“Your emotions are a clue. Witness them, feel them, respond to them; never attach to them.”
I figured that if I downed the whole bottle, the anger would be smothered, buried far away. So I tried. It was shit beer, but it had an alcohol content, and that was nice. But, when the empty bottle came down, my only thought was “Right, who should I throw this at to prompt the best fight?”
That obviously wasn’t a good idea. So I turned to the guy with the epic car, gave him $20 and he took me for an incredible blast in his gorgeous, rally-derived car.
He drives like I expected: he trusted the WRX more than he should have. I didn’t care; crashing and dying would have been a beautiful way to go.
We survived with huge smiles.
The anger returned. It just sat there, staring at walls without holes and wanting to change them.
I don’t know where the anger came from. I was simply sitting there, enjoying my drink and the company, when it emerged fully formed. And it just wouldn’t fuck off.
I tried everything I knew. I tried to focus on pretty girls – that worked momentarily. I tried to talk to cool guys – that worked momentarily. I tried to breathe, tried to smile. tried to walk and nothing worked more than temporarily.
It was like a hot black stone sitting in my chest. Everything ached around it. And I could not get rid of it.
It sucked. It sucked right up to the point that I realised calling it anger is half the problem.
I told (yet another) pretty German about my anger issues. She’s now a bit scared of me. When I shared this snippet with Dutchy, she moaned at me, claiming I don’t have anger issues, I’m just under a lot of stress.
I’m sick of her being right so fucking much.
It’s not anger; it’s just energy. It’s a fuel. It is not necessarily dark or deceitful or hurtful. It’s just something I can use if I’m willing to deal with it.
I found an old picture today. A picture of Someone. It’s a picture of Her, lying on a bed, completely naked. It’s a picture I’ve edited with mediocre skill. And it’s fucking beautiful.
I miss Her so much.
She is a manipulative, selfish, unreliable bitch and I wish the very worst upon Her but god I love Her so. I want Her to feel a tenth of the pain She caused me and I want to laugh at Her when She suffers but I know I’d always step in and help Her. I can’t bear to have Her suffer pain.
In many ways, Dutchy reminds me of Someone (though Someone has a better bum). I think, mostly, she reminds me of Her in the way they both use people and fuck people up. I think part of my attraction to Dutchy is that I hope I get to watch her be hurt the way Someone hurt me.
Which is a truly horrendous thing to say. Because the mere fact that that woman can smile every day is enough to give me hope. That she can go through everything she has, that she is as fucked up as she is and that she can then stand there and say in pure honesty “I’m ok” with a smile on her face is remarkable. To me, she is proof life is never too hard.
That proof makes me want to try again. That proof gives me hope. It tells me I could go back to Someone and say “Hey, I still love you. I want to try again with you. I believe this time you can win, this time you’re strong enough, because I’ve seen someone else do it, and I think you’re better than her.”
But I can’t go say that. There are numerous reasons I could use for it, but there’s only one honest one: I don’t want a relationship.
Because what I want is labelless.
This energy I have makes me lonely, it makes me lonely because it scares me. It constantly asks “how can I make the given situation more enjoyable/entertaining?” and occasionally arrives at answers like “throw bottle at Dutchy and pick fight with Hulk”.
I’m learning to control it. I’m learning to turn the focus away from me and onto others. Because it’s useful. Because it gives me the strength to say “Where I was sucks, I’m going somewhere better and I have nothing to fear.”
Because it’s stupid to be scared of myself. It’s stupid to long for the past. So I’m stepping forward, without any darkness, one small step at a time.
I’ve got this amazing business idea.
It will cater to guys looking to propose to their girlfriends. It’ll give them the certainty they need to propose. How? By testing their girls.
That’s not as academic as it sounds. What we do is simple: I use every trick in every unwritten book to try and steal “his” girl. If she stays with him, he’ll know she’s good to marry.
The German thinks it’s a brilliant idea. Then again, she wants to stop studying towards being a teacher and become a pornstar, so she might be a little biased toward sexier job descriptions.
I, on the other hand, am just amazed it works.
Because there is no reason in the world why any girl would want to leave her stable, steady, employed, loyal partner for me.
And yet, they do. Every girl I’ve slept with in the last 5 years was in a relationship when we started fucking. Granted, there weren’t many – a hugely enjoyable total of four – and one of those was in a healthy open relationship. But it intrigues me as to why you’d leave what apparently you’d always wanted for me.
Of course, I haven’t “won” every girl. Memories of Sunglass Girl still make me blush. Then there was the Swede…god that was embarrassing. Curiously, those were both single.
There was also the Canadian. I have never been more instantaneously attracted to someone. I have never put more effort into a short encounter. It was the first time I actively followed every pick-up-artist technique. But she was heading back to Canada. In under 12 hours. To a boy with waiting arms.
She didn’t come home with me.
Pretty much, I have no problem with destroying relationships. That whole “sorry, I have a boyfriend” doesn’t sound like an excuse to me: It’s like saying “sorry, I’m wearing socks.” I can’t even find it in me to consider it unethical or wrong. I’m told that it’s wrong, and I’ve had a friend tell me very seriously that if I ever stole a girl from him, he’d be incredibly upset at me. Which confuses the hell out of me.
I just don’t get it. It’s like women are objects, to be stuck up on a wall and admired and woe betide anyone who removes them. It’s like women aren’t allowed to choose.
So, imagine my confusion when I fall in love with Dutchy (and her small bum) and then freak out at any sign she might return the feelings because I don’t want to ruin her relationship.
Weirdest series of thoughts in my head. “Oh, she might have feelings for me. That’s hot. But then she’ll have to choose between me and Hulk. He’s boring. But he’s been so good for her. And she’s so happy with him. Why would I want to ruin it? Wait, why do I care?”
I like that, though I know I have little to offer, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d be chosen over him. My arrogance is appalling.
Regardless, it’s the first time I know I’d back off to save another’s relationship.
Of course, there’s no need to back off: I channelled my usual honesty (with perhaps a hint of German influence) and asked if the feelings were returned.
And holy fuck does that chick have issues. I don’t know which of us was angrier with the other. But through a lengthy tirade of tears (mine), mutual misunderstanding (hers only actually, I’m amazing) and exasperation (ours), she eventually realised that I was not trying to fuck or date her and I realised that her feelings for me are not even slightly near mine for her.
Which is good. Cause now I still get Dutchy-cuddles.
We cleaned our teeth together. She looked as lovely as ever. Work had been long; I was tired. We were talking, gently and quietly. I think I mentioned Downton Abbey.
She told me how she’d watched it with her other boyfriend the week before. I smiled and asked how that had gone – I knew it wasn’t a show he’d enjoy.
She cleared her mouth of toothpaste and grinned, stretching up. It had been fun, she’d said. She hadn’t seen much of the show.
She went into detail as I finished cleaning my teeth, leaning against the wall in a way that dragged my eyes all over her body. Her smile grew. I approached her as she talked, reaching out for her hips, wanting to pull her to me, wanting to kiss her the way she deserved. She caught my hands and stopped me, licking her lips as she went into extra detail. I matched her smile and pushed through her hands, running my finger under her top, onto the soft skin of her stomach.
Fear shone in her face. She backed away. I stopped, confused. My finger left her skin. The fear disappeared. The desire returned. She carried on talking. I reached out once more.
Again, and again, and again this happened. Acid boiled within my chest, searing to my skin; pain blocking my words and cutting my emotions. The pain was so intense, it woke me up.
It had been a long time since I’d had a dream that odd. Anger, frustration and an overwhelming sense of confusion forced my body completely awake. The scene I’d dreamt was reminiscent of the last nine months – albeit in a condensed situation. There’s only so many times a person you love can tell you you’re attractive whilst not wanting you before you stop believing them.
My counselor’s words were easy to remember: I wasn’t angry; I felt angry. Words I’d read followed simply: “Your emotions are a clue. Witness them, feel them, respond to them, never attach to them.”
I breathed deeply, and tried to analyse what was going on. Obviously, I was still torn up by the complete lack of intimacy with Someone. I was never going to get answers to that. I was surprisingly ok with that.
It showed me my fear: that those I’m attracted to aren’t attracted to me. That everything I have to offer isn’t enough.
It also told me why every time there’s a new person on the scene I try so desperately hard.
And the cool thing is, I don’t have to fix my fears. I’m aware of them, now. There’s a decent part of me that’s rolling on the floor, laughing and saying “well fuck you then if you don’t find me good enough. Your loss.” There’s a more sensible part that realises that’s a cover. That it still will hurt to have my fears realised, but that that’s completely ok – and normal.
The first bit of porn I remember watching made me come in ten seconds.
The scene is etched into my memory. An – even by young-me’s standards – average woman, bent over the bonnet of a yellow Porsche Boxster,fucked by the hairiest man possible – who happened to have the world’s sexiest cock.
I think that might have been the first time I fell in love with Porsche.
It was probably also the first time I had an inkling I was bi.
I’ve been lucky: my sexual preference has only been mocked by two people: One a pretty Danish girl who, on hearing I want to get back into dancing, ice skating and cycling, declared “In all possible offensiveness, that is soooo gay” which made me laugh: part of the reason I like ice skating is…well. I’m sure YouTube will help you figure it out.
The only other person who has demonised my sexuality is me.
I spent my teenage years growing up in a boys-only boarding school, where my biggest fear was showering with attractive boys. Two boys caught practicing their addition (34+35 from what I hear) were talked about in hushed voices – often accompanied with words such as “disgusting” and “gross”.
I longed for a similar situation to befall me – preferably without being caught. As this proved elusive, I instead adopted the pulpit’s perspective. It was easy to lose myself in the biblical beliefs, berating myself for my lustful longings and sinful suggestions.
I was a little confused as to “why” it was wrong: the Bible was not clear on homosexuality. At no point did any worthy writer record god as saying “oh yeah. You should only have sex with people of the opposite sex, regardless of your desires – and you should control those too!”.
Nothing explained why me wanting cock was bad.
I didn’t stop strangling myself about it. I didn’t stop questioning. And I was so busy distracting myself with hating me for who I was, I completely missed other parts of me.
I completely missed the fact that I was more than sexual. I completely missed that, as much as I wanted to date a girl, I wanted to date a boy too. I was so busy branding half of myself as “horribly homo” that I failed to notice I was beautifully bi.
There’s a wonderful song by “A Great Big World” entitled “Everyone is gay.”
If you’re gay then you’re gay
if you’re straight well that’s great!
If you fall in between
that’s the best way to be,
you’ve got so many options
every fish in the sea
wants to kiss you.
It scares me, the thought of falling for a guy. But it thrills me too. I have no idea when it will happen. I know I want it more right now because of what I’m going through. Because I want someone to lean on. But that’s not really fair on a partner. I need to love myself first. But when someone comes along who flips my heart and stretches my jeans, who makes me laugh and makes me care, it’s nice to not care if it’s a guy or a girl – though it’d be awesome regardless if they have a Porsche.
Sitting on the bonnet of Someone’s car, talking to Her like we used to, not even noticing that we’d been there for two hours and She still hadn’t given me the key, I realised something: I’m a complete an utter Eurowhore.
For a good thirty minutes, we spoke about nothing but cars – almost extensively European. We spoke about the Ferrari She’d sat next to in traffic, admiring the way it’s engine note rebounded off the vehicles around Her. Moments later, it drove by us, blinding us with its gorgeous lights. I’ve photographed that car so many times, I’m surprised he still drives by my house.
I told Her about the Rolls Royce Ghost I see at work and the smug driver. We talked about the Mercedes G55 AMG and how sensual that engine sounds, and discussed in detail what straight six turbo could be blasting past my house every afternoon.
I also told Her I still love Her.
I told her about the Danish girl (who’ll get annoyed if I call her Dutch) and how Someone seems almost sane in comparison. She told me about Her new hangout. I got annoyed that She spends time there, but never spent time with me.
She told me She thought She was happier where She is now. I told her I am happier single. I told Her and She told me how nice it was to not say “I’ve just seen such and such and I’m going here now” and we both said how much we missed getting those texts. I told Her I missed Her annoying “Hey hun how is work?” texts and how I checked for them every half an hour. She told me She missed having someone to call at 2 in the morning.
We both agreed we dated too soon. We both agreed breaking up was a good idea. And I think we both cried once we said goodbye.
I told her how drunk I got; She told me how sober She stayed. I told Her how sorry I was for the things I said; She said it’s ok, but She can’t get my voice out of Her head.
I will fall in love again – often, repetitively, with broken European girls. Hopefully, I will grow. Hopefully, I’ll learn to love myself first. To soothe myself first. To not need someone to care for me, but to care for myself.
And I’m going to hold on to Her. Because the fights were epic and the conversations eternal, the sex was magic and the love was open, and there’s a part of me I’m locking away that says “I belong to Someone” and that won’t change.
Apparently, men think about sex every seven seconds.
Personally, I think this is because women think twice as fast as men. But I may be wrong.
Regardless of how often we think about it, I haven’t had sex in four weeks and two days. I could give the hours but that would be a bit…pedantic.
This is not through lack of trying. I’ve got this gorgeously sexy, ex-gymnast Russian girlfriend with looks to cause a Trojan war.
I’m adequately interested.
The issue? Simple really.
(I’m not blaming, I’m not demanding, I’m not feeling entitled. I’m simply stating, because if I can’t state the facts, it’s impossible for me to deal with the repercussions.)
Given the amount of fucked-up-ness in Her head (No, she doesn’t get any sympathy. Just support and love for every part of her) I accept entirely where she’s coming from. And I’ll help her work through it. But it has no impact on what I’m feeling.
There’s a belief that sex is dirty. It permeates everywhere. It’s cheapened by advertisement and used as an insult. It’s used as a distraction – I’m bored, therefore I watch porn. Visiting a strip club is considered exotic; being a stripper is considered low-level. We say “sex sells” but what we mean is “men buy from women”. Desirability is equated to sex to the point that a lesbian admiring a well-proportioned woman is considered acceptable. A straight guy doing the same is considered “pervy”.
Women are considered “odd” if they’re sexual; men, “dirty old men”. Neither are “partner potential”. It’s like it’s wrong to enjoy – or, god forbid, desire – sex.
It becomes taboo. To the point we can’t talk about it. To the point that “gay” is an insult. To the point that “being gay” is only acceptable if it’s loud and brash and in your face. Where every movie and tv series has to show a gay couple to “keep with the times”. Yes it’s real. And yes I really do like it. But I wish it wasn’t so noticeable. I wish it was the norm instead of the new.
We have this innate desire to be desired. Not the object of an orgasm; to have someone be so comfortable with you they touch you and say “wow, your skin is so soft!” because every other sentence in their heads is “wow, they’re so…wow”.
Sex isn’t about orgasms. It’s about boobs and tummies and legs and thighs and cocks and pussies and bums and mouths and noses and fingers and feet and toes and arms and backs being completely irrelevant to the simple act of loving and being.
Cause there is so much more than just the physical. We define ourselves through our clothes and when they’re gone we’re just lumpy sacks of feeling. We’re so vulnerable. We’re trusting someone to let us in. We’re trusting to someone to come in. It takes a different sort of bravery to say “this is all I am, love me.”
People do treat sex as a conquest – though I think the conquest belongs to whom lets in, not who takes – and they treat it as a badge of honour. They can also buy it.
And then sex seems meaningless.
But it’s not. Because they’re not on about sex: they’re on about orgasms. The difference they’re missing? The emotion.
And that’s why I don’t blame Someone for the situation we’re in. It’s been 4 weeks and 2 days and it’s been hard because all I want in all the world is Her. But I want Her to want me to. Because I’m not after an orgasm. I’m after that deeper, better, fuller emotion, that little four letter word that leaves me breathless as I smile and say those three little words:
“Did you cum?”
Because the answer doesn’t matter. Because I know the stresses that enter Her life and I know the troubles that I face. I know what stress can do to you. I don’t ask for the answer. I ask so that we can talk. I ask because the barriers are down. I ask because those stress and troubles are too big to be faced alone.
I Need a second girlfriend.
One with naughty-filled boobs, bisexual tendencies and a philosophical thought train.
Actually – genius idea! – I could find three girls that each have one of those properties. Although….juggling three extra girls would be difficult. And the bisexuality and philosophicality both require boobs to really work right now.
So juggling one extra girl…Could I do that? I battle having just one girl and fitting in friends and family.
There’s a further complication: Someone convinced me to join a gym. She didn’t even try. I think she hypnotises people these days. She just looks at them and lowers her top and they do anything she wants. She even flustered the gay guy signing us up at the gym so much, he accidentally stole her ID. Or maybe I flustered him. He was quite cute. Bright eyes. Cool hair. A bit skinny, but gym has bulked him up.
A boyfriend of course is another option but they don’t normally have the sort of boobs I’m after. I think it’d be concerning if they did. Or a medical marvel.
But yes, a gym. I really am shocked. I have a card and everything. Apparently, I suggested we’re going Monday night after work. That’s quite scary. I don’t remember doing any such thing. As far as I’m concerned, gyms are torture chambers controlled by people with an odd definition of the word “endorphin”. And yet…I’m signed up for three years.
Seeing as I’ve been forced into joining, I reckon it’s only reasonable I spend some time there. I may as well get my money’s worth out of it – whatever that worth is. Hopefully a body with more energy. Hopefully a bit more control and muscle. Hopefully a happier outlook.
And hopefully lots of boobs.
Not mine of course. Girls’ boobs. Surely there’ll be lots of girls with boobs at the gym? And surely meeting people is a side-effect of joining a gym?
The only concern I have is that the times I’ll be going to the gym are not what you’d call “social” times. They’re more “I-work-and-gym-that’s-all-there-is-to-life” times. At least this means (theoretically) that people there will believe I’m there to gym, not hit on them. So they might be less guarded. But they’ll all be wearing headphones. So I’ll have to mime what I’m after. “Nice tits, can I have your number?”
I don’t think that’ll work. It’s a bit difficult to mime “nice”. The rest though…might get me banned from the gym.
And it’s not like I’d say that anyways. I think I might have a little too much self-respect for that. I think, instead, I’ll just get a t-shirt with this on.
That might work.
I have come to the obvious conclusion that sex and sales are identical.
Today, I lost my sales-pitching virginity.
It was a bit odd. The door opened and I was greeted with “I’m not buying anything from you!”
That’s kind of like getting naked and being told “I’m not getting wet for you!”
You just know it’s going to hurt.
So I took a deep breath, tried to stick to the pitch and you know what?
I walked out without a sale.
To be fair to myself, I changed her opinion drastically. But the whole way home I was plagued with two conflicting emotions.
The first was confusion. Why hadn’t the sale gone through? What had I done wrong? Should I have said something differently? Should I have forced this issue a little bit more?
The second emotion was utter elation. I had enjoyed delivering the pitch.
As I was driving – and bemoaning the auto gearbox in the silly, expensive Nissan rental -, I didn’t time to have a flash of insight. But, once I got home and stuffed down a few mouthfuls of the weirdest salad I’ve ever had (pear, spinach, cheese, slices of smoked ham and balsamic vinaigrette) it suddenly hit me.
My issue with sales is exactly the same as my issue with picking up partners.
Objections are opportunities. I’m too quick to take things personally. “I don’t want you” and “I’m not buying anything from you” to me sound like “You’re wasting your time, go away.”
I pretend to not give up. I follow the motions. I have the “training” – for both pick-ups and sales – and I follow it almost diligently. This is the pitch, go through the motions.
I am not saying I do it dully. I do not use tired pick-up lines and questions with little thought – part of the motions are to inject enthusiasm and be smart with your questioning. But by simply ignoring their objection, I don’t deal with it. I don’t overcome it. It just sits there, like a big ugly chastity belt, and I don’t even look for the key.
It’s like choosing the road that’s had a wash out. I know I won’t reach my destination if I follow this route. There are hundreds of alternative routes that aren’t washed out. I could choose any of them. I could bring tools to rebuild the washed out route – or to build a bridge over it. I could bring a different car. I could choose a different destination.
I could do so many things. Instead, I drive right up to the edge and go “Ah. Fuck. Now what?”
This is the one thing I need to change: I need to deal with objections when they arrive.
Part of me thinks that I’m forcing them: if they tell me they don’t want me/the product but I then convince them that they do, I wonder if I’ve done the right thing.
Yes, I’ll get the sale or get laid, but I feel as if they’re just doing what I want.
And so whilst I’ll say I will deal with their objections, I’ll also bear something in mind: Do they need what I’m offering? Will I add to their life?
Sometimes, I meet someone and all I want is them. But I’m not going to add anything good to their lives. Perhaps they need a friend. Perhaps they have a partner and I’ll complicate that. Perhaps they don’t need to be involved with another human being right now.
It’s so easy to say – and believe – “If I don’t get them, I’ll never get with someone like that!”
Which is true. Everyone is unique. But that means that somewhere, there’ll be someone with all their qualities – all the things I love and desire – who’ll benefit from having me in their lives.
And the same is true of sales. I will not get everyone. And there’ll be sales I don’t get which I’ll really want. But that’s ok. Not getting one now doesn’t mean I can’t get one later – no matter how much I wanted it. It just means I simply try again.
Don’t you just love pussy?
Especially when you storm out the house late at night in little more than underwear and sit under a tree. You slap away mosquitos and imagine a world where the worst has happened and you can just leave it all behind.
Out of nowhere sounds a meow. A small, vibrating mass of fur walks up and headbutts you with enough force to start a minor earthquake. You stroke his head and he meows and purrs and walks off, looking back at you. Because everything else is fairly fucking directionless – and those mosquitos are fucking annoying – you follow.
A racing WRX sounds in the distant, doing “the loop” – a lovely stretch of road that I’ve also driven way to fast through. He’ll reach the road at about the same instant I do if I walk down now. He’s going very quickly. I should teach him a lesson.
Which, frankly, is a stupid idea because I think he has the right idea. I’d love to be doing that right now. I’d be so pissed off if some angry idiot decided to step in front of me. Why?
The cat meows and there’s only one thing I can do: head home and claim the cat loves me more than she does because he came after me.
Because, obviously, that’s the point of all this shit.
“If you cared for me, you’d come after me like the cat did!”
Did you know that? You can only show you care if you go after someone who’s walked off. And walking off? Is that caring?
Somehow, I don’t think so.
Happy 1 year love. Yep. It’s our anniversary today. And we spent the night fighting. I even had to throw all our alcohol down the drain because I thought downing shots of Vodka would help.
It didn’t. It just made me realise that – no matter how much I drank – I’d never forget everything.
Which is a huge pity. Because I wanted to forget everything. Or, many things. I wanted complete and utter emptiness. Just take it all away. Everything, every relationship, every request, every desire, every dream, goal, wish, accomplishment. Just give me sweet nothing and a way to survive. Please.
Then there’d be no pain. There’d be no hard decisions. There’d simply be today. Every day. Nothing happens. A holiday, really.
I miss being single. I miss the selfishness. I miss the required soul-belief. I miss my decisions being mine – including their consequences. I miss the times spent doing exactly what I want. I miss the ability to honestly lie and say “I’m ok.”
I miss the simplicity of being happy single. I miss the rejection and bouncing back from my own wallowing because there’s no one else to save me. I miss the ability to say “I’m going to do this” and being the only one accountable for it.
But most of all, I miss knowing – constantly – that I’m alone.
Because a relationship pretends you’re not alone. A relationship pretends that because Someone else cares for me, She’ll come after me and make it all better.
It’s so easy right now. All I have to do is sulk. Someone joined OkCupid. She was still setting up her account when the first person messaged Her. Within the hour, She had messages flying in. Some of the people messaging Her were seriously attractive. And they want to meet up…now. Right. Now. Or else tomorrow if you’re free?
Considering I’ve spent many hours attempting to send the wittiest messages to every girl it is heartbreaking to know that She doesn’t have to try. It sends my self-confidence free-diving. In a locked Audi. Filled with cement. In the Mariana Trench.
(Some guy just sent “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.” Which doesn’t even make sense. Oh, best pickup line, guaranteed to send girls squealing in terror (seriously, I tried): Lick your finger, then wipe it on their clothes. Say “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” )
Seriously, it would be so easy to sit here and sulk. Because I told her how I’m feeling. I keep opening Facebook and hoping she’ll reply and talk to me about it.
It’s truly pathetic.
Because I also told her earlier I want to do other things – I don’t want to talk on Facebook all night.
It doesn’t matter what she does: she’ll be in trouble. She can’t fix it. She can’t come after me and make everything better. There’s no possible way for her to do this.
The only person that can make things better is me.
And that is why I need to realise I’m alone. Because only when I realise I’m alone will I realise I must make the effort. Only then will the change be made.
Only when I realise that I’m alone can I begin to make our relationship work.
And if I don’t realise I’m alone? I’ll definitely end up so.