Recovery

I’ve often thought of this transition from nearly-married person to single love-hunting person as something of a rediscovery; not a rebirth, but certainly wiping the slate to opaque if not clean. So you notice, and tick off the big ‘firsts since…’; first kiss, man cuddle, love making, fuck fest.

Today I had my First Time I Laughed Until I Cried With A New Boy since… We are in college together (I’m studying for my finance exams) and easily distracted, I was flipping through the answer. Some of the answers were so incredibly basic, I shared them in disbelief with a friend sitting next to me. We started giggling. Exam conditions, we stifled our giggles… People beginning to notice, we turned red as we fell about each other silently vibrating, clutching our faces, hiding the streaming tears, stuffing sleeves in our mouths to ineffectively stop any sound emanating.

The entire class was fixated as we struggled to draw breath with dignity, instead making noises only otherwise heard during camel birth. It was too much; he got up to leave the room, nearly making it outside before we both exploded, all too aware relief was so close. I, “shrieked”, unable to contain the added hilarity that he neither could contain it in a silent room, and he involuntarily snorted as he ran the last few paces through the door.

It took a full hour for us both to calm down again, by which point half my makeup had slid down my face and his face was so red, his featured seemed distorted. We shared a joke no one else got and bounced off each other to the heights of silliness. It’s not that I want to marry the man, but I was full of such inexorable relief that such men still exist and display it with such virility.

Call-Up of Reserves

 

I am running out of male friends to use to springboard back into dating. I realise that I have built up an arsenal of male friends since uni, none of whom (or very few of whom) at present I would turn down for a tumble. I have to congratulate my subconscious self for having such good taste over the years (or perhaps just lowered standards in a drought?!), but obviously have to be careful.

One has bitten the dust already: he’s religious and I’m a wanton temptation. Now things are… Strained.
There’s this business with the ex-ex, which has luckily quite easily slid back into a platonic affection; and then, one of my very best boy friends, who always makes me feel like a sex goddess and about whom everything is perfect… except for his stature. He’s got to be 5′5”, which just physically couldn’t work: we spent a night in bed, innocently caressing and holding each other. We are as solid before, but some affection crossed boundaries and we were both so aware of our adoration of each other but also of the poor timing of a potential love affair. It would be the stuff of dreams if he were only… oh who am I kidding? I’m just shallow – I worry about a substatured dumbstick.

Then there is my other perfectly-sized boy who listens and talks, is troubled and cool and achingly gorgeous. Perhaps one day, him.

It isn’t healthy to constantly define oneself by a man, but perhaps today I am feeling supported by all of them. The recognition and love of men is – and i’m aware of how un-independent woman it is – difficult to be without but glorious to have.

How much x is too much?

“Never have sex with an ex!” My wannabe stepford-wife acquaintance would sing in my ear, delighted to be able to finally lift those catchy words right out of Cosmopolitan. My, how I loathe everything about that.  Her. It.

That was during my breakup phase with the last one. But I think about it in this current situation.  My ex-ex boyfriend and I got up to some delicious fun last week and I have been insatiable ever since. He is taken; in love but far from in lust, which is a crime against humanity because that boy can make magical things happen inside a woman simply not of this world. Indeed, I took everything he showed me and taught it step-by-step to my next boyfriend; I’m sure they’d both be revolted by the thought.

So single, and paying no heed to such social restraints as his 3 year relationship, we got down to it and it was spectacular until we were interrupted by people coming and going and shortly after, his girlfriend calling. Ever since I’ve been trying to tempt him back for a repeat and full performance. I had forgotten how incredibly talented he was, and leaving a girl on edge like that, having not been laid in the longest time since I started having sex, warranted a further invitation.

I have a bit of a health warning, I think for the poor boy’s misfortunes, he might be able to still love me as he used to. We are painfully compatible; for someone who doesn’t believe in soulmates, if I had to choose he would have probably been it. But the baseline truth of it, is that he doesn’t leave me in awe. What I have for him is affection, not mind blowing, earth shattering, soul moving love. Perhaps as time erodes me, I will put more store by these traits which are definitely durable, but flighty as I apparently can be, we could never work as a couple.

This, (my apparent unwillingness to ‘catch’ him, so to speak) combined with his guilt towards his current girlfriend (he is a nice guy, and she is sweet…) meant that he didn’t want to agree to an explicit visit of intent, while conceding that were we in the same room, or had more time that night, things would have been very different.

So why did I push for a revisit? I certainly don’t enjoy rejection, – no matter how smothered with protestations of my being an ultimate fantasy and the moral restrictions being infuriating – I want to see him happy however that comes, so I am not bent on breaking his relationship. I feel gloriously indulged by his touch and caress, but I would like to think it’s not entirely selfish; I do care for him. I just wish it wasn’t so deeply.

So I think I’ll take that date with the adorable 20 year old who watches with amusement from behind the counter each time I pop into the shop for mountains of ice cream.

Reflections

I locked eyes with a guy last week… in our reflections. We both looked sheepish to have been caught furtively checking the other out, and cast our eyes away rapidly.  It made me wonder what on earth have we come to, where merely looking at one another is taboo?

In this world of overt sexuality, men and women alike are more provocative and dressed for attention, we as consumers demand to see more, everything, and want people to notice us, ourselves, BUT, we are too ashamed to check each other out to our faces? Heaven forbid we may look with any meaning into a stranger’s eyes. Intimacy, sex: these are things we apparently procure, or get assurance from over the internet first now, before making the first approach, not pick up off the street. Lord knows what you might catch.

Where’s the spark? Is love, or even lust, at first sight dead? As someone who is habitually groped in bars or bus alike, I could probably safely assume that the latter is alive and kicking, but love? Or even mild interest beyond skirt -

The look, the blush, the smile, the re-look, the half- laugh; is this ritual dead, or am I just taking the wrong tube line?

Project.

I’m not entirely sure how to broach this subject with the appropriate level of humour and gravity. I am besotted with my boss. Well, truthfully my boss’s boss’s boss.

I’m the sort of girl who finds love in all sorts of places; fascinated by most people, painfully energised by company rather than introspection and apparently this has grown legs in the workplace. I feel no moral blockade here, merely curious as to the appropriate route for pursuing this line of erm, enquiry. My workplace is mostly comprised of the older generation: scandals and dating are not necessarily frowned upon, but simply unheard of.

He is somewhat older, but not prohibitively so… we get on really well and share a lot of jokes and conversations… I want to rag him dry, and he has a neglected soul and big eyes.  It’s perfect. So how do I encourage his interest without humiliating myself?

Why, I will hound him until he gives in, of course! I’m getting old and time waits for no tentative gestures. I will get a date before the year is out.

Grey Times

What have we done to our dear men that we are turning them all grey at the age of 22? Perhaps some pent up childhood nervousness which has been jittering away beneath the surface, suppressed by our insistence on stiff upper lips, only to violently erupt atop their head, betraying their inner turmoil?

We know it’s hereditary, largely you can’t help it, but you still wonder when you see a relatively youthful (often quite hot, you noticed that?) face peeking out from under a solemn snow-flecked bonce, what troubles them? What sheer level of torment have you endured and bottled to have it so profusely sprout unattended?

I don’t really see why. Life isn’t any more stressful for men than it ever has been. They are at liberty to be whoever they wish, do whomever they choose, and occupy their time however they would wish to. What are they complaining about? Pseudo-complaining… inner angst-complaining. Oh how pathetic. Alternatively it’s genetic and I’ve over thought this.

DysFUNctional Dating

There are two important facts the reader should note underlying this story:

Firstly, I had just turned 24; I had emerged from a tumultuous year which had sparked my first grey hairs and for the first time, I noticed my skin looking rather sorry for itself and yes, WRINKLES. These things brought upon me a sense of panic and equally, an illogical sense of self-confidence which perhaps comes with age?

Secondly, the previous night, I had been talking to one of my very good friends, R, who was teasing me about going for drinks with a mutual friend; she knew him from his human years, and I from his awful youth. She was convinced we would make a perfect couple, no matter how much I protested. “Oh but he’ll spend loads of money on you, you’ll get amazing presents.. he’d utterly worship you..”; The thought of such enveloping adoration, and decoration was tempting, of course it was, but I could never love him! I played out our – probably year long – encounter in my head and realised I would ultimately break the heart of a very sweet young man with wonderful prospects who could have otherwise made another girl very happy. The very thought depressed and scared me, that R was about to embark on a matchmaking mission.

The scene was set to do something very stupid.

The following morning, there was this hot thing next to me waiting to get the tube, reading the FT. A couple of furtive glances between us confirmed that he was indeed a hot thing, even at half seven in the morning. The whole journey down the Northern Line, there were lots of lingering looks and smiles and eyebrow wiggling from him – I thank my lucky stars I do my makeup on the bus. In the context of the fear, the panic, the confidence, the sheer delusional theme of the morning, I wrote my first name and number on a post-it note, folded it up and held onto it, trying to will myself to say something to do SOMETHING. I failed hideously to do so – you don’t talk to people on the tube unless it’s an emergency despite my new outlook on life. But I would have been so cross with myself for wimping out. SO. Ha! I would take ACTION! As it got to the station where I change, he saw I was leaving and just KEPT looking and smiling and eyebrowing me so… I did the obligatory jostle which made everyone between me and the door aware that I was going to be moving and they should expect to get out the way in a few mere seconds. I started walking and turned to him, hand shaking, dropped the folded post-it note into his lap onto his paper and my God I RAN. Like such a demented idiot, banging people out the way, onto the platform and RAN like my life depended on it. I was so pumped full of adrenalin and shaking, I was about to faint with the sheer FEAR.

They say do something each day that scares you; well fuck me that scared me shitless. Clearly I acted like such a crazy person I will not hear from him, I live in fear of bumping into him on the platform again and am purposefully avoiding that time of the morning; and even if I did, how could I ever look him in the face?!  That’s even if he realised it was a) intentional and b) my number not a piece of rubbish I tossed at him. The visuals of a deranged nearly-30 year old throwing post-it notes at hot men (in my head I’ve also donned a bad taste hippy knitted top, covered in cat hair and maybe acquired a walking stick I use to thwack the normal people out the way with whilst cackling at my own genius) are just too hilarious to even contain them with some dignity and will haunt me for many months to come.

Introduction

I’ve been properly in love twice. Both times I was convinced it never could end. One time I broke his heart; one time he broke mine. Furiously rampant and desperately scandalous as a teenager, I grew up and settled down during the years most people are setting themselves up for diabolical filth. Love has made me, changed me and torn me apart; so I like to think I’ve played the game a fair amount so far.

I could reflect on all this: the how, the why, the what, but this is not interesting. No, what I am interested in is the here, the now and the future. Mostly the here and now, unless the future involves dreaming up plots to hunt down beautiful men. Beautiful people, places, experiences; I suppose this is my newfound – if unintentional – drive and I intend to covet the lot. So I intend this blog to be a place of documenting what can be kindly called my learning journey from total dating novice to seasoned pro.

Most encounters will be veritable disasters; primarily because I’m 24; I have my first batch of forehead creases and occasionally I let the euphoria of the unknown take me over and I do stupid things which rarely pay off. But this is how I intend to learn; and by god if I can’t make the pursuit of a romantic vision fun, or at the very least, a story to make others laugh, then I might as well not bother.