The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.

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Ho ho ho, motherfuckers

Christmas was not depressing, not at all. I had some friends over… two girls from my French class. We made magret du canard (duck breast) and roast potatoes and sweet potatoes and we had smoked salmon and cream cheese on little tiny pancakes and prawn cocktail and five cheeses and chocolate fondant cake with ice cream and honestly it was far too much food. I also bought more wine than I have ever bought, for one glorious afternoon I had a veritable wine cellar (my wardrobe)

I arranged my wine bottles proudly and decided to start a wine diary, to organise my drinking in some way.

Because I keep going to the supermarket and choosing wine and thinking, I like your label and I think I’ve drank you before… but I can’t remember the verdict. So I’ll buy you again, and maybe it’s shit, and I’ll probably forget again.

I told my friend about this plan to sophisticate up my boozing and she told me they actually sell notebooks specifically for that purpose here. I was torn between being pissed off that my idea wasn’t original, and impressed with a society who thinks like I do. Go France! You pretentious boozehounds.

On Christmas Eve I was looking smugly into my wine wardrobe and thought, fuck, I’m gonna start drinking if I don’t do something to entertain myself. So I went out into the city centre. Full of people. Full of people last minute buying presents. Not for the first time this year, I started thinking about how cool it would have been to surprise my little sisters on Christmas day, just showing up at the house in Italy, and making them so very happy indeed. But I have investigated every possible route and it’s just too expensive. Should have known I’d want to be with them in advance, but I was just like, meh, christmas, whatever, until the last minute. I really did try though, at the last minute. I even considered spending 8 hours in a car with a stranger through this car sharing website and then another 6 hours on a train to spend 3 days with my sisters. The 8 hours in a stranger’s car was too much though. Not so much stranger danger as god how boring would that be? What if they were boring? I initially considered it because one of the guys offering a ride was really hot, and I imagined thrilling him with 8 hours of prime convo and intriguing him with all my adventure stories. Then some over the pants stuff while he drives. But when I went back to book, his car was full. Of course.

The only free place was with the most intense looking young adult I’ve ever seen outside a mugshot. And he only had one review on the site:  “Thanks for a serious journey.”

No. No thanks, serious journey.

So I went into the city centre and wandered around. It was pretty hard to wander around because the streets were full of people searching for last minute gifts. For their families. Sick- making.

I had to walk in short bursts of purpose. I decided to buy a bag, because I need one for working as a teacher, a big one that fits an A4 folder in it, or else for like situations that might arise, such as visiting someone overnight, an ex lover or something, and not wanting to go with just one outfit but not wanting to scare him by arriving with a suitcase. That sort of thing. Found a nice bag and bought some overpriced tights. And a lime green miniskirt, that was a bit of a surprise to me even, I’m not sure where that idea sprung up from.

Then I was walking around with my shopping bags while everyone else bought stuff for other people and I felt like a dickhead, going shopping for myself. I tried to hide the shopping glow from my face and look a bit stressed, so people wouldn’t know how selfish and stress- free I was and would presume I too was caught up in the last minute giving frenzy.

As if anyone was looking at me, anyway. Christmas eve, an hour before the shops closed. No one was looking at me.

Probably why I bought the lime green mini skirt.

After that, I decided that although I did really want to open my wine and start the wine diary, I would wait for my friends to arrive and start cooking. Like, seriously. Need to pace myself. We got some cheap champagne and so much wine, and this awful lychee flavoured liquor. Man, I love Christmas.

We had a nice night. The cheese and smoked salmon and stuff was, as a starter, way too much. By the time the main was done, we were ready to explode. We drank mulled wine and normal wine and then moved on to the lychee stuff then watched a bit of a movie and some stand up, and then it was midnight and we popped the champage and they took photos but my opening champagne face is a lot like constipated so I don’t think I’ll be showing anyone those photos.

It was a nice night. Nothing like being with family or old friends or anything, but it was nice considering it was an expat christmas and I’ve only been here 6 weeks.

Christmas day was a bit shit.

I talked to my family on skype and that kind of made me sad. But I just drank some wine and then I felt better. Or worse. I’m not sure. My flatmate came home and chattered to me about Christmas as I stared at her stupid face and resented her interupting my personal space.

She really does have a stupid face. My dad told me he has called the apartment several times when I was here and asked for me and she has just talked in French and hung up, and never mentioned to me the fact that someone who didn’t speak French called while I was home, and maybe, like, it was for me?

When I heard the key in the door I pushed the wine to the other end of the table so it looked like it was from the night before and not morning drinking, but who knows what she thinks.

She had previously sworn she would come home and clean the place on Christmas eve before my friends came over, and although her dad did the dishes, she didn’t clean shit. So when my friends were over they suggested having dinner in one of their houses while their host families were out of town, and although I had mentioned to my flatmate that we could eat together on the 25th, I was like, yeah why not. If she had cleaned or something in preparation, or offered to put in some money for the meal, or done anything, I would have invited her too. But she didn’t, so I wasn’t about to feel bad.

She has family here anyway.

But then she told me she made a pie, and brought most of it home for us to eat… I felt kind of bad. But still. As with everyone I tolerate quietly for a while, eventually her little foibles have eclipsed any kind of human empathy and now the mere sight of her face or the sound of her voice inspires hatred.

Look at her, what is wrong with her? She doesn’t go out, she doesn’t have friends over, she doesn’t clean, she doesn’t cook (apart from the pie which was really good, like a fruit pie and I ate a considerable amount of it in the middle of the night), she doesn’t dress nice, she doesn’t do anything to improve her face or hair. She doesn’t even make the slightest effort to speak in a manner i can understand. She speaks incredibly fast and uses so much slang, I can’t understand her. I always say sorry I don’t understand and she just repeats the verbal diarrhea. No fucking concept of how to speak to a foreigner.

So I just despise her now. Well, it was only to be expected. Cohabitation is not my strong point, not because I’m not a joy to live with, but because I’m too much live and let live and then I don’t stand up for myself and eventually it becomes pure hatred for this person who is walking all over me.

Christmas day was a bit of a bust. I did have my meal in my friend’s house and that was nice but it was a total anti-christmas. Whatever, it’s over now.

This morning I woke up so fat and bloated, I entered the most depressing google search of my career: “how many calories does masturbation burn?”

That’s a serious low point.

(Results were inconclusive, because who knows how athletically we’re all doing it?)

Actually, while I’m on the topic of masturbation, it looks like maybe I need to step up my workout. On Christmas Eve, while watching Dylan Moran’s stand up, I came across a clip of “Monster” where he talks about the French. It’s very funny, so I was like I KNOW WHO WILL LOVE THIS, a FRENCH PERSON! So I sent the link to Antoine.

And then I thought about it and maybe it’s a little bit offensive to the French, so I wrote a follow up Happy Christmas to him.

The next morning I had a message from him sent at 3am, in French, beautiful French, saying Happy Christmas to you, and I’m so happy you’re there again.

It’s totally romantic in French.

But instead of being like, oh honey bunny, I want to be on you too, or the other option “don’t start thinking you have me back, cheeky frog, I’ve already decided that while I may continue to kiss you, you are not my prince.”

I just replied “YAY! Subjunctive message! You used the subjunctive! AWESOME!”

Because he did use the subjunctive, and that’s one of my turn ons. Only in French though.

Anyway we talked on Skype last night and he said he wants to come visit me and he also invited me to spend New Year’s eve with him. At first I was like, no no no, not New Year’s eve, that’s a time I want to spend single and looking awesome and mingling with friends and strangers, hiding my bad dancing with an oversized handbag and scanning the crowd for people I might like to kiss at midnight, and inevitably going home sad and alone and waking up determined not to get all excited about new year ever again.

And then posting hung over resolutions.

But then he told me he wanted me to meet his friends, and said they’ve known me for ages, ie, he’s talked about me to them, but probably in a more tasteful manner than I have talked to my friends about him….

I am a dirty detail divulger.

You can’t spell class without ass, is my motto. No it’s not. I’m just being silly.

You kan’t spell klassy without “ass” and “KY”.

Ooh.

You can’t spell penis without “is” and “pen”.

You can’t spell vagina without “a GI van”.

I’m going to stop now. Sorry.

So I MIGHT spend new year with him but only because I want to have amazing sex and also my girlfriends who I was planning on spending it with, are not really that keen to have a big blowout new year in the city centre anyway and what else is the point? I’ll be good though, I’ll make sure to get hideously drunk and not just sit on the arm of Antoine’s chair sipping champagne like some GIRLFRIEND. I will be a person in my own right, channeling Susan Sarandon in Alfie. (I keep saying that, I know, but it doesn’t just happen overnight. Baby steps.)

Some day, I’ll get there…

Anyway it’s getting to that time of year when every person alive with a blog is coming up with their new year’s resolution post.

I’m just going to squeeze mine in here because I feel like it.

New Year / New Mayan Cycle* Resolutions 2013

*In case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. Mayans shmayans.

1. Keep wine diary. Maybe learn something about wine, or oenology as I think pretentious dickweasels like to call it. Not to sound klassy at parties but to turn one of my leisure pursuits into a legit kind of recognisable hobby so I don’t seem like such a bed- gremlin to outsiders.

2. Write something that’s not a blog post about my sex life, lack of sex life, or day drinking. Like a story or something.

3. Visit my sisters more.

4. NOT FALL FOR IMMATURE MEN ANY MORE, especially not the same immature man.

5. Masturbate more. (Christmas dinner really took its toll on my figure) Maybe incorporate some sexy lunges into my routine to increase the fat burning potential. Hey you may laugh but anything that gets your heart rate up should probably, and I know nothing about this, make you burn calories.

6. Get a job. NEVER work in a call centre again, no matter how desperate for money or no matter how lucrative the job. NEVER never NEVER. Never. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER. Never.

7. Get my teeth whitened again, they have seriously yellowed up. Take off my eye makeup before going to bed.

8. Don’t let the experience of one lousy flatmate put me off cohabitation. Try find a good house to live in with cool people… living alone is obviously the ideal situation but then I’d need paperwork I don’t have and I’d probably just hermit it up again.

9. Stop buying ridiculous amounts of food in the supermarket just because I love cooking and am if I do say so myself, a pretty fantastic cook. It’s probably my biggest expense. I spend more on groceries than rent. OH that could also transfer into a legitimate hobby. I DO have hobbies. See, I’m a well-rounded individual. Also, I need to not get fat.

10. Continue being friendly and making friends and being conscious of when I’m talking too much and remember to ask people stuff about themselves and remember their names so I don’t come off as a self centred dick.

That’s it. Otherwise, I’m doing pretty well I think.

Ok, that was the fantasy list of easy things I want to do anyway.

Here’s the real list of unpleasant difficult things.

1. Stop spending money I don’t have on clothes or shoes or makeup.

2. Get tested for stds. SERIOUSLY just fucking do it. Yeah yeah probably fine, probably don’t have anything but fuck, I have wasted so much energy stressing about this… just do it, for a good night’s sleep.

3. Quit smoking at some point.

4. Become a serious and organised individual with a tidy room and stop getting spots due to not changing my pillowcases and sheets.

5. Stop picking at my spots.

6. This realistic list of resolutions is boring me. I’m not going to do any of this shit, maybe it would be just more sensible to have one point such as get std checked and actually stick to it. Ah who cares, I’m going to have what my mother calls a whore’s breakfast now. A black coffee and a cigarette.

7. And seize the motherfucking day. Magna carta, bitches.

Vaginal Whiplash

Every boyfriend I have ever had, has made me fall in love… I fall in love pretty quickly and hard. Extremely hard. And then the full extent of my passionate, crazy, scary love gets too big. It takes over. I start to freak them out. They’re in love too, but, like… more chilled out love. The kind of love that isn’t really love, because it’s selfish and lazy and it can get scared off by passion.So then they run a mile. They make me feel like I’m this crazy stalker woman who will do anything for them (which, yeah, it’s not far off. I do get a bit crazy but they don’t even KNOW how crazy I get. They don’t have my internet history, they don’t know how many times a minute I refresh their facebook pages, how I lie awake at night worrying about whether we would disagree on child raising issues or what exact mesh of our features would work best on a male or female child.)

So they run or they freeze me out, knowing only the iceberg’s shiny hat of my true emotions. And then I DIE. I wail, I lie in bed worrying about the child raising issues that will never be, about what I did wrong, about what truths I should have kept hidden and how I could have shrugged more and been like, whatevs.

And then I heal, and I heal badly, because I keep picking at the scabs and that’s how you scar, which is why I am leaving my drunken knee injury ALONE. My legs are my fortune, you should know by now.

The knee has new pink skin on it today. Still delicate, but I can bend it now without going full on tourettes.

But my other injury.. my ahem… less badass injury… it has pink skin too.

Sorry I get really paranoid about using metaphors because I love using them but when other people do it I’m like, lame. Lame lazy and also, it’s very easy to equate things to each other and then make a point.

If you will permit me to continue…

The… and I’m loath to say heart…

The emotional injury.

That one is like… well it’s still not ready to be fallen on again. It’s not ready for me to lunge out into life shrieking and trying to kick people.

So what happened?

Sunday, I get a message from Antoine.

It was only a matter of time, but here he is, asking for another chance.

He had been torturing himself not knowing what to do, wanting to contact me, not sure what to say… ever since he learnt I was in France.

He said maybe I wouldn’t want to speak to him again, and he understood… but he wanted another chance to continue our story.

And all that hard work… gone. I stewed over it for a few hours and then replied a little coldly, saying I don’t know what to say but I am not going to talk on facebook, and if he wants to talk to me he can call me.

He called me, we talked, I was standoffish and wary, he wasn’t really promising anything but he wanted to see me.

I said I’d think about it.

OF COURSE I WANT TO SEE YOU YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.

But I have learnt something about caution, I think. Maybe.

So I let it be for a few more hours. That’s not much in human time but in Abby time that’s like months.

Eventually wine and self loathing got the better of me as they are wont to do…

and I wrote to him, just asking why he changed his mind? Why now? Why, after what he said in that final horrible conversation? Why would he want to see me again now?

And he told me it all happened so fast. He didn’t know what to do. He thought there was no choice but to end things, but now I’m here and maybe I don’t want to see him again but he wants a chance, and if I can trust him again, could I let him back into my life, could I let him love me? He said he knew I was a rare person and he didn’t want to give that up. He would come if I wanted, he could be with me in 2 hours.

I had already completely melted by this time and was ready (I know, I know, I’m an idiot) to open the door, physical and metaphorical and metaphorical relating to my physical (vagina) and cradle his head in my arms again and smell him and kiss him but NO I have grown a little bit of dignity also my best friend gave me strict instructions not to be nice to him for a while.

So I said hmm don’t know how I feel, I have to think about it, I don’t know if it’s a good idea, I’ve moved on etc.

Lots of bullshit of course.

And then he came.

He just came the next day, on a train, and he called and said he was here, he wasn’t trying to force me but he wanted to show he meant what he said, he was being spontaneous and fighting for what he wanted.

Oh my god it’s like the notebook except instead of building me a house while I marry someone else and then reading our story to me night after night while I don’t remember, he spent two hours on a train on one of his days off.

But still, totally romantic.

What a dick, I know.

I agreed to meet him,

I walked with him,

I had coffee with him.

We talked about our lives. Mine = really impressive right now. His = living with parents in a small town, working a few days a week.

I’m winning.

I looked at him, a stranger in my city but a master of the language. The tables have turned but he’s still on home ground.

He looked young again. He had lost the ease of talking english, after 3 months here.

His stammer was back, he doesn’t really have it unless he’s tired and stressed and having to speak English. Towards the end in Ireland he barely had it at all. It endeared me back in Ireland but now it made me sad for him because he was stressed and tired and I didn’t care about making him unstressed or putting him out of his misery. I didn’t care about him any more, and maybe I only ever cared about how his mood would impact our days and nights together.

It was a selfish thing, me and him.

Two selfish people, falling in love with our reflections in each others’ eyes.

But he didn’t look like my lover, he looked like someone else. He had different shoes.

He had a black shirt on and then he pulled out of a massive bag, a shirt he wanted to show me. My stomach knotted when I saw it and heard him ask my opinion. A red and black flannel shirt. Just like my husband had. It’s no big deal, it’s a fairly common shirt. But he wanted me to like it and I said it was nice, and then when we were leaving the cafe he said wait, I have to change my coat.

Why? Are you cold?

No, I want to wear this shirt (the flannel one) but not with this jacket. He was wearing a khaki jacket.

He pulled a spare coat out of his overnight bag and I tried to examine how I felt about a man who carries a spare coat in case he wants to wear a different coloured shirt.

I guess I had no feeling about it, I always liked how he dressed so I can’t complain if some thought went into it.

But gay.

A little bit gay.

That’s what the part of me who wanted him to fuck off and leave me to enjoy my independence, wanted me to think.

We walked down by the river and I knew more or less where we were going but my knowledge of the city wasn’t enough to be proud of, really.

I told him stories of my nights out here, I named friends, I named male and female friends. He was impressed. In one month you have made a lot of friends… that’s really impressive. Ah. I’m impressive, man. It might have taken you a few months to realise it but most people are quite happy to have me in their lives, you arrogant cunt.

The general feeling as we walked along, was… for me… a feeling of distance, of forcing something dead between us, just because we’re both a bit lonely. Forcing something that maybe wasn’t anything anyway.

Interspersed with anger and a desire to say something cruel to hurt him.

I never loved you.

I fucked other people when we were together.

I just met with you to end things nicely, I have a new French boyfriend called Jean Pierre now, he’s tall too, and he has a proper beard and he makes me come just by looking at my nipples.

I knew we didn’t have much to do in the city. It was just walking and he had a big bag with him because he wanted to buy some clothes while he was in the city as his town sucks.

We walked some more and then we went for another coffee.

He ordered for me, a coffee with lots of sweet cream. It was good, we sat and looked at our coffees as a huge greyhound watched us and then put its forelegs up on the bar and stood there expectantly until the bar owner yelled at it.

We both looked at the greyhound in silence before one of us made a comment about the dog and then there was a silence and then a few minutes later, the other person said something similar.

And then I looked at him and he was sad, and he said are we ready now, to talk about us?

And I thought then, no, no I’m not, I don’t know why I met you. I don’t feel like I love you, I don’t feel like kissing you. You’re a stranger but you’re worse because you hurt me.

I said, I don’t know how I feel.

And he looked so sad and lonely, a part of me cared about his feelings then and I reached out and touched his hand and I do love him, I do love him, his hand was electric and clammy and big and I looked at his eyes and they were the eyes that gazed up at me from my navel and they were the eyes that left me at the airport and that seemed to ask a question every time we came together.

And I wanted him, and I knew him again and again we were us.

He stroked my hand and his face looked sadder than any tears.

I wanted him to be happy then. I wanted to tell him I still wanted him, that all I wanted was to kiss him and hold him and tell him… but no.

I stroked his hand back and felt how clammy it was and I said I didn’t know but that I did still feel something, but I don’t know…

And he said he understood… it was understandable.. he didn’t expect…

He wanted to kiss me, but he wasn’t a guy who kisses in cafes.

Me neither.

He stroked my hand up to my wrist, and along my arm a little.

Sparks flew.

How does he have this effect on me?

I touched his arm too and wondered if it was the same for him.

He told me again, he wanted to kiss me.

My insides were mush…

I’m not kissing you in this cafe.

And I’m not taking you back to my place.

Where… he asked

Well, I said, I could take you where I normally go to kiss guys…

He smiled weakly.

Let’s just go for a walk.

We left the cafe and it was torrential rain.

I wanted to press against him in the rain, I wanted to kiss him and I wanted his tongue in my mouth and his hands firmly everywhere but I felt like he had to make all the moves. I couldn’t jump on him…

Well, I said, I guess we do have to go to my place until it stops raining. We took the metro and I felt like I held the reins again. I knew where I was going. We didn’t touch.

We dashed through monsoon and into the building. The tiny lift seemed like a joke for him. He’s so tall, I had forgotten how tall he was. I warned him my lift makes a scary noise and drops a tiny bit… it always does that.

He nodded but jumped when it happened. I used to be scared of lifts, he told me.

So did I. But I guess I’m more scared of excercise, so I got over it…

Inside my apartment and the seconds inched forwards. I hoped my flatmate wasn’t home. The cool swedish girl has gone home now and damn I miss her, she was awesome. I still have the weird, hermitlike French girl.

She’s always home, but sometimes she isn’t.

I hoped she wouldn’t be home, but she was. She was on the couch watching tv. I said hi in French and told her, it’s raining.

She nodded and then saw Antoine, and shrieked.

I was like, sorry, it’s… raining… we… it’s raining. This is my flatmate, this is Antoine… eh.

She pointed at her seemingly normal sweatpants and t shirt and said they were her pyjamas and she was embarassed. I have honestly never seen her wearing anything other than sweatpants and a t shirt or hoodie so I don’t know what the problem was, but I apologised again.

We went into my bedroom and left the door open out of… embarassment?

Flatmate ran into her room and I guessed she would stay in there, so Antoine and I took off our wet boots and coats and in a surge of motherly feelings I put his coat on the radiator so it would be dry for him.

We sat on the bed and he held my hand and I touched his face and we kissed and it was like it always was, passionate, beautiful, tender…

We kissed like starving people finding food.

We touched each other respectfully, tentatively, face, hands, arms, neck, shoulders.

I wanted to cry or tell him I loved him but I held back.

He murmured my name into my neck and said, before this gets any further… do you have what we will need?

I said no, I just have those horrible coloured fruit ones.

Did you not bring any?

He shook his head and I kissed him hard on the lips.

I love that you didn’t bring any. I hate that we don’t have any but I really love that you didn’t bring any.

He said, of course.

We kissed for ages and then we went to the supermarket to get condoms, food, wine, cheese.

We landed in my bedroom again and put on music, the music we used to listen to, and we fell into the sex and it was sad and beautiful and hot and sexy and loving and intimate. It was wonderful. He came quite soon, his face contorted like he was in pain, and afterwards he lay gently on my and kissed me in little nips on my face and neck and after every little kiss there was another kiss, like he couldn’t kiss me enough, and each kiss occured to him singly.

I stroked his head and thought how much I love this man. Not him-

Not the whole man. But this man, the man who makes love to me and then lies inside me with little kisses.

 

I made dinner and I thought it would be really good but it wasn’t great. He told me it was good. We drank wine and watched a tv show and drank wine and smoked and talked and laughed and we made love again and it was amazing and different and so fucking hot.

I only have a single bed and he’s too tall for the bed so I put the tiny matress on the ground and we tried to sleep that way, unused to each others’ bodies after so long…

Gently happy in the novelty of each other, but too conscious of it to drift off. It was a restless, bad sleep but I didn’t care because every time I woke up I woke up with my nose under his chin, or his arm around my sweaty neck, or his hand gingerly encasing my fingers.

I kissed him sleeping and when my alarm went off for school I was too tired to get up and I didn’t want to get up, and we had coffee and breakfast and made love again and then had separate showers and went to the city centre.

He was free until Wednesday (today) but I was wary and I told him it was too much, too soon, and I was going out with friends on Tuesday night. So he went home on tuesday and I went out with my girlfriends.

I wanted to spend another night with him, of course I did, but I’m not going to be 100% stupid. I need to protect myself a little bit.

He said he wanted to see me again soon, and we said maybe the first few days in January we could do something.

I don’t know if this is a mutual desire to take things slow or was he just being respectful of the lies I told him, and trying to act like he didn’t want to see me too soon again either.

You know what I’m like, I’d see him again today if I could

And yet, the little niggling things are still there.

Things about him…

He’s not a man who will give me anything. He has nothing to offer me, except absolute fucking euphoria.

He won’t look after me and he probably doesn’t even WANT to.

He won’t support me, he won’t care… he’s not going to be there for me. He can’t be. And he has so much stuff to do, young person stuff… before he’s ready to be where I am.

I’m not wanting to settle down right now either but I’ve done all my truly stupid and crazy things, the on purpose ones anyway. He hasn’t. He wants to go hitching around south america with a fucking typewriter. I want to stay in one place albeit in a foreign country on my own, and type in comfort on my top of the range computer. I may be a total fucking mess of a person but I am at least a bit of a grown up, in some ways.

And oh, it’s not fair, because the sex is un fucking real. I’m not saying it’s like we’re these amazingly accomplished sex people, but together… it feels so fucking good. Just the way it feels when his fingers touch mine… is more than I’ve had with most people.

So I’m not sure where this can go, what I can do with it, and what’s more stupid, continuing pretending I can have a casual relationship with someone I have that kind of attraction to, or continuing to pretend I can have no kind of relationship at all and move on without something actually unforgivable to go down.

Meh.

I’m very tired now, I drank a lot of wine while writing this.

And I need to pee.

Your thoughts on my folly are as always, appreciated.

10 things I hate about dickhead features! A list-based moving on session.

I feeeeeel good.

I feel happy.

Guess who helped me feel better?

My mother.

I called her earlier teary and full of mucus and she offered to come see me and that was what I wanted. I said please bring tobacco because… and I didn’t tell her this… I had been smoking butts of cigarettes that were in my ashtray and it was horrible and then I smoked all the butts and I had none left and that was a full ashtray.

She took her sweet time, she did, but she came with houmous and tomatoes and lettuce and a bunch of fresh wildflowers and a bottle of wine and just enough whiskey to make three hot whiskeys in a plastic bottle, and tobacco, and a bar of chocolate and oh my god I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except maybe if she had brought my towels, I left them in her place when I went away because she was going to wash them not because I can’t wash my own towels but I didn’t want to leave damp towels in my bedsit for two weeks and come home to rotted smelly towels. But she forgot to wash them so I didn’t have any towels. I have been drying myself with my pyjama bottoms and my tablecloth for over a week now. Now that I think of it, I have only had two showers in that week. Mostly because of the lack of towels, but… hmm. Skankay. I really should have showered today but I was too depressed. Anyway I forgot all about the towels but the rest of the stuff was just what the doctor ordered. If I was the kind of timewasting individual like Sinead O Connor, who would take her heartache to a trained medical professional. Which I’m not.

But we talked. I told my story, we talked… we talked properly, for hours, without fighting… for the first time in a long long… long time. It was lovely. She felt for me, she was horrified at the sight of my swollen eyelids, I look WEIRD. I really do.. but she was helpful, I don’t even know what she said but talking and talking to someone with more experience, who knows me… it really helped.

I feel pretty good.

I attribute some of this to the wine.

Then rebound guy was online, actually this was before my mother showed up, and we had a nice chat. Good banter. I’m not going to lead him on but it just reminds me, I am not some discarded loser of a woman, I got suitors. I got people who want a piece o this… I am so much better than the blubbering ex of some immature guy whose main attractive feature is an instinct to hold a woman’s face when he kisses her and say pretty things.

OH YAY! Another breakthrough, I’m reducing him. This has been really tough because I kept coming back to no, he was still great… but I’m reducing him now. Booya. Progression along the stages, from self loathing to him loathing. The lesser evil.

Also I have wine, the wine is helping fo sho.

And I’m back in work tomorrow if my eyes manage to de-puff… wine probably not helping this. God I look insane with these eyes. They are super swollen. I’m not talking puffy, red, I’m talking looks like I got punched in the face, the old one two. Fucks like a butterfly, stings like a bee that you are allergic to.

Wow we really were made for each other… I’m a motherfucking poet too.

God I want to smack that boy. A woman scorned.. oh boy you don’t know what you are messing with. I will destroy you if you ever decide to come crawling back. I have done the revenge-get-back-together-with-just to screw-with-your-head before and I am not above doing it again. No that’s just bravado… it’s true but I was like 16… I am not going to do it again and I am probably not going to get the chance, but I’m proud of myself for being cheery enough to think of REWENGE.

He can suck on my hairy ballsack. I don’t have one but if I did it would be really hairy.

You know when I went over to see him in France he had shaved his pubes? He isn’t a very hairy guy, he’s kind of blonde.. so it was utterly pointless and sort of pathetic. Like it was just patchy and there were still hairs randomly. I didn’t know why he did it, but the friction after three days of constant bedroom shenanigans (not all of which occured in the bedroom) has left me still kind of raw.   It was such an unneccessary gesture.. I put it in the vault of things I will eventually remember when I don’t think he’s amazing any more. YAY!

Let’s open the vault.

Bear in mind this is the passtime of a loser, a rejectee in love. None of these things bothered me when we were together. but now, let us deconstruct the image of perfection I built to keep all the nagging thoughts and nagging friends at bay.

1. That Italian accent he thought was really funny to put on all the time. But I didn’t know it was supposed to be an Italian accent at first because it was awful and uncalled for. Seriously, it sucked major ballsack. And not in a good way. (I do it in a good way)

2. The stupid youtube video of two babies. I have always found it hideously offputting when a guy invites me to watch somethign “hilarious” on youtube. It’s supposed to be one of my dealbreakers, if it isn’t hilarious. This wasn’t hilarious. I forced a laugh, because I’m a weak willed man-pleasin’ biatch.

3. Minor bum acne. Nuff said.

4. He made a big effort to avoid things that were too cheesy. The sunset would have been too cheesy if it was perfect. Oh sorry, I forget that it’s important to be poetic at all times without actually hitting the cheesy note. That’s important.

5. He didn’t like my plastic wine glasses so we stole real wine glasses from a bar. I enjoyed the stealing aspect of this, but not so much the responsibility of having to keep wine glasses in my house that might break. I liked my plastic red ones. They were safe and practical and nice. Obviously not POETIC enough. But practical.

6. He didn’t know what he was doing in the oral department. I don’t mean to be crude (haha. lies.) but he belonged… belongs… to the school of cunning linguists who think the hanging rashers are an erogenous zone. No… no. No one wants their bacon bits nibbled at. I didn’t care because really it’s all about the penetray for may, but it’s still a legitimate a flaw. I gave him GREAT head. I wonder what rebound guy is doing?

7. He’s a hypocritical emotional fuckwit.

8. He lives with his parents.

9. Some of the music he listens to is really shit.

10. I’m clutching at straws here… oh wait, he’s 21 and thinks he knows about love and life and he doesn’t know shit. That’s one. There we go, 10 flaws.

OH!

11. He didn’t really read much. what is that, he loves poetic things but not reading? So then I get to feel like a dunce because he watches GOOD films, films about things… and all I like are romantic comedies and non romantic comedies but actually I read a fuck load of books so that’s just stupid, movies are my mindless escapism, I read books when I wanna think.

I’m feeling optimistic because this is the first time I mention any of these things. Because they interrupted my perfect man appreciation, but there they are. Not really very good flaws, nothing like ex husband’s, or anything. Ex husband could fill a page of detailed, mind blowing dealbreakers.

I am moving oooonnnn up!

And I’m moving to France! If I get into English teacher school. And then I’ll be all by myself again but it will be exciting and I will not be a hermit, I will go out and meet people and learn French and teach English and make friends and meet an older, more mature French man with a name like Jacques and he will bring me to his really fucking beautiful apartment full of art, and we will drink amazing wine but he won’t be pretentious about the glasses, but of course he will have nice glasses, and he’ll show me how to eat oysters but not act like it MEANS anything to know how to eat oysters or not, and we will lie in bed talking about books with our sweaty sex legs all tangled up in a white sheet, and he’ll notice tihngs about me that are flattering but also kind of make me sad, and lonely, and I’ll fall back into his arms and he’ll admire me and tell me… not ask me… that he is taking me somewhere on Saturday, and to wear something fancy, and we’ll make love and fall apart and come together and fall apart and eventually there will be croque monsieurs that he will make appear out of thin air, when I think he’s going to the bathroom, and he won’t care about all the crumbs I get in the bed and he’ll tell me I’m wonderful and his bathroom will be so far from his bedroom and the windows so big, there will never be any need for me to hold it in again and get all bloated, and I’ll leave before he could ever imagine wanting me to leave, and he’ll lie looking at me getting dressed and grinning at his good luck at finding such an awesome lover and then he’ll send me something to my house, flowers, a note, something…

Yeah I believe I’m actually pretty good now, I’m just hopelessly in love with the idea of being in love.

I want a big romantic sexy story. I want it better than Antoine, I want it so much better. I think I’m good though.

I just want more of what I had with him, more but BETTER. For grown ups. YES I WANT ROMANCE.

I am feeling damn good. Fuck Antoine, just wait until I meet Jacques the art dealer with his cellar full of wines and trouser full of snake. He’s going to make me feel aaaalllll riiiiiight.

I’m sorry for all this I subject you too. I am a rollercoaster woman. This is what most pissed me off about my argument with assholefeatures. Because he thinks I’m soooo in love with him, crazy in love. NO! I’m just a hyper emotional, possibly bipolar type of person. I don’t mean to bandy around terms like bipolar when I don’t understand it but whatever it is, I’m so fine I don’t even care any more, he’s a jerk. Also I have wine! Wine is fine.

I might see if rebound guy is online and use him for banter and to pad my self esteem a little bit.

Progress

Ok. Three or four posts today… Thanks to my blog family who are actually reading through all the insanity!

SO I still feel like utter shit and depressed and all but I am making brave plans,

I decided to go to the Stone Roses gig on Thursday, just decided to go and fuck it, and I found cheap tickets last minute and I’m going, and my best friend is going and so are some other cool people so YEAH!

Progress.

I’m not saying I don’t feel like crying, I’m just saying I am able to look forward to something, and it’s only a LITTLE TINY BIT about him seeing the cool photos of me having a great time and looking skinny and missing me. It’s only a little bit about that.

Also the guy who took the amazing photos of us together on our last weekend together, he’s going to be there and I was talking to him and he said if I was there he’d love to take more pictures of me. Because I’m so photogenic, well he said that when we were at the party anyway. So there, Frenchie.

There will be lots of really flattering pictures of me having fun at a concert and then you will be sorry.

And come back and be with me again.

Groan…

But look it’s improvement, definitely. I actually am looking forward to this…

And photographer guy is pretty hot and cool…

NO!

BAD ABBY!

No weird, common aquaintance-incestuous revenge fucks! Remember the lovely… oh. Yeah. No more FUCKING people. Want looovee and affection!

Might try to masturbate about someone else though tonight, see if I can do that without weeping.

Now what am I going to wear to this concert in the rain so that I look hot and like I am having a good time and so he regrets leaving the best woman he is ever going to meet for a few years anyway?

I think I might wear that dress, the black and white one with the stripes. I wore it the first night we met and I was all bloated with beer and period, and I still looked pretty damn good…. Now I’m in fantastic, frail shape… We shall see… It’s my sexiest dress of the moment anyway. It’s cool. I’m in fantastic shape thanks to a month of intense bedroom gymnastics and three days on a banana, some oat cakes and a cup of miso soup and a half a bowl of pasta. I’ll just stick on a pair of boots and a shitload of makeup and oh my god, this is lots of progress.

And I’m starting to be able to think, fuck him.

Like really, fuck him.

Just a little bit. Just a small bit… I’d still jump… but…

but…

But it’s progress.

 

It’s getting hard to think of titles for my posts when ALL I EVER DO IS GET DRUNK AND HAVE SEX I REGRET. Sorry.

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.

HEY!

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….

Interesting….

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…

Well…

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…

Nothing.

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.

Jesus.

People…

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.

ASS

HOOOLEE

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?

So whatever.

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.

RANT OVER.

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