…And my fading sanity…
Hello dear readers, I’ve had a lovely week off and come bearing new shame for you all! Originally I had some fresh updates regarding my Brad situation but like true gender equality, this will have to wait. We see each other exclusively on Friday nights which I spent uncharacteristically looking after small children this week, blood is thicker than cheap beer after all (not my blood obviously, that’s clear and way more flammable). This left me lonesome if you don’t count my messenger man, he talks incessantly but has no intention of meeting me. We’ve spoke since Christmas which started off flirty but it’s starting to die down to a daily “Hi” with the occasional “How are you?”. I’m not particularly sad about this, he has a boyfriend and I’m giving up taken men Lent (it’s what Jesus would do). What is annoying though is waking up to messages like this:
“Hey, we haven’t chatted in a while! How are you?” – Emotional fuckboy.
“[Insert personal message complete with fun question]” – My lovely self.
“Cool.” – Idiot man who craves excitement he won’t foster in his own relationship.
I’ve started a new system where I only respond to questions or funny statements. If all a man can muster is “Awesome” or smiley face then I am talking, just not to him. This has freed all the time I usually spend thinking up fun replies and I don’t have to do the linguistic equivalent of finding a vein on a heroin addict (you know a guy’s great when you compare chatting with him to social work). We’ve hit a conversational coma and I’m going to respond accordingly, visit him once a month and pray it dies of its own accord…
Someone I do like talking to is Whorey, what a seqway. For any new readers, Whorey is a long-time friend who accompanies and often causes my drunken antics. I explained I wouldn’t go out this week and he agreed, it’s mid month and payday feels a thousand miles away… We were out drinking within the hour. I removed my responsibilities and put on an outfit which suggested an innocence I don’t possess, my usual fishing lure. Whorey then lead me into the night like a bride down the aisle, unfortunately my grooms would be tequila and blackouts (is it offensive to make a Mormon joke? Let’s play it safe and just call me slutty).
The next day Whorey was hot on the phone asking me to fill in the missing puzzle pieces from his night. For once I had retained most my memories due to leaving earlier with someone else (don’t worry we’ll get to that), and regaled him with his mistakes. Other than a possibly ‘rapey’ encounter (his words not mine), Whorey had been a good girl whilst I was around. He informed me that without my watchful eye he ended up going home with The Hunchback of Notre Damn, a sad figure who often hangs onto the fringe of our little group. After being smuggled in through the
bell tower garage for some awkward sex, the figurative monster stuffed Whorey into a cab at four a.m… Now I’m not one to judge people’s partners, I personally have slept with many people others would consider… undesirable (gross, let’s be honest). What I did find hilarious was that after settling Whorey’s cab fare he left an extra ten pounds, thus making him the first of our terrible twosome to officially get paid for sleeping around.
As for myself, I left in the arms of a man we’ll call… James. The best way to describe how he looked would be a knock-off Eddie Redmayne and I mean a cheap knock-off. He had an average build, strawberry blonde hair and appeared to be wearing women’s shoes (good for you drunk Sam, good for you). Despite the slight cross dressing which we’ve established I don’t like, he was fun guy. James had met me before but assumed I’d scorned his advances, mildly true but in reality his messages ended up in my junk and don’t even read my actual inbox.
Top Tip #267: Ambivalence isn’t the same as rejection, you might just be invisible to your crush. Isn’t that comforting?
With my Danish Girl in tow, we wandered back to James’ flat. Through my vodka tinged haze I noticed something odd about his bed, it was covered in cats. Atop his sheets staring through me into the void was a blanket depicting three soulless kittens. I don’t usually appraise men by their decorating skill however this was a new bedroom low for me, I’ve never had sex underneath an Andrew Loyd Webber play before. Personally when I see creepily twee furniture my mind instantly jumps to serial killer, what poor boy did James have rolled up inside the Dolphin carpet hidden in the closet? Was I to be next in the High-heeled Kitsch Killer’s spree?! Ignoring what was clearly the Jolly Roger for an unhinged mind, I undressed and got acquainted with my new feline friends (and possible coffin)…
Right I’m clearly not dead so let’s talk about penises. James’ was alright, the best comparison I can make is that his was a supermarket carrot compared to one you would find at a farmer’s market. Sure it looks consistent but something about good soil really helps a plant grow (gardening, the sexiest frontier). Fortunately I’m not one to judge a banana by its peel, after having sex with a baby pool of partners I’ve learnt that size isn’t a huge issue (don’t hate me). Dicks are similar to cars, as long as you can get to where your going without a) despising the driver and b) fearing for your life, it doesn’t matter if it’s not a stretch Hummer.
A more pressing issue was my increasing confusion with the situation. As James was in the throes of passion I kept getting distracted. When I looked down all I saw were kittens staring back which was as sexy as imagining Danny Devito in a sauna. To combat my growing anxiety I would look up but my eyeline was filled with the noticeably large collection of high-heels dotted around the room. Finally I couldn’t hold it in, tentativly I asked why there were magenta glam heels on the window sill. Confusion flashed across his face but James panted back:
“They were a leaving a present.”
I tried to get back into the mood but this opened up even more questions! Where did you work that this was considered appropriate? Were you a sex worker? Should I get another condom just to be extra safe?! What the fuck is going on here?! Trying to block out the cat blanket and kitten heels, I closed my eyes and did my best to pretend I wasn’t in a furry’s fever dream.
Just like Sarah Michelle Geller’s career, the crazy train came to an abrupt halt. We had a nice hour of causally making out but by this point I just wanted to get home and work out how to exorcise my sex life. I dragged my body out of bed and found my pants lodged between two tastful ankle boots. Slowly dressing in my usual ‘clothing treasure hunt’ fashion (how am taking off my clothes when I’m drunk?) I forgoed my usual “disappointment shower”. James was in a rush to get to work and I didn’t want to find out what fresh decor horrors resided in the bathroom. I jumped in a cab and ordered a shame pizza, the only thing worse than a hangover at nine a.m. is an empty fridge to accompany it…
One thing I’ve taken home from this experience (other than some new phobias) is how much I actually like my virginal geek (this guy called Brad for new readers). After a month of on and off dating this calm but protective man I’d begun to wonder what I found attractive about him. Well after living through the sexual equivalent of food poisoning, I remember why I preferred my trainer wearing guy in the first place…
Diet: I ate SO much therapy pizza that I’m going to have to starve for the next week, I’m calling it the “Snake Diet”.
Exercise: I’ve been trying to rebuild my psyche which should be considered manual labour in my book.
Cigarettes: Cry smoking is the only way to appease the cats clawing at my memories guys…
Dates: Two on the horizon, will I remember to write about them, who knows?