That single pill.

Bruce Springsteen’s ‘I’m on Fire’ is James’ song, a handsome, kind and very sexy Australian I met in Barcelona. After nearly a month, I think I’m ready to talk about him now.

James was a one-night stand. The best I’ve had so far, we met sharing views on the monarchy, then our shared love of Bon Iver and The Boss before chatting about our lives over drinks, fags and the offer of a red rose (which, though I refused, he would have bought had he a smaller note than his 50). James was lovely.

He invited me to his room for JD, which I swigged out of the bottle since coke was not to be found (classy). Escalation was foreseen, and enjoyed.

What I didn’t expect was his reaction post-enjoyment.

“No. Please, no.”

With his head in his hands, it was obvious what had happened. I tried not to panic. It was evident that he was.

“It’s ok, we can get it sorted.”

I remember holding each other for a bit whilst we sorted out our emotions. He offered for me to stay, but I couldn’t. I had to go. I needed to cry.

I had completely underestimated the trauma of taking the morning after pill, more so in a foreign country after a one night stand.

I cried in McLovin’s arms for at least half an hour after leaving his hostel room.

“What are you going to do in the morning?”

“Take the morning after pill.”

“And what are you not?”

“Pregnant.”

If it hadn’t been for McLovin, the single person who knew until I told the suspicious Bethlehem two nights later, I don’t know how I would have coped. She figuratively slapped me across the cheeks, raising and reassuring my drunken spirits.

I did not sleep a wink that night, and neither did James. We met as we’d agreed, at 9.30 downstairs, in order to get the drug together. Quizzed by the Spanish pharmacist, it is not an experience that I’d particularly like to repeat. Refusing his invitation to what I perceived to be a guilty offer of coffee (which I regret from the bottom of my heart, looking back), I left him by the lift, running away to my room in order to swallow the single pill, in the comfort of McLovin’s presence.

That was the last time I ever saw James.

That following day was fucking hard. I was an emotional wreck, trying to hide any emotion from the others who I didn’t want to know at that time. I pretended that I was ill, dealing with lectures on how “it was the heat” and that I should eat or drink or lie down or whatever, masking the real reason behind my shaky behaviour.

Nearly a month on, I have learnt much from my experience in Barcelona with James. I have learned how volatile my defensive attitude towards men can be. I have learned that I need to embrace romance rather than shut it down, be it from guilt or not. I have learned that not all men are arseholes that leave you to deal with complications utterly alone: some ask you if you’d like to share their bed for comfort, Google information to aid the process, come with you to get the necessary tools and even ask you to sit down and chat over coffee afterwards. I have learned not to instantly distrust men solely based on my own experiences, to stop being so self-toxic and to boost my confidence. I have learnt that casual sex isn’t always as casual as one may want and I’ve learnt that taking the morning after pill is emotionally draining. Most of all, I’ve discovered an overwhelming compassion for other women that have had to go that step further in aborting; I can only imagine how traumatic such an experience would be. The truth is, if this was so hard for me, how in the world will I be able to cope with an abortion if I’ll ever need to have one?

Let’s hope this is a rhetorical question which will never need to be answered.

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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?

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.

Those hands

My latest sexual encounter (following some messing around with BlackLace) came in the form of an attractive, tall, 21-year-old artist the other evening. We met on a night out where I began talking to him and his friend and I landed up staying at his flat until 6.30 am when I decided I should probably go home.

Although I wasn’t interested from the outset (his friend is smoking hot. As in, seriously gorgeous.) the swing-chair move at their shared studio (the friend had left a while ago) where he spun me round to face him just did it. It just did it. Sexiest move I’ve ever come across.

I was on my period. In his flat he made a move and I told him, explaining that I didn’t want to as a result. He understood and just went along with everything else instead. It was nice. We had several cups of coffee and chats along with other things.

He asked me to meet up with him for a “film” Tuesday night. I knew exactly what that meant and was not at all averse to it. He met me, walked me to the flat where once more we shared a coffee over some Will Ferrell film (well, half of it).

It was good. My first sober shag and yeah, it was good.

I felt safe in his arms, knowing that he wasn’t going to judge me as he was just horny. He didn’t care.

So do I care that he hasn’t made a move since?

Not particularly. I knew the deal. I wasn’t interested to begin with, either.

But he is so attractive. His hands…

Those hands.

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.

“Thanks for the s**g.”

Amongst talk of universities, summers and getting wasted, I lost my virginity.

I don’t feel any different. It came (accidental pun) and went and I carried on with my night. I then carried on with my week.

It’s not that it wasn’t nice – it was – and it’s not that it meant nothing – it did – it just seems like there’s a massive media build up towards “Yeah, that’s good. Thanks.” I’ve got to say though, having a person I sort of trust to have the honour of being my first (achievement.) was lovely as I didn’t care about how the fuck my body looked, how the hell I “performed” or if I was being seductive enough. I was so preoccupied with someone wanting me, and that person being a decent human being, that everything else (nearly) didn’t matter.

I bet it falls into the obvious teenage losing-your-virginity process: festival, too much booze, tent, mates banging on the walls when you’re putting your clothes back on, sneaking out the other side of the tent, lack of pure remembrance… Honestly, I don’t care about the cliché, I’m just happy that it’s over and done with.

Am I interested in the guy? No. Do I feel an emotional attachment? Not particularly. Do I mind it being a one-night-stand? Not at all. If anything, I’d rather it that way. It’s less messy and those stupid ‘feelings’ don’t need to have another ride, which is always a bonus. I’m glad I’m not living in the 1700s – I’d have been a shit 18-year-old loved-up housewife.

Strangely, things that made me rather anxious before also don’t affect me as much. I’m much more at ease with my body, even though I’m not at my ideal weight, and I don’t care as much about my appearance. I feel older, without reason, and feel like I can conquer anything. Untrue, but I rather enjoy having a relatively positive way of thinking for a change…

On that positive note, I have to re-sit a whole year of English Literature due to my exam results…

There are worse than T. S. Eliot and Yeats.

 

(And no, he wasn’t the Irish dude.)

Damn it.

Guess what? The other girl is lovely. Damn it.

I went to Birdie’s party last night. Tried to get drunk, but failed after getting too tipsy too early and banned from the fridge, which meant that I was forced to sit down and face the music. Thing is, the music was closeted by both the other girl and myself.

We just didn’t go there. We were polite, laughed at each other’s jokes, chatted, but BlackLace and everything related to him was as if it never happened, in either case.

Was this for the best? I don’t know. Maybe bringing it up would have shattered the evening, and we would have felt so awkward in each other’s company that it would have been impossible to enjoy ourselves. OR, it could have lifted the awkward tension, the giant elephant in the room, and made us get along better without the politeness. I don’t know. What I do know is that she’s lovely, which annoys me.

If she was a great, big, massive bitch then I could rant about everything without a care in the world, and maybe partly blaming her for the end of the BlackLace saga. But I can’t, because she’s not. In result, I have to come to terms with the truth:

BlackLace used us both for his own enjoyment; neither of us deserved it.

Awkward encounter with other girl, check. Next job = get over him. How utterly joyful that will be.

At least I have Doctor Rockit’s Café de Flore as a soundtrack to it.

(Yes I did watch the film, and yes, I agree with you, it’s incredible.)