
I am going to knock his socks off…. He’ll be like, ooh I had no idea Abby was so hot and good at English and ALSO GIVES AMAZING SEX.
His lips brush my ear when he whispers that he wants to take me out… on a date, a real date… He would like that… it’s good to talk to me… he always liked me..
I’m like, a real date? REALLY? That sounds lovely… My own previous warnings and insistence on don’t get involved, don’t let yourself be tempted… no falling into relationships, please, no nice guys and no giving up your independence… it all flutters away, I’m swept up in the beauty of being wanted… being liked… not just for a quick fuck… ohhh this feels lovely.
But of course I’m not big enough for intimacy.
He tries to kiss me and I stop him. No kissing in public… it’s embarassing… no, no, really… I just bumped into my ex and his family, I don’t want to be spotted by them plus half of Dublin eating face on the footpath…
He has an arm around me. He’s tall and sexy.
I tell him I want to bring him back to my place.
He says he doesn’t just want to sleep with me… well, he does… but he wants to… you know… he wants to… he tries to kiss me again.
I tell him not in public. He asks me to move down a bit, down the street, away from eyes.
We move. We kiss. It’s thrilling… he’s lovely, he’s passionate, he closes his eyes when we kiss and when he opens them he is looking at me with some kind of approval I am not used to seeing. It’s sort of tender. I feel little knots of… what the fuck have i been doing all this time, picking up guys and bringing them home and sleeping with people I don’t like… who don’t like me… what am I doing? Why do I do it? Oh so badly want to fuck him though. His arm around my waist is the single most erotic moment I have had in months. I tuck myself into his arms, daring his body towards mine.
I tell him, I want to bring you home with me…
He says he wants to take me out… would I like that?
I want to bring you home…
He says, do you want to go now?
I say, “why the fuck not?” and for some reason I say it in a knacker accent.
We get a taxi back to mine. In the taxi I send a text message to Georgia so she doesn’t worry about me. “Goin.Home. Getin my hole.x ”
In the taxi we discuss philosophy and religion. I’m drunk and he’s drunk but it’s a good conversation, punctuated by kissing and the foreign taxi driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Disgusting drunken Irish. I feel on the verge of tapping the taxi driver on his shoulder and explaining to him, “you don’t understand, I didn’t just pick him up… this is a slow burner baby. Seven years I have been wanting to tap that ass… He likes me for my intellect!”
We make it in the door. He tries to kiss me on the doorstep. NO I JUST MOVED IN HERE! Argh. You’re a prude…
We’re inside the door and I’m so fucking HAPPY, he’s here in my apartment, my lovely little place, I get to look all grown up and sophisticated to someone hot… someone who likes me…
He likes my place. He grinds up against me and our mouths mingle and do you have anything to drink?
I shouldn’t because I said I wasn’t going to be drinking, but I actually have a naughty bottle of whiskey in the cupboard…
“Oh,” he says, “That’s my drink!” A little charge of irritation runs through me at that. I wouldn’t say something like that… or maybe I would…
I pour us two tall glasses. I fill them to the rim. Whoops… just drink as much as you want, I can’t pour with finesse right now…
A glass is knocked over. Whiskey everywhere, I mop at it with a towel because I am a new tenant and I am a good tenant and then we are on top of each other, on my bed, and yes it’s creaky, but it’s bouncy and comfortable too… He has my dress off and my bra off and with lightning speed he’s naked, and he’s got broad shoulders and a nice body.
He also has a big dick.
It’s actually a lot bigger than usual… the usual fuck me hard as you like deal doesn’t work out so well. I’m a little sore after a while but still want sex. Man, that is going to hurt tomorrow. I have grabbed a random condom from out of my lucky dip. It is strawberry flavoured. Oh well, whatever… I don’t want to open the bag up properly and show him the ridiculous assortment of condoms I have. I can smell artificial strawberry as he fucks me.
After a few drunken “ah fuck” moments where it slips out and I’m getting kind of sore, we stop and kiss and talk and start again. I can barely fit him in my mouth but I attempt some oral anyway….
He asks me, what am I doing for the rest of the weekend?
I say, I don’t know, but I didn’t want to go out and get drunk this weekend, even though it is Paddys weekend.
He asks me, how would I like to just spend the weekend together?
Ordinarily I’d be like RUN AWAYYYY but lying in this man’s arms… sticky with sex I won’t regret, knowing I have only got a little bit more sex in my power before my vagina says that’s too much for tonight, go away now please… it seems like a lovely idea. I would like that… sounds good… I think I mention, I am not looking for a relationship right now, and you’re on the rebound… he claims he is not on the rebound, they broke up months ago. Right. Still on the motherfucking rebound, boy. You’ll see…
I briefly hope he doesn’t rebound all over me. I would like some company… I really would.. and I like him… but I don’t want to be his ex-girlfriend surrogate. I don’t want him to be affectionate to me because he’s used to being that way with his ex. That’s the rebound, it’s nothing personal. I say I’d like to hang out anyway, that would be nice…
He expresses surprise I liked him in school. He says he thinks I am a very cool and intelligent person, and doesn’t know why I’d want to hang out with him at all..
Oh, so we both have terrible self esteem? Probably can thank our exes for that one. It slightly diminishes the compliment of his eagerness… slightly…
We have more sex. The condom is all gross and dry now. He takes it off… I tell him, I have more condoms… better condoms… he says he fucking hates condoms. If you remember, this very phrase, a few weeks ago, from the English fellow, incurred wrath and spite and hatred, but when Ross says it it is understandable and fine. I don’t normally have sex without condoms. He tells he won’t cum inside. Oh all right then!
Ohhh sex feels so much better without the rubber. So so sooooo much better. I am still sore because boy that’s a thick dick… but it feels good and I would so love him to just cum inside… I imagine how great that would feel, although I probably wouldn’t feel it at all… I tell him come inside, just come inside…
But he pulls out in time (I presume) and empties on my belly and kisses me and tells me I am seriously fucking hot.
We do this soon again… it vaguely occurs to me that I shouldn’t be putting a sperm-covered penis inside me as that is the entire point of pulling out, to keep the sperms out of the vagina, but fuck it, I don’t care, I’m drunk and I’m horny and it feels good.
I’m sure I won’t get pregnant, anyway. I’m probably infertile anyway, I used the withdrawal method with husband and we originally had a lot of sex, so the fact that I have never been pregnant… speaks uncomfortable volumes.
He strokes my hair and says he has to work in the morning. It’s like 3am now. He has to go to work via home. I try to get him to stay but I don’t really push, because he says he’ll be back after work… 5.30pm… ish.
Will I come and meet him after work? Nnnnrghhh… hung over. Maybe? I’ll see how I feel…
I’ll come back here right after work.
I tell him, take my number..
Ah can I not just come straight here after work?
Yeah of course but what if you forget the house, or something? Also I have to meet a friend tomorrow so just to make sure I’m here…
I give him my number, and he calls and hangs up so I have his, or maybe to check it’s a real number.
Goodbye… we kiss in the doorway and mash our bodies against each other. Mmm see you later… He tells me he’s going to fuck me all day tomorrow. I hope my vadge is recovered by then, it feels quite abused and sore. Mmmm I don’t care I’m going to fuck him anyway. I really like that dick… he says I have an amazing pussy… really tight.
YEAH, only because you have a massive cock. But it’s nice to feel tight, I was starting to think all these random penises I have been accepting into my special area, were giving me the stretchy jeans in the dryer treatment.
He leaves and I curl up in bed and picture a weekend with a man, and a nice man I like… and I wonder what we could do? He wants to spend the whole weekend with me… When I mentioned SundayI am committed to a mother’s day lunch back at home, he complained. Boo! I want to hang out with you… You’re so good to talk to… I really like you…
And he wants to take me on a date… no one has ever asked me on a date before. I wonder if I was a bit too forceful about bringing home to fuck… no, it’s ok… I’m sure it’s ok.
Wake up at 10am and wish it was later. I can’t wait for him to come over. I am very hung over but determined to not bloat myself with my usual hangover fare. I make vegetable soup and wonder if he is going to be expecting food, and what could I cook to impress a big man?
I am a good cook but I’ve grown used to cooking solely for my own weight loss… and so am not really familiar with meals a man would enjoy. I remember husband scoffed at my soups for dinner. He was like, soup is not a meal. So I just made carbonara and lasagne and stuff for him, and incidentally became very fat.
I fantasize like crazy about going out and doing stuff with another person… what do people do? WHAT IS a date anyway? I don’t like the cinema. I really don’t like watching movies with all those people around and having to pay cocaine prices for snacks that I’ll only feel guilty about later…
I don’t want to go to a pub because that’s just like… all the romantic socialising I’ve ever done before. And a meal out… I hoover food into my mouth. And when I’m in a restaurant all I want to order is a steak and chips. So that’s what I’ll have, and I’ll order the steak bloody as hell, and maybe that will put a man off? I do eat it with a slightly perturbing amount of gusto. Mmm steak…
Eventually grow so bored and hung over that I text him… I wrestled with the idea of texting him or not… and the cool girl lost, so I wrote something about how was work going?
And immediately regretted saying anything. But I felt like by sending a text, I confirmed with him,that whatever he might think about how we made plans when drunk, and maybe they didn’t count… well, I was still interested… but without having to say anything too obvious or put myself out there at all.
So he replied, oh I feel shit, I wanna go home… or something.
Then I’m like… blah blah blah yeah I’m bored, can’t sleep…
And we carried on this crappy useless conversation for a while. Then I didn’t reply to him and fell asleep.
I woke up at 6pm and wondered… was he going to call or just show up? I texted back to his last message, saying I had fallen asleep and felt a bit better… a pointless message and it didn’t say anything or refer to our plans at all. Stupid waste of the ball being in my court. I had the last- texted priviledge and I threw it away without realising the implications….
I still expected him to call or arrive though, so I hopped in the shower and picked out my sexiest fake pyjamas (hotpants and a string top and satin dressing gown.) to wear just in case he dropped in unannounced.
But he didn’t arrive.
And he didn’t call.
And he didn’t text back…
That was nearly a week ago. I spent all that first evening expecting something, anything, and the next day I woke up and thought he must have just been really hung over, maybe his phone battery died and he got home and just went to sleep, he was of course wrecked… and he will text me the next day, or maybe he was all insecure and thought he should leave it two or three days…
But he didn’t.
I mean, I know we were drunk… so plans aren’t necessarily definite… but he said SO MUCH to me bout how he liked me for so long, and always thought of me… and now I don’t doubt that he meant it, because drunkeness wouldn’t account for all the things he said… there has to be a pretty strong basis in fact… but what is going on now?
Did I scare him off with my cock-hungry behaviour?
Did I say something stupid?
Did my text messages imply that I didn’t want to see him? I mean he did seem extra surprised that I would be into him… so maybe he is just embarassed of all the confessions he made about liking me… maybe he thinks he just said far too much and I was just drunk and went along with it, and now he’s afraid of seeming desperate?
But… in my experience, I am always far too lenient with men in this respect. I always look for the positive. Oh, he doesn’t call me? Yeah he must like me TOO much.
I always cut them too much slack. But still, why would he be so eager to spend time with me, so over the top actually… to be honest the idea of spending a whole weekend together, now that I’m sober, seems a little excessive and weird. But I would have loved a next day call, or a “do you want to do something saturday night?”
Instead, nothing. Some shitty throwaway texts that I instigated, and I was the last one to write back too… so I couldn’t even pull out some casual how are you message a few days later. I wasted the only shot at understanding what happened… because I just presumed he would show up… and now I just have to deal with the rejection.
It’s really upsetting.
I liked this guy….
I don’t even know how much, because we last saw each other years ago… And even then, I mean my finding him attractive probably skewed everything in his favour anyway. He may have been an insufferable smart ass, I don’t know. I do know I cut people A LOT of slack if they are male and good looking and tall and have a nice smile.
He kept telling me I was so good to talk to, and he wished he had just gotten together with me back then and not that girl he was with because he liked me much better anyway.. and how he thought about me so much… how he wished he had just stayed with me at that party… “I should have gone out with a nice girl like you…” he murmured into my neck…
I replied, because I didn’t want to gush right back at him…. although it wouldn’t have felt false to do so, but I’m still cautious… “I don’t even know how I wound up at that party, I didn’t even know anyone there…” and he just murmered “because you were the most beautiful girl… you were… you’re just so hot”… and that’s not really an answer but it made me melt, oh man… I really need compliments. If only I could get compliments and not turn to mush….
When I had to get up for a pee and stroll naked across the room… terribly self conscious but trying like a strong confident woman to pretend not to be… he said it again, over and over… so hot… so sexy… and so glad I was backin Ireland, so glad he bumped into me… he thought about me… all the time…
SO WHERE IS MY MOTHERFUCKING PHONE CALL?
WHERE IS MY TEXT MESSAGE?
Is it honestly ridiculous of me to feel rejected here when he talked at such length about his interest in me? I mean come on, you wouldn’t just make all that up…. because you were drunk… Georgia says “ah he’s on the rebound, he was probably just drunk..” but while those things might make you think you liked someone more in the moment… why would he tell me all this stuff about years ago?
He can’t have lost his phone or my number either… my immediate reaction is to give the man the benefit of the doubt. If he doesn’t call me back I honestly presume he fell in a canal or was mugged for his phone before it occurs to me “maybe this guy doesn’t like you very much”… but I can’t even think that because we are friends on on facebook too….
He’s alive, and whether he was robbed of his phone by a gang of daytime hoodlums or not… he has a very easy and free way of contacting me whenever he wants to.
I feel rejected, and I feel used… in a way I haven’t felt in a long time, because I have been doing this sillyness, casual sex with people I don’t give a crap about. There is no rejection then, because you don’t care. You might feel a pang of “oh I wish he was more into me, it’s a bit insulting…” but it’s always teamed with “dodged a bullet there anyway”.
So that’s what I’ve been doing… I’ve been avoiding feeling hurt by staying away from intimacy and by keeping it all about the sex. Maybe this was terribly obvious to everyone including myself… but now I finally have a night, and yes, a drunken night, and I get my hopes up about someone… just, not that I want a boyfriend.. but yes it would be nice, to meet someone and like them and hang out sometimes, and curl up and feel appreciated… and go out and feel pretty… and have someone look at me that way, look through the bullshit and like me anyway.
I don’t know what just happened, or what I would have liked to happen.. . Maybe I would have panicked and run a mile, maybe he said a lot of stupid crap the other night that made me cringe and think, oh oh, what have I got myself into? But he’s not interested, or he’s not acting interested… my self worth is in jeopardy. A year of bigging up myself and striving to get my approval from within, to love myself and not give a fuck what anyone else thinks… and here we are, waiting by the phone, making sure my inbox isn’t cluttered with texts from my mother wishing me a happy paddy’s day and asking if I got anything on the crossword and oh my god mother stop texting me it keeps making my heart skip…
And I’m plummetting into self-loathing and paranoia, and my boobs are awful, and my armpits were a little hairy… not VERY hairy but hairy enough… my legs and bikini area are grand, it’s just the pits… I don’t have a razor, see… Need to get some razors…
And today in between hating myself and watching my phone, I heated up the little pot of wax that I have only been brave enough to use on my tache before….
And I tried, oh momma did I try, to de-hair my armpits. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done to myself, and I’ve given myself a hollywood down there… this is harder. But on every yank and the skin too loose under my arm to stay properly taut, every tug and rip and oh fuck that hurts.. I’m saying, this is why you scared him off. He thinks you’re some freaky chick who keeps a pre-pubescent mound of Venus but doesn’t get rid of her pit hairs…
And I sort of enjoy the pain, like it’s paying for my stupidity, or like every pull and tear and satisfying clump of wax with those awful thick hairs and their tadpole-like roots sticking out, every one I endure is bringing me closer to that text message, whatever it says, and it will make everything ok and I’ll think.. oh you fucking idiot, why did you ever worry? You should have hoovered the floor which is covered in long hairs and clumps of fluff… you should have made other plans, you tit…
Remember Fabio, and the grandmother? His fucking GRANDMOTHER died, so he took two days to get back to me… maybe this dude has a dead granny. Maybe this dude has some wonderful reason not to get back to me.
But I just worry that he is freaked out, that it was too much, that maybe he thinks i want something… something big and romantic?
I don’t, I just want… to not feel fucking rejected.
I would honestly LOVE to receive a little text now, saying something like “sorry I didn’t get back to you the other day… I freaked a little bit because I’m just out of a relationship, I do like you a lot as you probably guessed but I’m a bit messed up still over my ex, but I don’t want you to think I just didn’t give a shit… anyway I hope I can give you a call when I have my head straightened out…”
Then I would be like “Fuck him, he had his chance and he blew it! Single ladies, holla!” (Or whatever fierce women with lots of supportive female friends say to each other…)
I mean it’s just the rejection that’s got to me.
I can’t bear this idea, that I was ready and willing to spend the night together, even, and I would have loved to go on a date, whatever that means… that after a year of bristling and being a jerk to all men who weren’t hot barman, I have finally let my guard down… metaphorically and physically (damn I hope I don’t get pregnant, no abortions in Ireland…) and what happens? Nothing. Well fuuuuuck this.
It makes me feel as shitty and insecure as I did 6 years ago, in school, when I pined after immature but pretty boys and occasionaly hooked up with one, and never heard a single note from them after… I grew used to it. It seemed normal, like, of course nothing will come of it, it’s drunken fooling around… it has no consequences. But we are grown ups now. There’s still drunken fooling around and there’s still booty calls and for the most part I am totally on board, I’m flying the fucking flag for casual sex… Hey, I’m a horny person…
But this… was not typical. The THINGS he said to me. It would creep me out a little, but it felt like… it felt, for a little while.. the other night… while he gazed at me, this guy I so so totally fancied… and said all these lovely personal things…
It felt like Cinderella or something, when she finally gets the prince to recognise her, and she just knows there won’t be any more slumming it, and now she’s going to be treated well and there will be no more feeling shitty….
I know it’s totally lame but FUCK I have never really been treated nicely. I had this one boyfriend who was nice to me, really nice, but he just seemed kind of in awe of me… he never SAID anything. He didn’t massage my ego, he didn’t make me feel like a princess. I know… I know… I’m such a fucking hypocrite. A princess? Me? But yeah, I would like someone to at least make the effort… of course I want to be spoiled. At least TRY to spoil me. Fucks sake. Years of telling boyfriends “no I don’t want to do anything special for my birthday/valentines/anniversary”
OF COURSE I FUCKING DO.
How fucking hard is it? I mean, yeah, I do think Valentines day is a load of crap, and cards are lame and flowers suck balls but at the same time, being given a gift that is not a requirement… would make me feel pretty fucking special.
Anyway, sorry about the bitternes… Here I am now, 6 years later, I’ve been married and I’ve never been on a date, and I’ve bought a house with someone but I’ve never been given a valentines gift.
And then I sleep with this guy and I realise I’m ashamed of all the men I’ve fucked. It’s far too many… I wouldn’t ever be able to tell a man how many guys I have had sex with because think of a number and it’s more than that.
I feel like I’ve made myself sleazy, and dirty, and any guy who likes me is going to be either intimidated into staying away, because I seem like a fire breathing dragon woman who doesn’t need no scrub…
(I can’t embed that music video again because I have fuck all internet right now… but just imagine I am playing TLC “no Scrubs” again. And again. Actually, can you just go ahead and hum that in your head or at least imagine you are humming it in your head every time you are on my blog, ever? Thank you. )
…or else, wakes up the next morning thinking I’m not the kind of girl you take out somewhere nice, I’m the kind of girl you have unprotected sex with and then it’s totally cool to not call me again.
Anyway, in retrospect.. because I wrote that a few days ago but wanted to post my threesome adventure first, I have of course dodged a bullet.
I thought about it at length… man, did I think about it..
And it seems like I avoided a potentally hugely awkward romantic weekend in a confined space with some dude on the rebound. Whether or not we had loads in common… is not the issue. I have no tv, I haven’t enough bandwidth to even stream a youtube video let alone a movie… I would have had some pretty fucking great but unsafe sex, then it would have got weird.
And who knows if I even like the guy? He’s pretty hot, but the last time we had a proper convo was years ago, and I was being facetious and talking shit, and if he still thinks we had great conversations back then, well, maybe he’s STILL as full of shit as I was then?
Maybe he just hasn’t grown up at all?
Maybe I really am, despite whatever he may think, miles and miles out of his league?
I mean yes I feel massively and horrifically rejected and if he texted me right now, I would run to his stupid asshole beck and call…. That may be what pisses me off most about the whole thing. That a man, some guy I don’t even know if I like, who hasn’t given me any reason to pine after him or think I’m really missing out… I honestly… have no fucking idea what kind of person he is… he seemed like a nice guy but… actions speak louder than distant, vague and discoloured memories…. Some guy I don’t know or care about, has reduced me to this condition.
I’m going crazy and it’s terrifying, just how easily I could fall right back into the trap again, after all I’ve gone through and all I’ve supposedly learnt from it.
And now I can’t think of sex, really… because while the sex that night was nothing special, we were too drunk really… the next day sex would have been much better… it was still more passionate, more exciting, more SEXY than anything I’ve had in a long time.
I was very, very attracted to him that night, and he was seemingly very attracted to me. That’s what I want to be doing… whether it goes anywhere else, or not… I just want to feel like that. I don’t care if it’s fumbling and awkward or if it fucking hurts for three days afterwards (yeah) it’s a high I can’t wait to feel again.
And back I go, out to the cold and drunk and the small talk and the prowling, back out to lower my standards or go home alone, and it doesn’t feel as exciting and sexy as it did before, because now I remember what sex was a substitute for….
Anyway. Such is life.
Sorry it is so ridiculously long, but I have spent like 5 days obsessing about this and no less than 7745 words would express my misery and floundering self worth. I am a pathetic creature. Look how easy it is to completely floor me… what a fucking jip.
Ps. I came across this while looking for a quote about sex, because I couldn’t think of a title for this rant:
Nymphomaniac: a woman as obsessed with sex as an average man. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic’s Notebook, 1960