Walk of shame: French First Edition

The walkof shame.

Jut got in the door. Metro home…urgh urgh urgh. Auto pilot.

Wat the fuck? Woke up all lazy and sensual stretching out against the warm body.

Mmmmm… My ass against his erection. Feeling myself round and curved and ohhh his warm hard dick…. His hands all over me

Mmmm ….

Wait, what the fuck?

Mmmm… his hands all over me.

Mmmm…. feeling utter laziness, waves of hangover and arousal and nothing to do wth who is in the bed beside me.

Wait, it’s not a bed. It’s a fold out sofa.

He’s….he’s this guy I met on a flatshare website and I met him for drinks last night wth a friend and I was sooooo not into him but still.

Mmm his fingers inside me, and I forgot thst the sex I love is with a guy who I kind of love and with a guy whose body I know and whose tastes I know.

Why am I in this sofa bed with this guy?

I ask him,how did I get here? He mumbles somthing.

I stretch out away from him but that feels less good than being against his body and it’s cold so I return to his warmth and we kiss but it’s a bad kiss, morning-y and bad breath (mine) and he smells so strongly of other man. He doesn’t smell bad just… like another man. Clean, but someone else.

I think about Antoine but it’s no use, Antoine isn’t here, Antoine doesn’t really give a crap about me.

Maybe this guy cares about me. Maybe he’s a cool guy, the best guy. I look at him but I’m not attracted to him.He evidently is attracted to me. That knowledge gives me a little kick of horniness and I’m all lazy-sexy against his body and oh what I wouldn’t do to have Antoine here beside me….

I murmer…. I have a boyfriend.

He kisses my neck.

I know.

You told me last night…

Oh really? I feel a little proud of my at least attempting to have a moral compass.

Yeah, he said, AFTER…

 

OH! Did we… did we have sex?

Yeah, you don’t remember?

No I’m so sorry, I was really drunk.

You didn’t seem so drunk last night…

Again, slightly proud of myself for at least seeming to hold my shit together while blacking out. But maybe thts just because my personality is so fucked up you can’t tell when I’m drunk or sober. maybe…..

I let him feel me up some more and ask him was it any good? He doesn’t answer which isn’t great but he contnues to touch me and it feels good and after a while and me touching him too, out of politeness more than anything, he slips two fingers inside and then his mouth is on my nipple and I’m not faking anything or being polite, it’s good, it’s good, I want him to make lo…. I want him to fuck me. I want Antoine to fuck me but he isn’t there, this guy is there. I’ll call him Lucas. He’s there, he’s all over me and his dick is hard and solid and there and I think how there’s no way I’m putting that in my mouth and I ask him did we use a condom last night? And he says wow you really don’t remember? And he says it’s ok, yeah of course we did and then I relax again and touch him and it surges, I want to show him how good I am at sex, I’m too lazy to do anything good with my hands and Idon’t know him anyway, I want to show him where I’m great… I feel a little sadness about Antoine bt fuck Antoine he isn’t…givingme everything I want. I know this guy isn’t either….

We have morning sex and he does all the right things, all the things Antoine does with me but it’s not the same, it’s nothing compared to that.

He fucks me and I make the sort of noises I make with Antoine but they echo out of me like polite sounds in conversation to show you’re listening. I’m not listening, I’m not there, I’m looking through the mirror. It looks like what I do with Antoine, it looks the same, I look the same but it’s cold and I don’t care and I guess it feels good but just physically.

Get dressed, find my clothes strewn all over and far apart.

Some girls might wake up in this situation and think, was I spiked?

But not me.

I know I’m verrry capable of getting myself into this position sheerly by refusing to accept that I am not a good drinker.

Last night the bar had a minimum of 8 euro to use a credit card, so I bought myself double whiskeys and knocked them back to impress everyone. I don’t think I impressed anyone.

Walk of shame in the snow… I guess it snowed last night… just a light powdering but enough to make the walk slow, with him, on his way to work and showing me to the metro. It’s 9am, I have pure hangover face and sex hair and I feel like a giant piece of shit walking down the street and talking English, I gave up on French at some point in the night. Maybe he was sexy in French, but not now in bad English.

I remember getting ready to go out, I had his facebook but there were no good pictures, his profile was kind of unclear whether he was hot or not. I got dressed up nice but fairly casual, and I thought maybe this guy is cool and hot and maybe I’ll flirt with him or just make a new friend. I wanted to lash back at Antoine for making me feel so intensely again and then dropping off the map. He hasn’t disappeared- he just doesn’t do love like I do.

We spent a few glorious days together recently, made love all day and all night and it all grew stronger and stronger and when he was in me and his face kissing my neck hungrily and my arms pulling him in, in, in, the closest we could be, it welled up inside me like the tears you want to cry, but can’t, when you finally get home after holding them in all day.

It hurt and it felt like the best thing in the world.

It hurts when I don’t hear from him. He doesn’t write frequently.

It hurts when I hear from him because I want to see him.

It hurts when I see him because I want to touch him.

When I touch him it hurts because I want to be with him together making love and coming together, but I don’t want it to end.

And it hurts when he is inside me because there’s nowhere else to go, that’s the peak… I want him closer, further, rougher, gentler, faster, slower, I want him kissing my mouth and I want his mouth on my breast. I want to eat his cock but I want to kiss him tenderly at the same time and have him make love to me at the same time. I want more, always more. And then it’s over and I’m at peace for like 10 minutes and then the pain starts again.

Maybe this is my body telling me I should be having group sex.

I don’t know.

Anyway we lay together and stroked each others necks, faces, bodies and kissed gently and murmured things and he said I think I love you, and I said I think I love you too… and I didn’t mean it when I said it because I know neither of us loves the other. We’re selfish, we just love the feeling and don’t want it to stop. We don’t give a shit about each other really. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t NEED to speak to me. When we’re apart I miss him and he misses me but he’s defeatist about it. We can’t be together all the time, so let’s just be together when we are and the rest of the time what’s the point in saying I miss you etc… I’m not like that. I want… I need constant reasurance. I want to know that he’s thinking of me too. And he doesn’t tell me.

When we’re together I can’t doubt for a second that it’s amazing and great but every time he leaves I don’t fucking hear a word from him unless it’s practical information about when we will see each other again. It drives me crazy. I want the notebook, I want the vow, I want a Nicholas Sparks movie guy who writes to me even if I don’t write back, who builds me a motherfucking house even when I clearly expressed my disinterest. I want someone putting themselves out there for me again and again and not fucking stopping just because they feel sure of me.

Cunt.

I’m very angry with him for being like this. That’s why I slept with that other guy, it was my typical secret revenge fuck. I always try to put myself out of my current love’s reach when they pull away or betray me or just disillusion me somehow. Like I want to say a silent fuck you, if you don’t treat me really really well then I won’t be loyal, but maybe I could just be a bit harder to get instead of having sex with gross strangers.

Ah he wasn’t really gross, I’m just feeling icky because I don’t want to sleep with anyone else and it was a shit revenge anyway because Antoine doesn’t know and if he did know it wouldn’t do me any favours.

Balls.

I’m so bad at this.

I’m so fucking hopeless, I’m too passionate and intense to be with someone who is so fucking clueless and selfish with himself. He doesn’t know what love is and I sit here waiting for it like a dog waiting for the mother of the house to come home.

I was coming here for adventure and hope and new things and I’m stuck in some shit that I know is bad for me and I just don’t want to pull myself out of it, because it feels good and I’m afraid if I go out into the world alone and demand to be treated wonderfully, I’ll just be alone all the time.

And my French has kind of hit a plateau, too.

I need to get a job.

And stop drinking so much.

And get over the hangover guilt (This happened on Thursday night, I just wrote the beginning before the self loathing became too great so I finished it today)

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Consider the new year christened

Christmas wasn’t the best.

But there was new year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, it was perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do I do with that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And do something with all these fucking thoughts.

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.

Le Fear, part un

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

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

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

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

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

Ah….

Here we arrive at what’s actually bother me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that sort of thing.

Not “fuck him, how dare he…”

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

Nope. Square one, bitches.

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

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

But I couldn’t rest.

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

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

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

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

And that’s the end of that.

Goddammit.

What I even hoped for I do not know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhh, the fear.

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

Tuesday my ego will be back in full swing.

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

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

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

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

So I’m gonna get there…

PATIENCE

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

A plus tard, my sweets.

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

xxx

Abby N Flicker

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.

Love is like a boomerang

I bounced back with a snap, like a hastily removed condom.

Went to see the Stone Roses and didn’t see a whole lot of anything but hot photographer guy’s closed eyelids.

We made out in the tightly packed crowd and I lost all the rest of my friends and his camera had run out of battery so there were no flattering pictures but I took him back to my place anyway and we desecrated my love-bed with passionate, unfeeling, but passionate sex.

He gave me insanely good head. Insanely good. He told me I was stunning, he told me I was amazing, he told me I was so hot and so sexy… I didn’t even need him to go down on me, compliments are so much better.

I rebounded all over him and then I saw him again accidentally on Saturday night and brought him back here again after a drunken row with my best friend who was staying with me. FINE GO HANG OUT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND YOU ARE JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER!

FINE! I WILL! AND HES NOT MY BOYFRIEND! HES JUST THIS GUY!

My best friend took this moment to tell my poor rebound guy (well, I think he counts himself pretty lucky actually) that I am a sex addict.

“SHES A SEX ADDICT!” She bellowed, as if this was going to put him off me or something.

It was all fine the next day, she luckily wasn’t raped or murdered wandering the streets of Dublin on her own with that much whiskey in her veins, and she went back to a house full of cool people she had been dancing with, so it was all fine the next day.

I took him back and on the way in the door, drunk as I was, I felt the first pangs of what am I doing?

I thought I was moving on, moving on, cool, breezy, ready for the next lover.

But I’m not. I’m ok, really… And the sex (of course I went through with it, I was horny…) was great, but…

I started to see HIS face again. I felt weird, like I was betraying him. Maybe it was because the first night with hot photographer guy, I hadn’t heard back from my French lover and I was building up a wall of he wasn’t worth it anyway. But the next morning, Friday morning… I got a message from him, at 6.30 am, saying he loved me and he was so confused, and he didn’t know what to do… that he needed time to get his head together and he was so lost but he needed me to help, to say what would be right….he would be so happy with me, but it might be too difficult…

So when I took hot photog back to mine on Saturday night… it wasn’t the same. There was a Frenchman back in my head and my heart, and it wasn’t his dick between my legs. It felt wrong and I felt bad. I’ve cheated on people before who I was actually going out with and felt nothing like the creeping guilt I felt on Saturday night, and then three more times on Sunday morning.

The sex was good, it was good.. I was fantastic if I say so myself. He told me several times.

“You are so good at doing that… so good at sex.”

Yeah, I am. I really, really am.

But I want to be doing it with my French boy-man. I want his face on my belly, looking up hopefully.

I want him and I didn’t really stop wanting him. I’m ok now, really I am. The crazy has left my system. I’m over the withdrawal symptoms, the panic, the hopelessness.. But the love, or the approximation of love, whatever it is when you’ve known someone a month… it remains strong and it wells up inside me.

I eventually kicked hot photog out on Sunday afternoon because my friend was coming over and I thought in light of our previous whiskey fight, it wouldn’t be so cool if he was still there.

And then he left and she hadn’t arrived yet and I missed my French lover… I ached for him with a dull ache, not the madness of last week, but a manageable ache. A hunger that doesn’t impede my happiness, but a distinct hunger…

I found him online for the first time since he left, today, after I got home from work.

We exchanged pleasantries- he’s doing well on paper, new job, new place… but in reality he’s just ok.

I’m good… but I miss him.

I replied to his email yesterday and threw out a lot of contradictory statements about wanting to be with him but it being too crazy for me to move to France when I don’t speak French or have any money… and so forth.

I don’t want to scare him off with the fact that I would move to a leper colony and wash leprous asses for a living if I could be with him, so I’m being like yeah I’d like to but I have to be sensible..

I don’t know how much he is doing the same thing.

But we spoke today and he does seem to be quite defeatist about it. Sure we would not be happy where he lives. I want him to explain WHY but I don’t want to ask WHY so much or I will appear like I don’t get things and maybe getting things is something he likes about me.

I told him I would rather try seeing him once, and then another time, and then maybe another… and at least know I tried, than never try anything just because it looks difficult. He told me he needed a cigarette and when he came back he told me he couldn’t talk so he would talk later.

Hmm, important conversation here… I have a feeling he is curled up in the foetal position chain smoking right now trying to find a way to just put his foot down and say definitively NO because he is scared of how big it would be if I moved over.

Groan.. I don’t WANT to move over, I want to have that as an option and just continue spending whatever time I can with him, a weekend here and there… jesus, it’s not too much to risk…

Regret the things you didn’t do, and whatnot.

Says she of the failed marriage with a complete douche and four wasted years in Italy. Good point. Good point.

But he says there’s no point in spending a weekend together… of course it would be wonderful but it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe life will throw us another chance some day…

And I’m just like… oh fuck…

Life isn’t some mystical entity that bestows happiness on you. Life is dumb and uncaring and sometimes beautiful, and it doesn’t give anything, we sometimes just get opportunities to make our own happiness and we can either seize them and squeeze out as much juice as we have strength for, or we can shrug and move on and regret it later.

Life doesn’t give a shit if I’m happy or not, but then it won’t stand in my way if I try to reach out and take something I want. And it won’t laugh at me or shake its head if I make a mistake, or the same mistake a hundred times. It’s just life, it’s a fucking playground, and there aren’t always second chances but if you shy away from things because you don’t know if you’ll get a second chance or not, or you’re afraid of making a mess… you won’t do anything wonderful, ever, probably.

Or maybe I’m wrong. I have done a lot of stupid things…

But here I am, richer for having done them, and no scars except maybe the sex addiction thing, although that was probably just a mean thing my friend said. Although when you fight with your best friend, she does have the best ammunition…

So I’m waiting for a message, again. this time I’m pretty sure there’s no hope, but I’m ok, I’m chilled. I know now that I can get through it, and I can have fun, without this man… this intruder into my life.

I’m not ready for a new one, though. I shouldn’t really string him along, he does seem to like me quite a lot. And I like him, but he’s competing with another man, a man I am quite insane for… he can’t compete.

I asked him at the concert, does it not bother you… we met while you were taking pictures of me kissing another guy? And he said “he’s gone, right?” and then when I nodded, he shrugged and went back to kissing me.

But it aint that simple, he’s gone but he’s not forgotten. It’ll take a while, and first I really, really, really need to know if it’s over…

I don’t want to fight for someone who isn’t fighting for me… but I don’t even know what kind of internal battles he has going on right now. His independence versus constant sex. I don’t know how he thinks… he told me he purposefully didn’t reply to my email for a week because he thought it would help me move on. So why didn’t he just let it go and let me move on? And if he doesn’t want me to move on why is he telling me now, that it will be too difficult? Stop deciding everything for me! I want my voice to count, I want to feel like I have a choice here.

I have to wait again now, until he comes back online, and is ready to tell me… I’m so sure it will be no.

But I still have the little bit of hope that he will be just as foolish as me and say yes.

But whatever he says to me, I know I will be ok, and I won’t just be ok in some misty future… I have got through the really awful time and I am not going back there. I can take it on the chin this time. I have a backup guy to use awfully if I get lonely.

I’m a dick, I know.

But the oral was amazing.

A ma

zing.

 

I do need more of that, hot dog I DESERVE it.

But I miss my Frenchman. I can’t even give him a fake name because his name is great, it’s just HIM. It’s magic, when I hear it or read it or say it, it brings him back a little bit.

I’m having some hot whiskey now but not in a depressed way, in a kind of post-work way.

I’m not going to have nay more because I need to be in sound mind for when HE comes back online if he does.

 

I want to tell him he doesn’t have the right to decide how or when I move on, he can only make those decisions for himself. And if I want to make things harder for myself I have the right to do that, and if he wants to join me then he is more than welcome, and we’ll know we tried. I’m not asking for him to lift me up and carry me through France on his shoulders, I’m just asking for a weekend of sun and wine and lovemaking so he can leave me at the airport and we can know we tried something, and if I’m there and I see he lives too far from a city for me to EVER get a job and pay my own rent there (I will not live with a man no matter how in love I am, not for a while anyway…) then maybe I’ll know there’s no point, but I don’t know that now. Right that’s my last bit of whiskey I am having, there is quite a lot left because we were greedy and thought two bottles wouldn’t be enough for three girls, so I can have more if I want but I don’t want….

I’ll let you know how I get on BUT I won’t cry or anything.

Excelsior!

Aaaaand she’s back!

I was in love with him for a month, I wept for him and pulled at my eyebrows for a week, and it’s gone.

The crazy conviction he was IT, he was the person, the thing, the external must have to make my life complete, it’s gone.

I still would love to stroke his hair and feel him slip inside me one more time or maybe twice or well…

I miss the sex, I miss the constant discovery and the acting better than myself because I’m under observation.

I’m not heartless, I’m just a bit unhinged….

I’m over the rough, I’m left with the sweet memories and the glad you came into my life and shared it with me for an Irish summer.

It lived fast, it burned bright, it died young and it left a corpse hotter than River Phoenix.

The ashes of last week are cool now, and there’s a motherfucking phoenix hatching out, at least I hope that’s what I’ll be, and I’m back, I’m back, I’m back.

I feel a bit embarassed about my juvenile dementia that swept everyone up into worry and commiseration, but it was honest and it was real, I’m just moving on.

Maybe it takes a quarter of the length of the relationship to get over someone, maybe that’s throwaway bullshit.

Yesterday before it had died down entirely and I was still crying helplessly, I posted a song on facebook, Sitting on the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding, a song I always shared with my best friend and a song I introduced him to, and he loved. I posted it and tagged my best friend in it, and oh yeah I was hoping he saw it, but it wasn’t aimed at him, it’s MY song, there was no feeling of it being OUR song or anything.

This morning I woke up to his “like” on the facebook post. Thought it was a bit odd… really odd.. because he hasn’t replied to my messages, but I guess it’s a kind of “we’re cool” or an “I can’t handle talking to you about all the emotional stuff you wrote because I’m in a different headspace and I’ll get in touch when the dust has settled” or some mixture of the two or something else, but I don’t even care why he liked it, I have faith that he meant everything he said when he said it, just like I did, but just as my head’s now free of the mind-altering effects of love or lust or whatever, maybe his is too… or was a bit sooner… So it’s ok, no hard feelings…

I won’t be ashamed of the romantic intensity I threw at him the evening after he left, because I am actually pretty impressed I didn’t go crazier, go more intense, and I didn’t declare I WILL MOVE TO FRANCE FOR YOU, so I think I did pretty well.

It was great to meet you, my French lover. You came when I needed you, you left before I had my fill, and you ignored me long enough for me to snap out of it and go back to being me.

I’m not fickle, I don’t think… if he had kept the fire burning it would have kept burning, I’m sure.

But hooray! I’m a person again, I can stand my own company once more, I can even relish it… My apartment is my home again, not our love nest. I cooked today for the first time since I made him dinner, and I made cheesy potatoes and they were carbtastic and I didn’t eat too many either because I enjoy being slim and I’m going to stick to it but not in an insane depressed way like last week.

Tomorrow I’m going to see the Stone Roses with my best buddy and a lot of other cool people, and I’m going to look wonderful and I’m going to have a great time….

And I’ve put you through so much misery and you have been fabulous and thank you, lovely people for sticking with me through those 7 days… so here’s a NON-HIM related anecdote for you. I wish it was flowers, but I don’t have flowers. Just my words! Hahaha… Thanks for being such awesome internet friends, you guys…

Actually anyway it does start with him,

So I have this bruise on my arm that is basically his thumb and a finger from when we were having particularly emotional goodbye sex and he must have turned me over or something. So on Thursday night I went out with my work friends to watch the match and get very drunk, we decided to hit the bar like gentlemen and have civilised rounds of whiskey with beer chasers… So we somehow made it out of that bar and into a club where I proceeded to tell these guys who were buying me drinks and trying to hit on me all about my boyfriend who moved to France… Somewhere in there I wound up dancing with my girlfriend from work, and this woman comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder and says “Your arm! are you ok?” so I presume she means my bruise, and I just turn to her and breezily declare, “it’s fine, it’s just from sex, you know?”

She gazes at me in horror, she’s like “BUT THE BLOOD!”

So I don’t know what she’s talking about, I guess bruises are just blood under the skin, so I just shrug, I’m like “yeah it was pretty emotional, he was leaving the country.”

She walks away, shocked.

Then I realise it’s my other arm, there’s a cut on my other arm and it’s bleeding quite heavily, although it’s not a very deep cut. I don’t know where I got it, I was far too drunk to notice anything, I must have brushed past a door with a bit of metal sticking out of it or something. So who knows what that woman imagined I was so breezily admitting to getting up to in the bedroom. My lover passionately jabbing me in the arm with jagged metal…

Then today I was in work and the cut had healed but the bruise was bright, poisonous yellow. I had my jumper on but it got hot in the office so I took it off, unwittingly revealing my arms. Later I went to ask someone down the other end of the room where I never go so I never talk to them, if anyone had a phone charger I could borrow. One of the real witty guys I don’t know very well says “Abby, what happened to your arm, did you forget the safe word?”

And I just looked down and saw my dirty sex bruise that is so not a door or a fall or anything but big man hands, and I blushed and was like… errr… and I missed the moment where I could think of any other reason why I had a bruise on the inside of my arm or come up with a “ha ha no, it was just muffled through the ball gag” or anything to defuse the reality but instead everyone just stared at me non-verbally admit it was actually a sexual wound. The guy who made the quip looked at his shoes, I was handed a charger and I scuttled off to my usual corner of the office with my posse.

And I’m back to my usual awkward self. Huzzah!