I’m on a bit of a mission. Or perhaps it’s more of an expedition. I’m desperate to discover the source of my recent, and let’s face it constant inability to follow through after any sort of sexual encounter.
I’ve got a few stories to tell, so settle down. Grab a hot drink and listen in.
Ever since ‘Mini Golf Guy.’ If you don’t know here’s refrence. I’ve been staying away from one night and one night only blurs of passion. It’s not so much passion, more like half arsed attempts at romance. Anyway, I took my leave. Focused on myself, my new job, the amazing friends that I have in my life. I felt content. I felt happy in myself, my aspirations and my realisation that I don’t need an erotic relationship to feel whole. I am not Atomic Kitten, I am whole again, without the help of a man.
Bad habits, I am learning, tend to resurface. Moments of weakness. Alcohol infused decisions. Libido. Sexy men. Are just a few of the factors that induce these bad habits. Without these things I am alert and aware of the fact that staying away from men like Michael, who look like they’re going to ruin my life, is beneficial to my mental health. When all of the above is thrown into the mix however, I lose sight of this knowledge. I indulge in the fantasy. I play with the idea that this time might be different. I enter into my daydreams and I have no knowledge of consequence.
Falling into lust shakes the foundations that I have built. It is a rot so strong, that the house I have constructed of independence, detachment and self assurance, is sure to crumble to the ground.
I wouldn’t like to describe this first man as rot. It seems unfair. Although, like the big bad wolf he huffed and puffed and blew my house down.
I knew as I looked at him, across the crowded and sticky pub, that he would throw me off balance. His eyes hold mischief in their green glint. His smile was warm yet clearly protecting something deeper, perhaps darker. I imagined myself stroking his head, But, I also wanted to dive into the pool of his soul. And then all at the same time, wanted to sit on his face. A rare mix. An intoxicating cocktail, that I really couldn’t resist.
The whirlwind took me. Like Dorothy I went to Oz. Leaving all of my new found independence squashed under the house with the Witch of the West. When back in Kansas, I didn’t stop smiling. I walked to work like I’d just won the lottery. My hangover was not painful, it was a reminder of the night before. I replayed his words in my head. Heavy words which said to me that this may be more. Words that broke down my walls. Words that disarmed me.
I tried to convince myself that I was happy for the whirlwind to be just that. I tried to tell myself that all I needed was nights like this and I could have the best of both worlds. That I could have the experience of lust and glimpses of love, without compromising the way that I am living my life. But, a feeling murmured, it whispered and teased and said ‘what if?’ What if this time it’s different? What if this time it’s not my friends falling in love and building a world with another person? What if it’s me?
The bubble burst pretty quickly. The realisation that the men I pick don’t do that. They don’t do an Aladdin and rock up on a magic carpet. They don’t Hugh Grant and run through London traffic. They Casper the fucking ghost.
I decided to look in the mirror for a sign or a tag attached to my body which reads ‘single use.’
I couldn’t find it.
A few weeks later I’m in Italy. Another fantasy setting in which it feels like anything can happen. I’m an evening guest at a wedding and I’ve spent the day drinking by myself, being serenaded by my B&B owner. I’m ready for civilisation. Ready for people. Ready to watch a man make a beeline for me, beers in hand and charisma overflowing from his cup. Ready to swim in a pool with him. Ready to be pushed against a bush and kissed. Like we’re in a film, like we’re 16. He was not 16.
A grown man who should understand the gravitas of his words. As it stands, and thank god for this, I didn’t mind that they were just words. I don’t mind now that he still hasn’t taken me for that drink, or shown me that part of London.
What I do mind about is the pattern. I mind about the fact that I seem to be shagging magicians specialising in disappearing acts.
I sat with this feeling. I began to realise that it wasn’t sexual acts that left me wanting more. Often they aren’t good enough to deserve that consequence. They’re never good enough to deserve that consequence.
Fucking hell what’s a girl got to do to get an orgasm!
It was the words. The promises. The compliments. The feeling evoked when someone looks you in the eyes and says: ‘I think that you’re amazing.’
Understanding this from solely my point of view felt like doing an exam paper which had no answer booklet.
So, my expedition began. I sent a text to green eyes.
I just read it back. It was a little (a lot) on the spikey side and the fact that he engaged in conversation with me makes him all the more desirable. Which was not the desired affect.
I asked him why most men felt the need to sell you the dream when it’s not what they really want or what they mean? I asked him if he knew he wouldn’t speak to me again after that night or if he hoped that he would. I told him it was for research. I babbled in between about expectation and delivery because I’d drank a bottle of Rose, and then I signed off – ‘what are your opinions on this Ghost? x’
He apologised, for if he had made me felt like I had been lied to. He explained that anything he said was what he felt in that moment.
I pondered this. The whirlwind may not have been as powerful without those thoughts. Without those honest admittance of inner feeling. At the time I liked them. They enhanced the fantasy. But they also brought me back to reality. So honest that they felt like promises.
He continued. ‘I didn’t want to string you along’.
I hate this.
It makes me angry because I feel as though I should be able to decide what is best for me. How best to protect myself. Make the decision for your feelings and your own safety. Not for mine.
Funny, here I am, crying into my wordpress about a man I spent one night with. ONE. Thank fuck he made the decision for me and didn’t ‘string me along.’
I’m fully aware that this makes me a contradiction. But aren’t we all?
I continued: ‘Why didn’t you communicate those feelings with me?’
You didn’t communicate with me either?
We decide that a disclaimer is needed. Written understanding, in case of legal changes. I think he’s joking. I am not.
He talks about taking responsibility. How he’s glad that I’m making him think about the way that he speaks to people in these situations.
I want to sit on his face again.
(When I say this I’m half joking and attempting to be funny. Although half of me really does just want to do that.)
The fact that he’s being calm, listening to what I have to say is actually making me want to pull my eye balls out. It’s too confusing.
I explain my thought process. How intriguing I find him. How special our night/experience was. How I’m also aware that men like ‘Italy push you against a bush bloke’, taint my ability to treat green eyes as a solitary experience.
He apologises for being a dick.
In my head I’m now half way to his house, I don’t know where he lives, half way to actually just begging him to sit on my face.
We continue. We decide the chat has been good. Helpful. Constructive.
I feel lighter. Less like I did something wrong. I start to build my walls back up. I build them of self encouragement, worth and love.
I think I busted the ghost.
It’s also a default assumption that because everything is so instant, that to dare to have a life outside of watsapping is unspeakable. He’s allowed to have shit going on. He doesn’t owe me anything. But, at the same time. If we value sex a little more than just a physical act. If we give weight to the words we say when intertwined with another person. Then maybe we do owe an explanation of our treatment of them after the physical act.
From now on. When I am in a whirlwind with a sexy green eyed monster, when he opens his mouth to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, I will put my finger on his lips. I will say ‘please keep your false expectations to a minimum, use your tongue for better things than chatting shit.’
Bust the Ghosts. If they don’t reply, they’re not worth your time. If they do, you’re helping the next person that they sweep up. If it makes you fall in love with them a little bit more, I have no advice.
Find out where they live, go there on your own magic carpet and promise to show them the world?
You never know, you may even bring them back to life.