Post weekend self pity party. Wherein I voluntarily spend the night in the police station

What am I doing? And where did it all go wrong?

I’m young. I’m young but I’m not that young any more.

My adult life started out like a joke, and no one was doing anything serious anyway, and I just seemed to be having all the same kinds of fun as everyone else, maybe a bit more sometimes, maybe more of the time, and maybe with a little less thought to the future. On the surface we were all just fucking around, doing nothing of note, making friends, setting up the wrinkles we’d eventually get, putting ourselves out there and seeing what happened. Experiments of all kinds.

And now I’ve been an adult for eight years and my friends have jobs and lives. Boyfriends, jobs, maybe not excellent jobs but they’re somewhere on a ladder leading upwards.

And I’m on the dole and I have a flat which I love, very close to the city, cheap enough to afford on the dole. I can go out when I want and see who I want. I cook nice food for myself and I chat to people online and they think I’m interesting because I’ve lived in a few countries and done a few unexpected things. But I haven’t done very much, really, I just moved my laptop and clothes around Europe a few times.

And now my stuff is in Dublin, I live along again, which I like, but it’s hollow too. There’s no reason for anything, I just wait for my pay day and then I wait for the weekend or sometimes I don’t wait and I just drink anyway, with company or without, whatever’s easiest… the weekend comes round again anyway, whether I’m hung over when it comes or whether I land there thirsty and vibrant. And then I feel sorry for myself and wait for my payday.

I’m unemployed and my life is going nowhere. Going nowhere fast.

My grandad said that about me to my mother the other day. She felt it necessary to tell me. It hit me like a kick to the stomach. That girl’s going nowhere fast.

I want to curl up and cry about my life. It’s not fair. I didn’t know it was for real, nobody told me. Nobody told me.

I want to blame someone else for the position I’m in, the position… it’s comfortable. It’s comfortable but lifeless. Like a permanent day off, a permanent lie-in. It’s only bliss to have time off from something, or sleep in an extra hour or two or three as a treat. I feel like doing stuff, being productive, sorting things out, building myself up.

But I’m not doing it, because I’m sort of stuck. I feel like it could be much worse. I could be really depressed. Perhaps it’s getting that way, but I don’t feel unhappy. The complaints I have, the sadness I feel- is reasonable, reality-based. I’m unhappy because I don’t have any money. I’m sad because I can’t afford to do what I want to do. I feel lonely because I haven’t got very many people to see during the week. But at the core I’m ok, I think. I’m just not sure what to do with myself. I’m very aware that I’m not doing something I’d respect in someone else. I’m not living up to any kind of potential, and I’m not putting anything into my life that will give positive returns later.

I spent a few more quid on gambling before I gave that up. Because I’m definitely not going to win anything. I needed to really be sure of that or else I still had the glimmer of hope….

So no more gambling for me, hooray. That was a quick and light and relatively non destructive gambling problem.

The Friday night I went out and had a few drinks with friends and woke up in a taxi slurring “I don’t understand, I thought I had 20 quid?” and the taxi driver is telling me “you don’t have the money? I need to get paid”

And I’m saying “where are my friends? Where is everyone?” and he says I was on my own, I don’t have any friends with me. He says he’s driving me to the police station. I tell him please do because then we can straighten this all out.

He drives me there and fills out some kind of report. I don’t remember much but I sat in the police station waiting room all night, confused, penniless, next to heroin addicts and various troublemakers.

I tried asking the police officers about my situation and they got sick of talking to me and went into the back room. I was too drunk to make any sense. But they were not nice to me, not at all. They didn’t seem to think a girl that drunk and confused needed any treatment other than go home you’re drunk, you owe the taxi driver 20 quid.

I made friends with two people there, an Eastern European woman who didn’t seem to be all there, and a 35-ish Irish man whose car had been impounded for some reason. I wept in self pity on the steps talking to them, crying hysterically about everything in my life that isn’t fair and isn’t my fault. My divorce, my mortgage, my lack of education, my lack of success in any area when I was so clever as a child. I cried and cried. I just wanted someone to come and tell me it’s all ok and they’d look after me and I wouldn’t have to go back to the phones and I wouldn’t have to claw my way up some shitty career ladder because of course I deserve better.

Instead I got the Eastern European girl… Monica? I think her name was Monica… telling me I should get with the guy on the steps beside me, I should go out with him. “He a good guy,” she said. “Has own van. Very good. Not easy to meet man like this today, you should be with him. I think you two very good together. He has own van.”

I asked him through my drunken tears, as I swigged wine from the plastic bottle I had with me, on the steps of the inner city Dublin police station, “how much money have you got?”

He said a few hundred quid.

I said no, I need a proper rich guy. And I finished my wine and stopped crying and wondered what I should do. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t recognise the area and the police were refusing to talk to me because I guess I must have really annoyed them with my drunken crying. In fairness I think they could have been a bit nicer. I was really not in a good way. I don’t remember ever being like that, but then you wouldn’t remember it, would you? I didn’t sober up until around 7am.

Then my new friend, the guy with not enough money to look after me, said he’d give me a lift home when his van was released, unless they found his stash and charged him. I said ok thanks. But then he said it wouldn’t be til 9am.

So we waited and waited. I got so cold on the steps, and so tired. I started to fall asleep and a policeman walked past and said MOVE.

I started to wonder about homeless people and feel really really sorry for them in a way I never have before.

I chatted to my new friend. He was nice. We went to McDonalds when it opened and I scraped together 1.30 and bought a cheese toasty. The cheese toasty was disgusting. It was like plastic, hard plastic, and it scraped my mouth and stuck in different places in my throat. I wanted to lay down my head and sleep but I couldn’t. I was so afraid of being moved along by someone who mistook me for some junkie vagrant instead of a drunken middle class girl.

What’s the difference anyway. I don’t even think I can consider myself middle class. I’m unemployed. I’m uneducated. I have done absolutely nothing with the priviledge I once had, and it’s gone now. My dad has money. My dad could help me get on my feet but he says I’ve had too much help in the past and just frittered it away. He’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I do need help. I need someone to help me somehow because I’m a fucking mess of a person. I’m not anybody. I’m just eating and drinking and taking money from the government and watching movies and fucking people I don’t really like that much and getting dressed up nice and going out and pretending I’m just like everyone else and witty and interesting and charming for a few hours before I’m back in my cheap, cold room, weighing up the pros and cons of calling that guy I don’t really like that much to come over and keep me company for a few hours.

Pros: get to have sex, feel briefly like I’m good at something. It’s a good workout. Being fit and skinny would make me feel better too.

Cons: have to shower first. Don’t feel like showering. Will feel kind of shit about myself afterwards.

I usually call him anyway.  Sometimes I skip the shower.

My new buddy gave me a lift home when his van was released. He wasn’t charged with anything. The police took what they found and must have kept it for themselves because there was no mention of anything. Bastards, he said. I said well at least you don’t have a charge now. Yeah. I should be on cloud nine, he said.

He drove me home and I was too tired to think any more. It didn’t occur to me that I shouldn’t have got into a van with a strange man I met in the police station. But in my mind it was just us versus the police at that point. I always felt like the police were these friendly helpful guys who are there when people like me are afraid or in trouble or whatever. The kind of guys who’d tip their hat to you. Sure, I’ve done illegal things before but I never got in any trouble. Because I’m not scum, I don’t get the scum treatment. But Friday night I was treated like scum and I can’t help but feel like fuck you police. My new criminal buddy told me, because I was worried about how I might have behaved, he told me that when I was brought in I was very polite and just seemed a bit lost and confused and upset. Not rude, not shouting, nothing like that. But then he really did hate the police so he may have been biased.

Anyway. He didn’t rape or murder me. On the way home he yelled “morning Jack!” or some name out the window. I said who was that? Surprised he knew someone walking in my neighbourhood at 10am on Saturday morning. Ah, the old lord mayor of Dublin, he said. He’s a friend of my dad’s. I wondered after all if Monica had a point and I should have got together with this obviously well connected man who had his own van, a few hundred quid and knew an ex lord mayor of Dublin. But then I thought, fuck it, if I’m going to be shallow enough to take wealth over chemistry and attraction I should probably aim for a bit higher. Like a man with a few thousand and a merc, or something.

Incidentally Saturday I was contacted on this dating website by quite a nice looking young man. He wanted to take me out, pay for everything, pick me up and drop me home. He said he has a mercedes and his own company and a house with 7 rooms in it. This wasn’t his opening shpiel, it came out over the course of the conversation.

I smelled a rat but then he gave me his linkedin and his company name and it seems legit.

I told him a bit about how crap of a person I am, and he offered me a job working for his company doing sales. On the phone. I would absolutely hate to do sales over the phone and would probably not be any good at it, but it’s one of those funny little things that comes up in life that a person in my position should take advantage of.

I’m way too intimidated by a guy like that to get anything romantic going on. Younger than me, wealthy, successful? Hopefully his profile picture was really flattering and he’s actually ugly. Then I might stand a chance. Yup, still hoping for that free ride.

I think the problem with me is that my expectations from life and what I’m willing to put into it are entirely unequal.

I just look at the people who got lucky and think, well then why should I slave away at some crappy job just to get a minute fraction of their success? So I do nothing instead. I’m just glad people can’t see what I actually do with my time. I’m surprisingly happy most of the time doing nothing.

For example on Wednesday I bought groceries and made sushi for two friends who came for dinner, and then went and had pretty nice dirty sex in my neighbour’s house.

Thursday, I made myself a pair of slippers and did a painting I’m not happy with of a naked woman. Then I watched seasons 3 and 4 of Seinfeld and had some more sex, and then Friday I drank wine by myself at home and made my own pasta from scratch and then I went out and got anihillated as you know and then yesterday and today I caught up on seasons 5 and six of Seinfeld and played some Fallout  New Vegas.

I’m a lot less bored than I should be, really.

If I had a man I liked, I’d be completely not bored. But probably very clingy…

 

Anyway. I’m tired. I’m going to watch some Seinfeld, play some Fallout, and then it’ll be Monday. Monday I’ll do nothing. I kind of really want to get a part time job now but the longer I’m unemployed the harder it is to get past the fear of being in some weird situation doing stuff you don’t want to do for someone else and not enough money.

End of weekend. New week.

Sigh.

Maybe this internet stranger will give me a job?

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I said, that’ll fucking do, pig

I clicked publish and my phone rang. My friendly neighbourhood fuck. He was around the corner in his car, on his way back from doing some dodgy dealings or other… I won’t elaborate because when we’re talking dodgy it’s not really cool to be sharing other people’s information, whether or not my blog is anonymous.

I lashed on a quick extra layer of makeup and trotted down to him. He was sitting there listening to dance music and I got in and he said we were going for a spin.I guess his parents spotted me sneaking out the last time. They lecture him on bringing girls back, probably because he brings back a lot of girls.

He drove to an industrial estate nearby and parked in between warehouses in a secluded spot. On the way I felt him through his tracksuit pants and he said I could go down on him but only once we were inside the industrial estate. I did it for a while as he drove slowly around, my head down low, because I find men who can drive very attractive, and situations that are slightly unusual or dity extremely so. Then he parked and I gave him some of that top shelf head I reserve for those times you know are going to stick in the memory. I normally don’t make such an effort but lately I’ve been really going for it, taking advantage of what I see as a chance to hone my skill and get fit. I told him about my foray into gambling and he said just hearing about it made him feel like hitting the casino.

My imagination immediately ran amok throwing me images of myself in my new furry jacket over my shoulders wearing red lipstick and my hair up smoking cigarettes out of long holders while men in suits growl “what’s your favorite number?” and then give me a 1000 chip as a thank you for making them lucky. I said I’d go with him for the laugh and determined not to spend any money…. I toned down my expectations a little. I arrived in the casino and his fingerprint was read. I showed my id and filled out a form and gave my fingerprint too, and then we went downstairs to a very modest and smelly room full of tables of middle aged asians and eastern europeans with big bellies.

The bar gave us free drinks and Tony and I made for the roulette table. It looked just like the one that tormented me online and I was dying to throw down a twenty and put some foolish bets on the table. But I didn’t. I drank my free wine and watched Tony place 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 euro down at a time and triple his stake. I was seething, I wanted money. Money was all around me. People were earning money by guessing numbers and I wanted it too. But I wasn’t prepared to put down the 20. And I knew I’d lose it. I knew what would happen was I’d get 20 euro and feel like I had loads of money to bet and then 5 euro on black would lose, then another five would lose, then I’d be down to 10 and I’d throw that on black and I’d lose and I wouldn’t even get to make more bets because that’s all my money.

So I stood and watched the guy whose dick I’d just sucked triple his money and I wondered whether he’d give me a few chips or not, and if I could somehow obtain something for nothing, by giving him my money to bet? I decided the thing to do would be to go there on a weekend night INSTEAD of going out to a club. Sure, the atmosphere is lousy and it smells like body but if I could get free drinks and just bet the sort of amount I’d normally spend on a night out anyway, it wouldn’t be a loss if I lost, it would be a reasonable use of an evening. And I might win something.

To be continued, probably. The table was quieter than in the movies. A few words in Romanian or Polish, a scramble from everyone to place and move their personal coloured chips around the table, covering what looks like way too many numbers to actually win, ever, a few lame efforts at quips from the stout Englishmen and my partner at the table muttering what’s your birthday, throw me some numbers, but refusing to put any money on 9. I kept saying 9. He said you have to change number or the odds are against you. I don’t get how that makes sense but then he was betting all over the table and winning every couple of spins.

The bets down, the dealer waves his hand over and says no more bets and then the number is up on the sign and the dealer’s arms are all over the table sweeping the losing chips across the table down a hole where they clack clack clack and quickly appear back in neatly ordered coloured stacks. And Englishman throws down 50 euro and wants it in two 25 euro chips, not 1s or 5s like everyone else at the table. He shrugs and throws a chip on black, wins, doubles his investment and then leaves the table saying “I facking hate this game anyway.”

My partner mutters after him “then don’t fucking play, you sap.”

When he’d tripled his money we left and drove to meet someone, again to make infuriatingly quick money, and I pretended to be happy for him while I chewed on the bitterness of someone else having something I wanted. On the drive he wanted another blow job and I said excuse me but this isn’t some selfless act, I want sex now not to be giving back to back blow jobs. We parked in a fairly hidden spot and he sat on the passenger seat and I sat on top of him and gripped the dashboard with my hands to help my embarassingly weak legs. Afterwards, and I guess during, I thought maybe this isn’t an equal opportunities arrangement any more. I can feel my grip on power getting feeble very quick and the self deprecating dirty talk I spewed out indiscrimately two nights ago becoming reality. I’m not getting attached… he’s not my type. But I am getting attached nonetheless. Less attached to him as a person as I am attached to the initial position I held a few days ago. When we first slept together I was calling him at 4am drunk and using him as a place to stay, and I was finding some of what he said very annoying. He was always there and I never felt used, I felt like I was using him. I called him at the end of a night when things didn’t work out with whoever I had my eye on…

Now I’m hoping he’ll call and I’m always available. I find myself leaving nights early because I’d rather go fuck this guy than hang around another hour spending money and listening to drunk people. I don’t want this to get serious and I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in something more serious anyway, and I really… the thought of wanting something else from this guy… no. Absolutely not.

But I’m impressed by him nonetheless. He knows things, he knows secrets, he knows his way around. He knows things that I don’t know, and that’s a huge attraction for me, always has been. I want to soak up the knowledge like a sponge, through my softest tissue.

I find  myself giving him crazy good head because he told me I’m amazing at it and kisses the back of my head when I do it and feels my ass and tells me that’s perfect, that’s great, oh fuck yeah baby…

I get to feel superior to women who are shit at that, and I get to feel confident that I have great skills. I like that.

But I’m being too nice to him, he’s getting too much out of me for too little return. I need to start using him back a little. I can feel myself slipping back into my old man pleasing ways and I am not happy about it. What next, bake him a cake?

Oh god, today in the car I mentioned something about making pies. I was trying to impress him with talk of my pie making. I need to put a stop to this madness before it’s too late. He dropped me home after the brief fuck and I found myself hoping he’d bring me back to his and we could fuck again and maybe I could get something out of it, clamp him between my thighs and then roll over to sleep like I did at the beginning when I had all the power…

But I went home. And I saw my student neighbours’ light on, so I knocked and they were up and I sat in their apartment for a while chatting and listening to their studenty talk. One of them is very sweet but says “like” every second word. It made me extremely conscious of how I use “like” for every fifth word. They had all these plans for painting the walls and putting in shelves and I just sat there thinking aww it must be their first place away from home or dorms. We smoked a joint and I wasn’t sure when was the time to leave so I left when I started wondering that. Friendly guys, probably around 20, but I’ll be glad to have them to knock into sometimes when it gets boring. Also, it’s a lot warmer in their place. I can’t tell if I was maybe a bit drunk to make a good first impression… I was a bit drunk. I told them about the casino but not about the rest of the night.

And I went upstairs to my own place, my nice pretty apartment which is colder than the guys I meet online, and I remembered I’m lonely and I’m only not lonely at weekends and I’m so lonely I’ve grown somewhat attached to this guy who I recently in the throes of passion told he could use me for whatever he wanted etc. I was just saying that for penis enhancement reasons, now I’ve wound up making good on my offer and falling from independent sexually liberated woman to somebody’s sex slave. No no no, this will not do.

Somewhere I was feeling really good about myself and having a mini sexual awakening, exploring the rougher, dirtier hemisphere of me and totally marmalading it. I roleplayed handing over the reins and with that seem to have actually given them over. I’m not sure if the correct course of action here is to cease all shenanigans with this guy (but I wanted to get in shape and also, he’s so HANDY to have around and I do enjoy the activities…) or can I find my way back to that sweet spot I started from, where I was just getting mine and if he happened to get a fuckload of pleasure too then great, but inconsequential. I felt respected and I felt equal, regardless of the demeaning positions I might have found myself in.

Maybe it’s still exactly the same and respectful and equal and but I’ve just discovered that I’m not comfortable roleplaying this close to the bone.

We shall see. But I really wish I knew how to do this stuff better. The only two profiles I seem to adopt with men are clingy and sweet and loving and accomodating OR disparaging and making it very clear I’m not interested in him and pretending to forget their names or something.

 

Oh, wine… ze sings you do to me!

Drinking… not heavily but consistently.

I haven’t been obliterated by drink in ages, maybe I’m building up a tolerance. But I do seem to find myself popping a lot of corks, mulling a lot of wine, and listening to a lot of Jeff Buckley and moaning YES THIS SONG, YES, THIS IS WHY IT IS ALL WRONG OH GOD IM HIDEOUS, IM HIDEOUS AND FAT, WHO COULD LOVE ME?

And then I listen to something a bit more upbeat and I feel like I could do anything, or even just go to a supermarket and buy salad. But I must stay away from the supermarket because while in Ireland I was limited to how much wine I could take home by price, here I am only limited by arm strength and it’s not that far of a walk home.

I’ve been drinking a lot of wine. I’m not worried about my liver, my liver is something I will worry about when I am aware of it, or when it starts to complain. I’m worried about bloating, about getting that puffy alco- face.

I’m not getting drunk every night so I GUESS I won’t get puffy alco face, but I am drinking a lot, a lot a lot.

I want to drink less but all of the get me out of the apartment and socialising activities are drinks based and let’s be honest I don’t have any normal healthy people hobbies, so I drink.

I do love cooking but frankly fresh food ingredients are more expensive than wine, and also more detrimental to the physical presence too.

I have to find an apartment and a job and I am not having much luck with either, or any luck, and I’m sort of hopelessly in love but also very insecure about it all and my French is not improving as beautifully as i had hoped.

So I drink.

But when I find a job I will have purpose and clarity and the threat of a kick up the arse if I don’t sober up and act like a proper grown up so then I will limit myself to weekends like a normal person.

Oh why can’t they just make non alcoholic wine?

Cause it would suck, that’s why.

Anyway you don’t want to read about how emotional I am being and I don’t want to write it AGAIn and AGAIN  AND AGAIN until we all DIE

so I will cut this short, tell you that I am not doing as wonderfully as my initial wave of optimism implied I would do, and I’m still being nice and outgoing but my motivation-reward-motivation system needs the little reward kicker in between to maintain itself and right now I am feeling all out of reward.

Because of course i can’t just be go with the flow like I said I wanted to be and just enjoy the feeling of a man supposedly loving me and wanting me and being crazy about me like I am about him, because he hurt me so I don’t trust it, like he’s just going to shrug me off one of these days and it will be all my fault for lettng him back in.

So.

Tis a lull.

I did my homework though so that was more than I expected of today.

Fucking flat hunting. It’s not making me a happy little critter, it’s making me a sad sodden drooping thing with a wardrobe full of empty bottles.

Oh, wine.

Consider the new year christened

Christmas wasn’t the best.

But there was new year.

Antoine invited me to spend it with his friends in his small hometown about 2 hours away. I wasn’t sure about it.. I wanted to see him, fuck I wanted to feel him, but I didn’t want to get a train to hang on his arm, to meet a bunch of younger people who wouldn’t believe I just came here on my own and by coincidence found myself right next to him. But my friends had mostly gone home or gone away for the holidays and of course I wanted to see him.

I knew as soon as he invited me, that I’d be there with him at midnight feeling weak and conflicted but that I’d be there.

I made myself consider it, consider my options, mull it over, although the decision was made as soon as he asked.

I took the train on the 31st and a bus after that. I snuck a peek of my face in my hand mirror, embarassed to be checking myself out in public. Because I felt insecure and inadequate, and the other passengers would surely know. I looked tired from all the Christmas drinking, bloated from all the eating, and I had a couple of little spots on my chin because I would be getting my period (hopefully not tooo soon)

I felt pathetic, 25 years old, a marriage behind me, travels and jobs and parties and wilderness and so much trial and error, all leading to this, following a younger guy back to his parents’ town, to spend the new year of my new life in someone else’s world with someone else’s friends.

I got off the bus and my skirt was short for a small town (short for France, even) and a young, attractive black guy at the bus stop looked me over and drew in a whistling breath through his teeth and said Ooh, la la… and something like mon dieu. I looked away embarassed about my skirt but grateful for any kind of boost…

And I saw Antoine in the distance, walking towards me all lazy confidence, limping a bit because he twisted his ankle recently. He kissed me and said I’m so happy you came. I missed you.

He showed me around his town, immune to the clusters of drunk creeps, because he grew up a tall man, so he doesn’t feel the same sense of danger or intimidation that I do. Walked right into a group of these guys to show me the view of the river and the town perched romantically on its banks. The guys started saying stuff to us, he answered, they were clearly very interested in me and if I had been with anyone less tall and French I would have been scared. He answered them and they asked me something and I didn’t really understand so I just said I don’t speak French. They threw a few more jocular comments his way, I think they were complimenting him on his slutty looking foreign acquisition, but maybe I’m just being paranoid-egotistical.

He has no idea of the danger-filter I see the world through.

We left and walked elsewhere, and then drove back to his place.

There was nobody there, the house was empty, everything was built big and tasteful. He showed me his childhood photos on the walls without embarassment. He showed me his brothers and sisters, he poured me a glass of cognac and told me we could drink it up in his bedroom “not to do anything… but because we can smoke there”

I thought the prefix “not to do anything” kind of idiotic, because we have made love so many times and of course we were going to do it again, and again, and again, so I was hardly going to accuse him of moving too fast. But that’s what he’s like. He hates the distasteful, the tacky, the vulgar. I love vulgarity, but I guess I do also appreciate the lack of it in a man.

We went upstairs and drank the cognac and put on some music and then we made love and I thought every time is different, every time it gets somehow better. What I love is that when he comes he doesn’t turn aggressive, not even for a second. He thrusts more violently, faster, harder, sure, but all the while he kisses my neck, my face, so gently and so tenderly. Even if I don’t come too…….. it feels perfect. Afterwards he kisses and kisses me, and I couldn’t imagine any words telling me more about love than those times together.

There was one thing lacking when we were together in Ireland. He wasn’t really comfortable with oral. He tried a few times but I didn’t get a feeling of him actually wanting to do it, so I would pull him back up… I couldn’t relax if I didn’t think it was really an expression of passion or desire. But this time…. well, either he’s had some practice elsewhere (don’t really want to think about that) or else he’s made a conscious decision to do it… or maybe he’s just grown more comfortable with me.

Either way, it was perfect.

He asked me what I was going to wear, which was odd for me because men don’t usually seem to consider or take an interest in the process of getting dressed. They usually watch, bemused, as I fling outfits around scowling and cursing my lack of black high heels or how I just don’t have anything to wear. I showed him one dress, a short one with a sexy lace back. Maybe a bit too slutty for meeting his friends? He ran his hands over my body and kissed me and I sucked in my stomach because that dress is a bit unforgiving. Then I showed him another dress, a more grown up dress, classier. He told me he liked the first, hotter one better but it’s my choice. I wore the first dress.

He brought a big mirror into the room for me to use. His younger brother came home for a while and I was introduced to my first member of his family. Then he left and we made love again and took a shower together. He always wants to shower together, and he wanted to fuck me in the shower which I guess he’s never done so he doesn’t know how disappointing it is. He’s too tall, though, so we couldn’t. There was a plastic step in the bathroom that we considered using but I was afraid it would slip and he might not catch me with his bad ankle. I promised we’ll do it some time…

In the car he told me in his always carefuly chosen words, that he was proud to introduce me to his friends. Of course I couldn’t just take the sentiment, I had to say something stupid. So I said “oh, are they really cool friends?” and then I retracted it and said “sorry.. so you’re proud?” and he said yes, and I kissed his hand.

I felt sad because we both know it’s not going to last. Normally at this stage in a relationship, and actually I’ve never felt so passionately with anyone… not so consistently, anyway, but normally at the intense-passionate honeymoon part, you imagine it lasting forever or wanting it to anyway.

And fuck, I’m in love with his physical presence, with his body, with how he looks at me, with how he gets hard in a split second if I kiss him, how all he has to do is touch me and I want him, how we fit so well… I’m in love with waking up with him, with falling asleep touching as much of my body off as much of his. And then we both know it can’t last, it won’t last, and sooner or later there will be the pain again. If we take it day by day it’s beautiful, utter turmoil turned into complete peace. And then when I think of the day after and the week after and the month and year and where is it going, it hits me hard and I can’t bear it. Feeling like this should come with hope, enough hope to make it light and giddy. But it’s not light, it’s heavy around us. It’s not giddy, it’s serious, it’s finite. I lie on his chest afterwards and his heartbeat counts down to the last time I lie there.

And just when I wind the consequences, the strings of possibilities around in my mind trying to find an end to pull on…. his thumb is there tracing the line of my jaw and his eyes are soft and his lip between my teeth and all I can do is pull him to me, inside me, and there’s the peace again.

What do I do with that?

We spent new year together with his friends and I held my own, I was interesting and nice, I was funny and energetic, I drank champagne and was jealous when he spent so long talking to the girl with the massive cleavage but I held back and let him come to me, let him find me having a good time with other people, living up to his expectations, I hope.

At the end of the night he took my hand and we had our own room and the champagne and the desire from spending hours together but not alone, gave us a wild, brutal session. I woke up so sore and so much in love, and again and again and again. And back in his place we made love and showered and he packed a bag and we took the train together back to my place. My flatmate was gone as it turned out, for the next 3 days, but we didn’t know so we kept to my bedroom.

It was incredible. I had the best time of my life, in that bedroom. I didn’t imagine it could be stronger than before but fuck, I’m lost. He told me he didn’t know how long we would last, but it’s wonderful. I was sad but felt the same. The doom over it all and the openness we have about it, seems to have brought us closer. The sex is never the same, never dull, never boring. Even in my most passionate affairs before, there always came a time when I just wanted to guy to come already because I started to get bored or sore or feel disconnected from the rutting animal who took over from my lover. Or where he’d touch me and I’d feel nothing, and not be in the mood, or when I’d touch him and he’d say not now, we don’t have time before we go to the cinema/party… etc.

But not with Antoine. We spent 5 days together, condom wrappers like confetti in my bedroom. We went to the cinema and restaurant and I took him to my favorite wine bar and we wrote a nonsense story together on a scrap of paper in French and English, and he insisted on paying most of the time.

After 5 days I’m glad he’s gone to visit his friends now, and then back home, I need some time to myself but I wish he was here nonetheless. We didn’t get sick of each other, we didn’t wake up a single morning without being ready for more, we didn’t fall asleep a single night without it being a true collapse from exhaustion. In the 3 days we spent in my place, he lost 1.5 kilos and I lost 2 kilos.

If only he stayed 3 more days I would be back at my ideal weight.

And now I have to find a job, find an apartment… find one with a double bed.

And do something with all these fucking thoughts.

Paranoid delusions of the very hung over and generally paraniod

I sometimes wish I lived in that town, Pleasantville, you know like in the movie?

Obviously I would not do well in a traditional, closed minded town with twin beds, and I’d turn the bathroom technicolour in about five minutes…amiright? so it’s not like it’s a good solid plan or anything.

I just fucking wish the world was in black and white. I look soooo goooood in black and white.

My problem (one of my many problems) is that whenever I don’t put on makeup or brush my hair, people take photos. Yay! We’re all students! Look at us here eating this food with these people!  With this fucking instagram filter and a tactful blurring of the background!

Embarassing. I dodge and hide but then I want to be in the pictures too, I want people to see how well I mesh in this multicultural crew and how awesome I look while meshing, so next time I do the prep work and make up and present my better, less natural face to the world.

And then they’re all like, oooh Abby hates photos, don’t worry we won’t bother you.

Damn.

So no nice photos.

And I want a hot new profile photo… not entirely to jog Antoine’s memory and make him all damn girl, now I remember how awesome the sex was, let’s do that again, but yah, mostly because of him, yes, because of course I’m still hung up on his scrub- ass.

But I don’t want it to be an obvious self portrait. I’m not one of THOSE girls.

But then aren’t we all those girls?

Whatever. there are greater problems in life of course, but I just really look awesome in black and white and when I have a mirror to coax me into the flattering smile, which of course is not my real smile.

Anyway. I have my period now which is annoying, because club toilets here are unisex and squalid and rarely fitted with toilet paper. And mostly the toilet and sink are in different rooms, which is just retarded.

OH and did I mention my shit teacher?

The first two weeks I had a lovely teacher. Really warm, patient, really good at making us talk and slipping the grammar bits in gently, so gently we barely noticed, like the worst kind of sex but the best kind of teaching.

Grammar lessons should be like a tiny tiny penis going into your well lubricated knowledge- hole.

But the last two weeks we have had this other guy. This guy who oh god when he says my name, in his French accent… ummm do you mind if I mention lubrication again?

But he’s such a bad teacher. And not attractive. He just says my name like a French man and that’s so fucking hot. But no.

He’s awful. He just TALKS AND TALKS. And he starts the class by saying “today we are going to do the subjunctive.” And that’s not what you want to hear. Fuck the subjunctive. If you must assault me with the grammar I so badly need, do it with  some foreplay. You don’t start a date with “we’re going to eat some motherfucking dinner and flirt now, and then later I’m going to put my penis near your face until you take the hint”

Sorry, I’ll ditch the metaphor now. Unless you liked it. I can’t tell if you liked it or not. Do you like that? Huh? Do you?

Anyway I have lots more to say about how shit a teacher he is, I could rant about that but frankly I would rather impart my hangover to you.

Because I started writing this then I went out, got extremely drunk. EXTREMELY.

Woke up so dehydrated and pale and covered in bits of mascara, which means I was pulling off my mascara and then rubbing my hung over body with my mascara-covered hands.

Tried to think of an attractive situation with me in it but was just too hung over.

Ran over last night’s antics in my head.

Didn’t do anything too bad I don’t think. Was kind of rubbing up against one guy but maybe he doesn’t realise that was on purpose. I think he didn’t realise cause then I got bored and didn’t follow it up…

Other than that, I just told my flatmate some embarassing stories but only cause she asked. It’s a walking home at the end of the night tradition we have now. She waits til I’m drunk and then asks me to tell her an embarassing story. Last night I told her the bus story. I have probably told YOU the bus story, anyway it involves me and my husband ex when we first met, having period sex on a bus several times in our seats.

So that’s bad but not so bad because really I don’t keep my secrets very well.

Then I have flashes of memories of the bar, the same bar we went to on Thursday. On Thursday the barman gave me the older man’s steady gaze of recognition of a good fuck. He’s older, he’s not bad looking though but I go to that bar so often… no.

Also he has kind of long hair. And he’s a bit old maybe. But that look he gave me… it’s solid, it’s clear, it’s like he came up to me and said “hey, i see you and I see your kind of over the top dress for this kind of bar. I can tell by looking at you, you’re a sex person. I am also a sex person. I’m older than you, maybe too old for you to be interested, but then if I see you going home with one of these Justin Bieber motherfuckers I’ll laugh to myself and lose respect for you because honestly, I could fuck you so much better.”

I may just be getting so horny at this point that I am imagining a rich layer of subtext in mens eyes and it’s not there at all, but also maybe I am so horny I am in tune with the world’s sexuality.

Anyway. Probably not a great idea to go fucking barmen in my local… oh my god. I just realised I’m focusing on a barman already. He’s not hot exactly but he has such an air of being good in bed. Except it’s like my local.

I went in last night and barman saw me, put a wine glass on the counter and looked at me. I nodded. He poured wine. I laughed and said so I guess I’m a regular already? He nodded. I guess I’m a regular somewhere. I’ve always wanted to be a regular and go into a bar and have them just pour my drink for me without me having to pronounce “un verre du vin rouge” which is hard for me because I have difficulty with vowel sounds in French and keep pronouncing vin like “vent” which means wind. I don’t pronounce the t obviously because in French, you just pronouncle like 3/4 of the letters for some reason, but not always, and sometimes you don’t pronounce the end but depending on what word is next then sometimes  you do. It’s is HARD.

God I look so fucking hung over.

I took black and white pictures of myself before going out last night.

Today I look like that person except after being in a concentration camp for a few months.

My beautiful silky hair is now a hot, slightly itchy nest.

My careful, careful, carefully applied eye makeup which had three different colours of eye shadow is now just black crap smudged all over my face and due to my horny hung overness, parts of my body too.

I look so unattractive I must vow never, ever, ever to let a man see me like this. NEVER. I must always leave during the night. No more sleepovers ever every every again, that is if I get laid ever again.

Oh. Flashbacks.

Talking to one of the girls in my school, who for some reason looks really hardcore and badass… maybe cause she dyes her hair black and wears dark eye makeup? Hmm… she lures me into this sense of false dirty-bitch camaraderie, but actually she’s not like that at all. She’s just nice. But I was telling her something…

“oh god yeah, you know like those fucking posters everywhere… oh they really freak me out. ”

What posters?

“You know the ones… how sure are you that you don’t have aids? Man, no one needs to see that on their way to work.”

What do you mean?

“I mean they freak me out, am i right?”

What, you.. you’re not sure if you have aids or not?

“Ha! I mean how sure CAN you be, am i right? Haha. How sure is anyone. What a question.”

“I don’t understand, you don’t KNOW?”

“well.. I mean not for sure like. I mean who does know?”

I’m pretty sure I don’t have aids.

“Oh. Yeah.. I should really get tested.”

The conversation paused there for a while before she told me helpfully,

“you know, you can’t just get aids from having sex. You can only get aids from having sex with someone who HAS aids.”

Actually, that cheered me up significantly. I haven’t heard about any of my exes dying of flu so I’m probably fine, and anyway I nearly always use condoms. But I really should get tested.

And I was quite happy, the hot humiliation of the nigth before and having been for the first time, really really really fucking drunk, and not being THAT bad and not fucking anyone with or without condoms and not telling the WRONG people the bus sex story… well, I felt like I did ok.

I do remember in the latino club, being really really angry about going there… on the way it was pissing rain and I was so upset about walking to the fucking latino club, and I started screeching about hating the fucking latino club. One of the girls who I don’t like much I THINK said to the guy who she was walking with… under an umbrella… “Get her to shut up”

But maybe I was just being paranoid and focusing my paranoia on people who were dry under umbrellas. But also I was screeching pretty aggressively so it’s entirely plausible that someone woulld have said that.

And then in the latino club I decided to get romantically, emotionally affected by the music. I stood with a wistful look on my face and my friends were like “abby what’s up” and I was like… “no, I’m fine… it’s just the music. It reminds me… it reminds me… nothing, nothing, you just dance and have fun”

The music they played in the club was like “te gusta la gasolina”

A black guy with massive whiteheads on his face that at once grossed me out and made me wish I could just pop them in front of a mirror, came up to me and told me he loved me. I tried to explain to him about extremity of compliments and how that’s a bit too much. He laughed and said ok. Then he tried to dance beside me for the rest of the night and then I had my wistful music moment so I pushed him away and said “I’m sorry, it’s not a good time! I’m remembering a better time.”

It didn’t get rid of him but then I was durnk so I didn’t care, I grabbed my flatmate’s arm and pulled her to me and spun her around and yelled “ayyy yayy yaaaaayyy!” and we danced like this for a while, guffawing and whacking the pretty skinny girls who went there to show off their ridiculous dancing skills.

We ploughed through that dance floor.

I lay in my bed this morning for a while too thirsty to get water and I remembered moments of idiocy and bad behaviour and fun and I was overall pretty happy with myself considering how fucking drunk I was.

At one point I went to the bar (the one I am now a regular at, woo woo!) and the barwoman just GAVE me a glass of wine. FOR FREE. It only costs 2.20 for a glass of wine anyway but still, that’s so fucking awesome. FREE WINE. And when the longhaired barman who I think wants to do dirty things with me but I should have an aids test first, he gives me really full glasses of wine too. Oh but then what if HE has aids? oh god. It’s a minfield. Fucking aids, I wish they would just cure it already. Imagine having to call all the people you’ve fucked and tell them you have aids. I wouldn’t even care so much about the dying younger or the sickness, just imagine not being able to have a sex life any more because you have aids and having to tell all the people you’ve screwed… oh god. Who even REMEMBERS?

But I am being ridiculous because I ALWAYS use condoms except for a few times that they broke and with my husband ex… who for some reason I just trusted. I don’t think he has aids though.

Oh god I am so afraid of aids.

Sorry

Going to get off this topic now I’m too hung over to handle this train of thought.

So

Oh yeah and then I looked at my phone and I had this message on my french mobile from a random number. It said in french

“I’m leaving”

And instantly…

all the good, relaxed, i behaved myself last night…. all those feelings were replaced by

OH

FUCK

WHAT DID I DO last night?

I replied “Who is it”

“who is who?”

“YOU”

“Haaahahahaha! It’s Mathilde.”

Mathilde..

Oh god. Who the fuck? A woman…

I sat here immobilized with the fear of having seduced some woman last night and she left this morning and I must have brought her home and just not remembered.

I sent out feelers, my usual hung over witness meeeee messages, to all the online people.

WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?

WHO IS MATHILDE?

WTFFFFFF???

I got a few replies like, dude you didn’t bring any woman home, it’s fine.

One guy told me I was trying to kick him, big high kicks for no reason, after we left the club. Oh.

I don’t remember that but my legs really hurt.

But no sign of Mathilde.

I wrote back to her and she wrote back, she gave me her full name and she called me a name that is very close to my name, and French people have trouble with my name, so I thought that just confirmed we did in fact meet last night.

I looked her up on facebook after my less hung over flatmate got up and helped me piece together the night. She told me that I definitely didn’t bring home any women. We came home with the Italian guy, remember?

WHAT? We… did I?

Hahahah NO you idiot.

Ok.

Did you talk to any women last night?

OF COURSE.

Of course I talked to women.

I made toilet queue friends, as always. I am so nice and witty in toilet queues. I like to conspire with the other queuers, perhaps the person just ahead of me… I bitch about the girl taking ages in the toilet. I tell my fellow queuer… if she comes out looking really nice we’ll know what she was doing. I tell people behind me that I pee like so fucking fast… they should time me. I encourage anyone in front of me to knock on the door.

When I pee, I do an express pee. I emerge in like 10 seconds and raise my hands and depending on how drunk I am, high five the stunned queuers and yell “and THAT’s how it’s fucking done!”

I always make toilet queue friends.

Last night I made toilet queue friends and I was telling the girl in front to bang on the door and shout “police” because that gives it more weight, and then she did, and the woman came out and was like “WHAT THE FUCK guys I’m wearing a full body suit under my clothes, it took a while to get it off” and I was like, yeah whatever say it to my fucking bladder. And then I peed so quickly in there, and came out and yes I was drunk enough to yell “and that’s how it’s fucking done bitches!”

So I might have exchanged phone numbers with one of these women? It’s possible.

I didn’t know.

I looked the girl’s name up on facebook and the horror deepened. She was like 15 or something.

I told her I thought it was a wrong number. That happens, right?

She asked me what class I was in.

I didn’t understand so I asked my French flatmate. My french flatmate doesn’t drink, doesn’t go out, doesn’t have friends come over and doesn’t wash the fucking dishes. She thinks I am insane and an alcoholic. I knocked on her door today with black crust all over my face wearing my hangover outfit of hot pants, a massive cardigan and a red bra and croaked PLease help what this mean in french?

She told me “what class are you in, like in school?” and then she told me if I don’t remember the person then of course it’s a wrong number, but I was like, yeah a wrong number on a Saturday morning? Coincidence?

Anyway. It was eventually settled that yeah that was just a wrong number, an unhappy accident when I was most vulnerable and least sure of my sexuality/ behaviour.

So today I have mostly been worrying about having seduced a teenage girl, oh and aids.

Fucking aids.

Anyway. That seems to be the last bit of uncertainty sorted out. Now my french flatmate is hoovering the living room which is INSANE because she never does any cleaning, her dishes just fester, literally, they fester in the sink for over a week obstructing my and my other flatmate’s access to the sink for our own cleaning and general use, and then she washes half of them and then the other half just stay there for another week. I think there is a stalemate going on at the moment in the kitchen, like she hasn’t washed the dishes in so long, she has forgotten that those are her dishes, and maybe she thinks they are mine or the other girl’s. But they are not.  So I don’t know why she has chosen today to hoover, it’s probably some sort of attack aimed towards me because for some reason her hideous lack of hygiene is paired with a real neurosis about the toilet door being open. She yells intermittently “TOILET DOOR! KEEP IT CLLOOOOOOSED!”

But I don’t know why, because there’s no window in the toilet so I think it’s better to keep the door open so like, the air can circulate. Anyway I left it open today,

Oh I’m actually really hungry but I have no hangover food in the house. DAMN you self restraint in the supermarket. I have NOTHING in the freezer, just spinach and peas. I can’t eat that shit on a hangover. I need pizza with four cheeses and fruit juice and chips and garlic sauce but they don’t do garlic sauce here or proper chips.

Gaaahhh… and I have to go to the post office to pick up my parcel from amazon, it’s a laptop cooler with three moveable fans. I reckon this Christmas I will be really bored and then I will return to Fallout 3 for a bit. Maybe Skyrim but probably not because Skyrim just got so boring after a bit. It’s a really beautiful game but just… boring.

Anyhoo.

People have started to resurface on Facebook and they are actually asking me to DRINK today.

Hot wine. Mulled wine. Oh god no

But actually, that might be really nice.

I need pizza anyway, so I guess my first plan of action is go to the supermarket.

NO! Here I am going to do a plan of all the things I must do and then I will leave this internet and GO DO IT.

SEIZE LE DAY

1. Get dressed.

2.Wipe crust and grime from face.

3. Put on makeup.

4. Do something about hair. Actually, fuck it, just going to the supermarket. Put on hat.

5. Find wallet and keys and everything I didn’t give a shit about ever finding again when I came home last night.

6. Put on more makeup.

7. Pick up shoes and tiptoe out of apartment and put shoes on outside so I don’t alert my flatmates to the fact I am going to the supermarket because then they will want me to pick up stuff and I just can’t do it today.

8. Go to supermarket

9. Wander aisles feeling like throwing up and gathering far too much fatty shitty food, more than I could ever eat, and fruit juice oh god so much fruit juice.

10. Have nervous breakdown when the checkout lady asks me something in French.

11. Go home and put pizza in cold oven. Drink some juice. Watch pizza with a feeling approaching euphoria. Soon the pizza will be cooked. This pizza will complete me. It’s all I need, I shall never want again. Fantasize about having pizza on a plate on my lap and a big carton of juice beside me and watching something insanely funny on my laptop.

12. Eat entire pizza which is still cold in the middle and look at belly and tell self I am fat and ugly and look at my face, look at it, I should stop trying to find a nice photo for my profile because I am just horrible looking and people only sleep with me because they are MEN they will sleep with anyone, oh man I’m so ugly and fat no one will ever love me.

13. Throw up from the bitter mixture of improperly heated four cheese pizza, juice, alcohol and self loathing.

Or I could just skip the hassle, save money and just throw up now.

 

UPDATE

 

I ditched my list because it was making me depressed, barged in on my non-French flatmate (she’s Swedish and awesome) and told her she needed to come with me to get pizza. She had an omelette so she didn’t want to go anywhere but then I talked about pizza and how jealous she would be when I had pizza, and eventually she came with me. We bought pizza and I got juice and clementines and so much fucking chocolate and those little tubes of fruit puree that they sell here for kids lunchboxes and oh man so fucking happy. The supermarket was way intense. Elin Nordegren (that’s what I’m gonna call my flatmate) and I were like two severely autistic kids in there, startled by everything, terrified by the other shoppers and overwhelmed by the simplest decisions.

Along the way she told me that actually I did black out some memories last night, one was when we were in the club, the weird whitehead guy was hitting on me and trying to dance with us and I got rid of him or tried to anyway by saying “me and Elin we are BIG lesbians. MASSIVE ONES!” and then I started ballroom dancing with her to make it believable.

Also when we were leaving the club and walking home we danced around this light up christmas tree shrieking with joy and then I saw two half naked men wrestling (yes) on top of some big platform or something, I can’t remember, but they were wearing just boxers and I got really excited and stood staring at them cheering and probably trying to hit on them for a while, until they asked me to take a picture of them, but I used their camera so I don’t have a picture. Eventually I had to be dragged away from the naked guys. I can’t remember anything more than just having seen naked guys.

So I didn’t do anything bad but it’s weird being told about stuff you did when you feel like you remember everything but then there’s other stuff.

I forgot NAKED men.

That’s weird.

Anyway. My pizza should be done now, and then I will know true joy.

 

Drunken rant I think about sex

I’m in French classes from 9am til 1pm Monday to Friday. So basically I have more time than I’ve EVER had to get drunk and make foggy memories with sexy accented strangers.

Except for two problems. One, nobody else I know here seems to be an alcoholic, and two, somewhere along the way with my marriage and the rebound and the falling in love with a younger guy… I’ve grown out of the random hookup.

I used to have pretty low self esteem, I used to get a kick out of sleeping with a guy… as long as he was decent looking, I felt like it was a point in my favour. Someone wanted to have sex with me! Woo woo! I hadn’t grown out of that thing where I was a teenager and my eyebrows were very close knit and thick and makeup just looked like it had landed on my face via ballistics.

But now it’s more like, yeah of course someone would want to have sex with me, I’m a woman in pretty nice shape considering I don’t do any excercise and 100% of my meals contain cheese and I drink a lot which is fattening. So I don’t really get the ego boost out of it any more. And for years my best friend told me I should stop doing that thing of just sleeping with guys, because it made me feel shit about myself and I did it because I felt shit about myself and it didn’t make guys like me any more. And she was wrong because it didn’t make me feel shit about myself, but she was right in that the only reason I did it was cause I felt shit about myself. Also I was very very horny.

I still am very horny. I have a ridiculous sex drive. It’s a BURDEN.

I’m horny but the idea of going out and approaching some dude and doing the old “hey, grab your coat” or whatever routine…. just makes me cringe now. Not that there’s anything sad or wrong with that, it just wouldn’t give me what I want.

What I want isn’t just to find a man willing to fuck me (come on, I’m totally awesome) it’s to find a man who wants so badly to fuck me that he will spend time finding out about me, or paying attention to me, or basically risking wasting his time for the chance that maybe it won’t be wasted after all. I want a weighted compliment.

At th time of writing this, I should tell you, I am pretty wasted.

But.

I want to have sex but I don’t want it to JUST be sex. I don’t want a relationship exactly, I just want someone to put in the legwork. I’m not going to be so easy I’m on a plate any more, and it’s not because I think sex is something to withold from all but the most worthy— sex is something for me too. I just want to sex the person who realises the value of the thing and shows it by putting in some effort. A chase.

I think that’s how it’s going anyway…

I haven’t had much opportunity to flirt with the locals yet, unfortunately.

On the metro I see so many hot specimens but I have this paranoia that if I meet anyone’s eyes, I will have given them permission to talk to me. I am too afraid to look at a guy to see if he’s attractive, in case by the time I have given said permission I will have found out no, no he is not attractive at all, and then I’ll be on the fast track to an awkward unwanted conversation.

So I stare at the metro map over our heads and the journey is not very long but it’s too long for that to be a reasonable use of my eyes.

Damn.

Ugh.

I started, because of limited…ahem… resources… looking inwards for satisfaction. Inwards, into my class.

Now I know I’m here to get some serious Baguette action, and some “oh que tu est belle…” whispered into my ear and whatnot. But… I DID get waxed. It was so painful and I’m so fucking smooth right now, looking at my vagina no longer makes me feel too ashamed to masturbate. I feel empowered. Beautiful. Sexy. I feel inclined to take pictures of myself and then delete them because just like a penis, an out of context vagina is not a good lookin’ creature.

But I digress.

So I looked around my school, the guys I eat lunch with everyday. My fellow retards in the language of love.

And one is a very good looking guy who I thought was muslim and therefore not someone I wanted to get involved with but that’s only because I am awfully racist sometimes and I accepted his friendship on facebook but it wasn’t him, it was another guy with a tan and dark hair. A guy whose facebook background was bits of the Koran or the Quoran or however it is spelt. He also listed Islam as his religion. But it’s a different guy. And now I realised it’s a different guy… I was like, oh. Ok. This guy’s hot and actually doesn’t look anything like the muslim guy. But we were talking outside class the other day, and it was interesting, and he’s cool… but.. I caught a glimpse of short chest stubble through his shirt collar. He shaves… SHAVES his chest. SHAVES. No. Absolutely not. Will not go there.

Eww.

So there’s another guy.

He’s in my class and we have a lot of banter in class. He’s the person I get along with best in class, he’s nice, he’s funny, we laugh, he’s a bit older but not too much, he’s got a seriously cool job… he test flies fighter jets.

I had made up my mind to fuck him but we were in a bar one night and I thought we were flirting but he just didn’t take the leap towards it actually happening. I got bored with it and gave up. But in retrospect… he must have been flirting. He must have been….

But… every night I go home alone and I think RIGHT THAT’S IT, gonna fuck the fighter jet tester. He’s cool, I like him, he’s a good laugh…

And then I go to class and he speaks French with a GERMAN accent and I’m like, oh… oh no.

It’s not like his french is bad… and his german sounds awesome… his english is great too… it’s just that…

I’m like, here because I think French sounds so fucking sexy.

And German french does not sound sexy.

I want someone who can make me jizz in my pants just by giving me directions.

So that just puts me off, and then later I’m like shit, I should have just fucked the German guy.

And then I think maybe the German guy doesn’t want to be fucked, maybe he’s not into me.

And then I laugh.

Of course he wants to sleep with me, I’m a woman. I’m a woman goddammit!

And he doesn’t discredit my “no random sex” rule because if he doesn’t want to sleep with me then he won’t, but if he does then it just means that he is really shit at flirting but has been trying anyway.

Very annoying though, he’s away for a week and then he’s only back for a week before he goes home to Germany.

That’s my window… fuck, so annoying. Just wish I didn’t have to do all the work all the fucking time. Where is chivalry?

Le Fear, part un

So I got off to a good start. Promising. Lots of fellow students of the beautiful language, all friendly, mostly fellow alcohol enthusiasts. Going out to bars and clubs every other night, and alllll weeekend.

Positive start. Of course today is the shit-encrusted tail of my 3 day weekend, so I’m feeling…. not so great. Still not down on France, oh no, France is awesome. France is fucking awesome.

FRANCE is awesome, but I am a hung over, snivelling, weak, binge drinking, sex- crazed, self-centred excuse for a woman and my legs are hairy and I have really bad sex hair BUT I have not had sex in several weeks now, and I’m feeling very unattractive.

The people I know here are all students and tourists like me but not so embarassed about the tourist label, so they are constantly taking photos of everything and handing their cameras to each other to ensure each person has a copy of the complete series of moments witnessed that day, and I keep seeing photos of me and thinking, oh yeah…. yeah… I’m not a good looking person, I just thought I was for a while because if I look straight ahead in the mirror I look good but somehow the exact position in which my face looks pretty only comes out when I am looking in a mirror.

There was a video of me talking in Swedish (I learnt one phrase and repeated it enthusiastically for three nights in a row. People are still inviting me out… nice) from the weekend and I just… can’t believe… that people are taking me seriously with such odd, inhuman facial movements. I look ridiculous when I talk. No wonder men flee and my ex boyfriends accidentally add me on facebook and then apologise for it and tell me they don’t care if I delete them.

Ah….

Here we arrive at what’s actually bother me.

So Antoine…. Antoine doesn’t say shit to me for three months and I move on and I’m like, so over that buster, I’m good, I’m moving to the country he lives in BUT I can say with utter sincerity and complete lack of denial that I am not intending to ever see him again, and if he contacts me again, I’ll be like, sorry bro, that ship has set sail and sunk and I got the only lifeboat and now I’m living a simple life on a beautiful island and there’s also a topless male only tribe living on the island and they all fuck me whenever I want and they are super fit from building shelters for me all day and there are no stds on this island.

BUT while I was not actually deluding myself one tiny bit, welll… I wasn’t really prepared for what would happen last week.

Last week I got a friendship request from him, the scrub who can’t get no love from me.

I was actually in the middle of accepting a plethora of friend requests (sorry can’t write this without smirking. I’m actually getting a smirk wrinkle on one side of my mouth only. Maybe I told you this already?)

So I’m mass-clicking yes to my new scool posse, and without really registering the name I clicked yes to Antoine. Again, this is actually not his real name of course.

So when I realised what had happened my weak, squishy, totally unprotected lady brain (and parts) went into hysterical overdrive. Incidentally, “hysteria” comes from the word for womb.. something about our stupid wombs causing everything. Also, interesting side note on a side note, google female hysteria and you will find some very interesting info about the origin of the vibrator. Ok back to the original tangent…

I went crazy. Did he want to see me? Did he know I’m in France… has he been waiting… does he miss me like crazy? Does he…. think he is ready to not be a dick and just go back to having the best sex either of us ever….

that sort of thing.

Not “fuck him, how dare he…”

Not “that’s a terrible idea, I should just tell him it’s nice to hear from him, I’m well, he’s well, good, good, and cut it off there.”

Nope. Square one, bitches.

Later he wrote to me asking how I was finding France and saying it’s weird I live so close, and I didn’t know how the fuck to take that… I just exchanged very cold pleasantries and then said g’luck with everything. The end.

Happy with myself for cutting off the convo, I so couldn’t take any more shit with him.

But I couldn’t rest.

Why did he contact me? Why did he contact me if he was just going to say stiff, boring things? He didn’t seem like he would contact me again, it didn’t seem like something he would do…. especially knowing how convinced he was that I was like soooo in love with him. And yeah I guess he was right there, I totally was… or my reaction now would have been more “meh” and less “gotta get my legs waxed in case this boy who broke my heart catches a glimpse of unsightly follicle when he says jump and I go to do the splits mid-air”

Course I couldn’t just be a good girl and play the silence game, so today, full fear and hangover and conviction that every person who is friends with me is probably just hanging out with me for some kind of dare, and every man who kisses me or calls me sexy is just doing it cause I give good head, and then maybe I don’t even give good head and men just like to humiliate me…..

I wrote to him asking why did he add me? I just said it was surprising.

He answered that he was looking at my profile to see if I did come to France after all, and accidentally must have clicked on add friend, and he only realised when I accepted. He said he didn’t mind, it was nice to have good news from me, although it’s weird I live so close… if I wanted to delete him as a friend he would understand.

And that’s the end of that.

Goddammit.

What I even hoped for I do not know.

I just wish he hadn’t got in touch because I was doing so well, and now I’m hung over and I started drifting off into thoughts about him, yeah I’d fuck him again but first I’d be cold and distant, make him feel like I moved away somewhere, but then it would melt away and he’d hold me and stroke my neck down to between my breasts and he’d follow his hands with his eyes, doing everything carefully, every action the result of thinking about it first. I’d breathe hot onto his ear and feel him tense, and I’d reach his ear with my mouth and he’d quiver against me and we’d kiss and touch  where we know to touch, and he’d whisper I want you now.

I loved that sex so much. When I think about him it’s all sex. He brushed my hair once in the shower, he did it with concentration, slowly, in a way that was so impractical and naive it endeared me to him.

I liked our meals together, we enjoyed wine and cheese and we drank milk after sex and it was exactly the right drink for after sex. He told me he got this habit from his older sister’s ex, who he presumably watched as a gangly little boy, a glass of cold milk and an attitude of I just fucked your sister.

But I never think about our conversations. It was just sex but it was sex that completely took me over. And I guess I would have gone there again, I would have prostrated myself on the altar of who cares, this is a sturdy surface, fuck me on it.

But it’s not to be, and I’m not sad about it, I’m really just sad that I break and I heal but there’s still a great gaping crack where he can slip right back in any time he wants.

And yes, that phrase was entirely intentional, although mine is just great and not gaping.

Ahhh, the fear.

Makes me feel like utter scrotum about my looks, my personality, everything… at least it only lasts til Tuesday.

Tuesday my ego will be back in full swing.

Really, I’m in paradise. I just need to keep going out and meeting locals which isn’t so easy when you are in a big group of foreigners with shit French, but it’s not like Italy, it’s not like that… it’s good here. Patience, my sweets.

I have seen so many hot barmen, hot binmen, hot policemen, hot traffic light repairmen up on ladders, hot cheesy sandwich vendors (also hot sandwiches and cheesy vendors)

It’ll be fine.. just gotta get through the ridiculous self loathing festival I’m holding in my hung over brain. I spent most of the day eating microwave reheated empanadas and watching bad camera angle porn, I think tomorrow the simple act of leaving the apartment and socialising with my school buddies will help significantly. Although I’m also kind of happy to have a decent internet connection again so I can watch porn.

I’ll try to write something when I’m not in this kind of mental space so you get a less skewed idea of my sanity. I was really happy every other day since I got here. And I speak atrocious French BUT I made a French girlfriend in a bar last weekend and she’s willing to hang out and listen to me talking like a 2 year old but with more Anglophonic “R”s and “N”s.

So I’m gonna get there…

PATIENCE

I don’t have much patience because I’m so eager to get there already and speak awesome French and be made love to passionately by awesome French guys.

A plus tard, my sweets.

Also, I’m actually not going to move my blog, I’ll keep this one. I’ll just continue to drop “the pursuit of ‘appiness” into my writing as a glorious pun but I won’t change the title cause… fuck it.

xxx

Abby N Flicker