Somebody that I used to know

The Artist pissed me off big time today and it’s resulted in a textual argument and his de-friending of me on Facebook.

Some of my friends were out in town last night celebrating the end of their exams, where he was also enjoying himself, but rather too much in harassing my friends with his strange words and inappropriate touching.

The guy’s a complete arse and after hearing some of what he said and did to my mates, I had to react. I couldn’t let it go. I felt somewhat responsible as I am the link between him and my friends, a constant starter of drunken conversation.

I won’t get into the details but I essentially told him to stop being creepy towards girls, especially my friends, and that I know that he is a decent man beneath his bravado but he isn’t showing it at the moment. I apologised for sending the text, saying that I was protecting my friends and it was my duty to protect them.

Evidently, he didn’t take it well, as is understandable, and the argument spiralled beyond control, though I had not particularly intended it to.

It’s funny. This last communication between us marks the end of our relationship, whatever it had come to be.

I am not sorry for that.

The time to move on has to come someday, though social media tends to greatly extend the period before this happens. Now that I have no contact with him via modern technology, our links have been severed once and for all.

We live in the same small town; I will see him most days walking the streets, but perhaps the locking of eyes will now be the sole source of our acceptance of mutual existence.

I honestly don’t care. I’ve had enough of his games and pathetic attitude and I feel like I can now wash my hands of him and move on. As he told me, “This conversation is over. Goodbye and have a nice life.”

Fuck you, Artist, but I also hope you have a nice life. I hope you see the goodness that I know is in your soul and revive it. I hope you find someone, singular or plural, to love and be loved by and that you live happily to a ripe old age.

Best of luck, thanks for the experience, but now you’re just somebody that I used to know.


An Utterly Beautiful Man

The new plot twist in my pathetic love life came last night through my inviting home of a cute badminton player 5 years my senior.

I wasn’t expecting much. A quick shag, or two, and an awkward leaving at the break of dawn.

How wrong was I.

He is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. He was attentive, complimentary, sweet, courteous and just plain lovely. I fell asleep entangled in his arms, bathed in his little kisses and woke up to sober desires and laughter. I felt attractive, powerful and wanted by his cheeky smile and the way he wouldn’t let me get up to clean the aftermath of my party (he even rugby tackled me to the floor and lay on my leg so I couldn’t go).

The most genuine guy I’ve ever encountered, this beautiful human being told me that he’d only slept with two girls before, and that they were his girlfriends at the time, in addition to being completely taken aback when I told him that I appreciated him doing things to me, incredulous at my reasoning behind this (concerning the Artist’s preferences). McLovin, who had also stayed at mine with her boyfriend, got on like a house on fire with him, which just shows his brilliant character.

It’s sad that nothing can happen as he lives tens of miles away over the English border, and nowhere near my University locations either. There’s no point pursuing it as we’d only end up getting annoyed and hurt, so I decided not to give him my number or exchange Facebook details.

But oh my goodness, what a lovely night. This gorgeous example of human kind has shown me what the male race can produce. I have a rekindled belief in our male counterparts after being on the receiving end of his caress and compliments. This guy is perfection; some lucky girl will be incredibly happy in his company.

Me, I have seen what it is to be respected, enjoyed and wanted.

It felt so good.

Seeing through the Artist’s paint

When I see his laser eyes burning through mine, my stomach turns.

I saw him on a night out, spent the early morning hours in his company and went home alone. I saw him on a bus another evening. He asked me to meet him thrice. I agreed to his last invitation of ice cream.

The weather changed dramatically so that when the day we were meeting came, it was dark and damp. The ice cream turned into a cold bench with a beautiful view which then turned into hot coffee.

The two hours I spent with him were annoying, strange, pathetic and yet nice, easy and warm.

He is self-centered, egotistical, ambition-less and superficial at times.

I see more than these stupid traits of his.

He is this man who has never known the intimate love of another. Since I met him a month or two after the death of his father, I see him as a confused, comfort-seeking man in need of a warm hug and a kiss. A proud lothario, I think that he is wary of his relationship with me. He has never, as far as I can see, had someone stick around for as long as I have, and to still be attracted to that person. I think that I scare him as I make him unsure, challenge him and yet evidently care for him. I am also his complete opposite: I am an open book, whilst he is a closed DVD case with a corrupted disc.

He lies, he creates ideal situations and revels in them. He has little silent tantrums when I don’t comply to his set of rules. He likes to tell absurd and usually pointless stories, which is a queue to switch off. I call him by the new name he has chosen for himself, rather than his true Christian name which he still uses as his desktop sign-in. He only complimented me for the first time this last meeting.

I want to show him what I see in him. I want him to discover that he’s more than all that. I want him to see his own warmth, the affectionate man that I find from time to time in his powerful glances and want of closeness. I want him to see how he could be more than the room-mate he idealises, the attractive yet awfully sleazy talent-less artist. I want him to see his own potential, how he could get himself back on track, find a passion in a subject and enjoy himself. I want him to see that he can truly be happy.

I felt similarly towards WelshNash, the beautiful smile stained with the use of marijuana. He had so much potential. Presently arrested multiple times, aggressive and even admitted into hospital for mental illness, I wanted to save him from himself. I tried.

Is this what I want to do to the Artist?

Will falling in love with me save him?

Hurt. (Death and longing)

My grand-father died a fortnight ago and it’s hit me hard.

I can’t believe that the silver-haired man in the tatty oilskins and muddy boots with his twine around his waist isn’t here anymore. I can’t believe that the man with the wry smile and the sly wink has gone. I can’t believe that the man that tickled my feet to wake me up, the man who let me drive a car for the first time, crashing into a tractor, is buried in the cemetery of my childhood chapel.

It’s completely bizarre.

Every Sunday, we’d go to my grand-parents for a chin wag and to warm up by the fire. He was always there, in his chair, with his large reading glasses magnifying his blue eyes.

It wasn’t a great shock to hear of his death; he’d been ill for a few months and had been hospitalised, and had only just come home. He had carers looking after him and was bed-bound. He’d also suffered from Alzheimer’s disease for a year or two.

But, I didn’t get to say goodbye. I was going to stay with him for the night on the Friday. He died on the Thursday.

This haunted me for a while.

My heart feels like it has been throttled and emptied of all blood. I find myself vacant of any feeling or emotion often. And then I remember, and I seek for comfort. I seek a warm shoulder to lie my head on, strong arms to hide me from pain.

I seek him, the Artist.

Around a month ago, I told him that I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t face constantly worrying over what he did or didn’t do, what he said or didn’t say and whether I would hear from him during the week to come. I hated not ever knowing where I stood. It was tearing me apart and I couldn’t concentrate for days following our meetings.

I told him when I was about to leave one night and when I got up, he told me to sit back down. He was upset. I was upset.

“Can’t we just stay as we are?”

No, we can’t. It’s too complicated. I’m afraid that if I carry on, I won’t be able to leave. It’s better to do it now.

We hugged for a while and it was lovely.

The thing is, we left it with my pissed off shout at him as he said that I was being over-dramatic.

And now I miss him.

I hurt even more, knowing that he’s gone. He was never there in the first place, for goodness’ sake. But it doesn’t stop me.

I seek him.

I grieve for my grand-father, and I seek the man I wanted to be mine.

The Saturday story

On the night out that the Artist and I were going to spend the night together (we haven’t actually slept together as of yet), I met a guy.

Across a bar I saw him, and not too long after Runner told me to stop staring and I turned around, he was there asking whether he could take the empty seat beside me. God, he’s attractive with his blonde hair and smooth features.

Not too long into the conversation, he asked for my name. After seeing that he was wincing a bit, I asked for his.

We were incredulous. Laughing, we groaned at each other.

“But you’re so … fit !”

“And you’re so attractive !”

It turns out that this incredibly handsome man is the son of my mum’s best friend, and the brother of a friend of mine.

He was too lovely to leave, so after some chatting and kissing he gave me his number, and sure enough later on in the night he surprised me by waiting outside a nightclub for me to come out.

We spent the next hour or so in each other’s company since my friends deserted me without a word. I grabbed some pizza, and as we waited, he held me in his arms where I snuggled, trying to warm him up as much as doing it for comfort. He walked with me as I ate (he refused a piece and tried to shove it in a bush) though he was shivering and would not leave me until he knew that I was getting a taxi back. He was the ultimate gentleman.

Throughout this, I was waiting for news from the Artist who said that he’d come down from an event up the hill at the opposite end of town around 3. It was 3.30 and an hour or so earlier he’d told me to “hang on” as his friend had gotten into a fight (at around 7 I received a text saying that the friend had been arrested). He never made it and I went home, alone, after ordering my new acquaintance to go back inside the club (where the stamp they’d given me wouldn’t work again as it hadn’t been done properly) to get warm.

Moreover, Saturday was laughable and yet weirdly lovely.

I just wish the Artist would have been able to come down, and I wish he’d set up another date. Soon.

The evolution of an “arrangement”

The Artist is becoming a weekly staple.

Our relationship is also evolving; from our tense and overtly sexual start, we’re now becoming warmer, sharing things about ourselves and I can sense his rising respect towards me as I gain power in the relationship. Little mannerisms are changing too, with new experiences such as his pulling me towards him whilst I was laughing at him for being vain, his joining my perch on the window sill and the fact that we cuddled and chatted for more than an hour (that was a first) proving that our arrangement is becoming natural, easy and carefree.

I didn’t expect this at the start. In all fairness I thought that he would annoy the fuck out of me and that I’d spend enough time with him to get what I want and then leave. I think that’s what he thought too. I didn’t even think that we’d last this long. I know that by now he finds me as intriguing as I have come find him, in addition to starting to see me as his equal, despite the slight age gap, and I like that. Not many people intrigue me, and I think less intrigue him.

It’s funny because I still don’t want a monogamous relationship with him: I like him a lot, find him fascinating and extremely attractive but I don’t think subjecting ourselves completely to one another will ever work. What I can see happening is us becoming closer and having more than just a sexual relationship, but to what extent I don’t know nor mind.

I’m happy with our situation. I enjoy our Tuesday nights together and always feel good afterwards.

I’ll leave with what he left me:

“Until the next time.”

Poly-amorous jealousy

The artist and I have spun a vicious web around ourselves.

From my perspective we have entered an arrangement of poly-amorous casual sex and in that arrangement the polyamory was clearly stated. The last time I was at his I ended up sleeping with his room-mate after sleeping with him, for goodness’ sake. I knew and know exactly what it was and is, which is why last night is messing with me.

I saw him kissing another girl whilst out with my friends last night and I got jealous.

I swore at him and it affected me for the rest of the night, even though it shouldn’t as I knew that I wasn’t, nor am, the only girl.

I have come to three possibilities:

1) I was drunk. Drunk. I didn’t have my senses and so I couldn’t rationalise the situation effectively. Nothing has changed.

2) It was seeing it that made me crumble. I don’t care if I don’t know with whom, but last night I did know and it’s that that hit me.

3) I’m starting to develop feelings for him. I’ve told myself time after time that I can’t and that I wouldn’t, but my drunken emotions show that this is untrue and that really I just want a monogamous relationship after all.

Please don’t let it be the latter. I don’t think it is as the second seems about right, but there is a possibility and it actually scares the fuck out of me.

Yet, in reality, jealousy is normal and to have not felt jealous probably would have been stranger than actually doing so.

I guess I’ll have to sit this one out.

A Cracked Family

A strange atmosphere has surrounded our household for a few weeks, if not months, and after speculation it was made clear this evening that I was right: my mother and her partner are splitting up.

I’ve lived with my step-mum for 5 years, from 13 to 18; she’s seen me heartbroken, she’s seen me gleefully happy, she’s been around every exam time and every results day: she’s seen me grow up.

I’m sitting in bed and all around me are glimpses of her. An iTunes voucher lies as yet unused on my stereo, next to the CDs she’s let me have. An A2 poster of Manhattan stands on my opposite wall, the summer holiday of a lifetime, beside a framed copy of three pictures she took of me on our first “family” trip to Turkey. A jewellery box, DVDs, posters, a yoga mat, me. I’m a product of the 6 years she’s been in my life.

I don’t know how to deal with this. It’s different to the break up of my parents’ marriage and yet it’s not. Merely because I’m not her flesh and blood does not mean that I don’t see her as my family, because I do. If anything, she’s been a greater influence in my life than my father has, being there when I need a shoulder to cry on as well as when I wanted to exasperate in sheer joy. My father’s never truly understood me, but she has. She always has.

I remember when I first met her: we went for an IKEA trip to buy things for the first house after my parents’ divorce. We had a pizza at Pizza Hut. A couple of weeks later I had to go to hospital after a hip problem due to sitting in-between boxes on the back seat.

I was playing The Sims when I was introduced formerly to her as my mum’s partner. I was being a moody teenager and refused to talk to her, staring at my creations on the screen instead.

Now, I can’t imagine my life without her.

She’s made it clear that she doesn’t intend to lose our relationship and that I should call in any time after she moves out, and should do the same to her mother, NanaJ, and her grandmother, but it’s going to be strange.

Who’s going to be there to pick me up after an after-school jog in the dark? Who’s going to give us a lift to school after we miss the bus? Who’s going to be here sitting in pyjamas with a cup of coffee when we leave in the morning?

Who’s going to be my step-mother?

Some more boy-induced paranoia.

This week has been hard. Fam’s been at rehearsal every night and the only crumb of contact I’ve had from him since Sunday night was a Snapchat snap on Wednesday asking if I was seeing the show on Friday. That is until last night, when I did indeed see his play.

He was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! His characterisation was fantastic, creating a lazy, perhaps socially awkward character with the superb comedy timing that one expects from him. He’s a very talented actor and made me long for my theatre days.

I know most of the cast so I, along with Bethlehem and another friend, waited for them to come out from the backstage area to congratulate them and tell them how wonderful they are, etc. Of course, this included Fam.

He came out whilst I was chatting with some cast members so I mouthed a “Well done, you were brilliant,” to him before finding the time to go over and chat with him and two other guys, one of whom is a school friend. It was fine, but of course, he wasn’t the Fam I know. He was back to the emotion-less, rather awkward guy whom I thought I knew before. They left with a “Fam, when’s your dad coming to pick us up?”, “He’s here now. Bye.” and a flick of the hand.

I know it’s probably (it is) because his friends were there, and so were mine, and so he couldn’t show himself up and neither could I, but since I hadn’t seen him for weeks and hadn’t spoken to him for one, I just wanted to cuddle up on the sofa and watch a sad movie following that encounter.

My paranoia is killing me.

I haven’t felt like this since WelshNash, and I completely fell for him in the end; it scares me. He makes me so nervous and fuzzy, he annoys me like hell (which only makes me like him more) and I can see myself with him; it all scares me. I want him so much and yet can’t figure out what’s going on most of the time. It’s frustrating and I’m paranoid that I’m going to throw it away and lose him.

I’ve lost every guy I’ve ever liked, but this one won’t get away. I can’t let him.

I need him. I think I really do.

It’s a Date.

Today I went on my first real date (if you discount the time I went to a café with WelshNash that is…) with Fam.

Walking into the café and climbing the stairs to the top floor where he told me he’d be, after walking slowly to be sure that he’d be there before me, my heart was leaping like a greyhound on race day.

Initial awkwardness and inability to pronounce any words I had lodged in my brain was brief; once we got going, we spent an hour and a half chatting, laughing and comparing stories and opinions over hot chocolate and two coffees as he’d forgotten to tell me he’d ordered for me when I myself went to order another one.

That hour and a half was the most natural and lovely 90 minutes of my life. I found out that we’re incredibly similar, with our interest in literature, linguistics and our vegetarian beliefs, as well as a shared dark sense of humour.

When he walked me to my bus on the way to a night class, arguing over a silly concept of being hot or cold, we continued our laughter and peeking over at his face, his smile was warmer than I’d even anticipated.

The catch? By my bus, a friend of his saw him and as we passed he called him back, meaning that a decent goodbye was impossible (PDA and all that), being a tad awkward and rather cold instead.

If I regret anything it’s that small moment; those few seconds which could have been gorgeous and a fitting end to a nice afternoon.

Yet I don’t mind too much.

I just hope he feels the same way as I do.

This could actually be something.