I’m a silly cunt sometimes

I’ve fallen for my housemate. I’m a total idiot, and should have known better. He’s called JB, he’s lovely, and had I met him in a different life, who knows? It could have been different.

The night I came to look at the house was so much fun. I wasn’t exactly sure how to find it, but I knew he was at home waiting for me, and in the quickly darkening evening I could see him sitting on the sofa  playing on an ipad and drinking red wine. All the signs were good that this was going to be somewhere I’d be happy living.

I can hear his voice so clearly, welcoming me. “Hello”. He was excited and nervous - we’d met once before at a mutual friend’s birthday party, and as we all left, JB and I danced to the train station. I found him on facebook, and found his art blog. He remembers me as his first following. We seemed to be quietly noteworthy in each others’ lives.

He showed me the house. A study (yay), with room for my sewing machine. filled with books. Heaven. A lobby, beautifully decorated to exactly my taste. A lovely bathroom and a new kitchen, just put in. He showed me the room, it was great. We went to the kitchen, and he gave me the key. It was that easy. He poured me some wine.

We chatted. We talked our way through three bottles of wine, and I was having a great time. We agreed on so many things, and agreed at how stupid those who didn’t agree with us were. I told him I was polyamorous. We watched Youtube clips and laughed together on the sofa. We let our bodies touch. I don’t really remember saying this (although definitely not out of the realm of possibility) but apparently I said “so is fucking part of the deal?”. Ugh

So we kissed, we really made out. He took me upstairs, I ripped his (and my own) clothes off. We touched, I sucked his cock. I remember a hazy and not very enjoyable 69 (those things scare me - too much chance for a nose up the bum) and then him not being able to keep it up. I remember waking up a lot, and feeling very thirsty. It was a little weird.

A few days later I came to show my four year old nephew the house. JB thanked me for being cool. I felt cool. I like fucking people and although it wasn’t my most successful drunken fuck, I had enjoyed myself. I moved in.

We started a weird friendship, a slight romance. We enjoyed each other so much, and began to fool around most weekends. I was fine - I was really ok with it all, and JB was so clear that a real relationship between us wasn’t really an option.

I ignored him. I wondered what it would be like if we were together. I thought if I pretended hard enough, he’d change his mind. He kept saying how excellent I was, and I thought that meant he wanted to be with me, and was coming around to the idea.

He wasn’t. I know that categorically, after starting to cry when we agreed we should probably stop the kissing, the fucking and the cuddling up to watch TV, I confessed I was upset because I loved him. Accidentally loved him. He was (is?) shocked, and as gently as possible told me that I would never make it into his heart.

I’m retreating now, trying to get some distance without being mean (although my lesser self wants him to be as hurt as I feel), but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

I want him.

Bye Bye Blackbird

J is gone. It is done and over with.

He returned from a working trip and when we spoke it came out that he doesn't think about any sort of future with me. I'm tired of being with people who don't want to be with me. Or who make no effort or room in their life for me to be. I won't be the one who always bends. I am resolute.

The night that I ended it I sobbed like a child. I've been more ok about it than I really expected, but waves of grief was over me a few times today, and I feel myself on the edge again.

This morning, as T and I were making gentle Saturday morning in the sun love, I was near to climax when I realised I was supposed to be with Cambridge with J, and I almost wept right then and there. Not fair for T, I know, but I don't consciously seek these thoughts out, they just hit me.

I am so sad.

The end of M

I don’t know if I am being melodramatic (I wouldn’t put it past me) or if my intuitions are bang on, again. 

But I have this sense that M is gone. It’s been almost a month now, and the daily texts dropped to every few days, and then a week went by and I had heard nothing. It was kind of ok, until it wasn’t and I realised I missed him, and that it was ok to miss him. He was a new friend, and I fucking care about him, and it’s ok for me to tell him that. He should know that I care for him, and that I am thinking of him. So after playing the game of not-texting-him-until-he-texts-me, which always ends badly, I rang him. I made a deal with myself that if he didn’t pick up, it was over. 

But he answered. We chatted briefly, and it was nice. It was so nice to hear his voice. 

But intimacy breeds intimacy, and that fucker is addictive. I wanted to hear from him even more. So I texted him the next day when I cut all my hair off. The crash from that one hurt. It’s hurting right now. I don’t know why I feel so shitty about all of it. I feel a fool, because I feel as though he would contact me if he wanted to speak to me. He hasn’t so, that means he doesn’t want to. Or can’t - and it’s that ‘can’t’ which is keeping me dragging along. Maybe something is wrong, and he can’t talk to me about it. Or maybe it’s over, and I am just not seeing it. I’m not angry, just really sad about it. I thought we were going to be friends, and I could really do with some of them. 

I also think that a 32 year old man would have the guts to just tell someone they didn’t want to be with them, or didn’t want to hear from them. The worst bit is that maybe he just thinks it’s not that big a deal. That him not responding is not that big a deal, and that when he comes back it will all go back to the way it was. It might, if I’m honest. I really like him and liked being with him. But what I am finally understanding is that he just doesn’t feel the same way. He thinks this is the way he should behave, and that it’s ok. Which maybe it should be, but it doesn’t make me feel less shitty. 

I had to delete his number and all his texts just so that I couldn’t make even more of a fool of myself and contact him again. God, I haven’t even been a psycho bitch, I’ve just been fucking nice, and I still end up feeling like Glenn Close. Fucking hell. 

So if he contacts me, great, but if not, with great sadness, it appears to be the end of M.

The one that never really happened

I’d spent the last, lazy half hour of the day pretending to work while my best friend stood in front of me chatting with the man I had once fallen most desperately, painfully in love with. I knew and felt that it was never the good sort of love, the healthy sort of love, but the painful, foolish kind. The kind where you are shown every day that they don’t love you, hell, they don’t even want you, and yet you just can’t let that motherfucker die.

J was giving advice to S about his recent break up. I know. He’d just broken up with someone else, why the hell would he want me? I knew they’d broken up, I knew he was still in love with her but I just couldn't get rid of the feeling. I couldn't work out which was worse, not being able to see him and constantly thinking about him or seeing his goddamn face every day and not be able to get it out of your head. I was sitting at my desk, just behind the two of them, staring at my screen in what I hoped was a focussed way (and yet not-too-focussed way – that would give the game away) and typing made up words onto a made up document so it seemed that I wasn’t listening to every word they said. Which I was.

The worst part was that I had started to be so cold to him. I had to be. I couldn't let him in any further otherwise I thought I would actually break. The coldness was my effort to keep some dignity for myself, and if I am completely honest, to punish him for not feeling the way I do. I wanted him to hurt the way that I did.

It’s a terrible tale, and I’m ashamed to tell it. But there I was, stuck in a fucked up one way love story. It wasn’t always this way. I seem to remember there was a point when I hadn't loved him. When I didn’t even consider him.

We’d managed to work together for nearly a year, eight months or so, when I had a silly dream about him one night. It wasn’t even particularly graphic, we were just pressed up against each other in a bar, in a crowd of our friends. It was the feeling that really through me. I had this incredible sense in the dream that what we were doing was illicit, and that we were both complicit in it. During the day I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and it had felt so real to me that I was heady with it. I went down to talk to our resident agony aunt (the receptionist) J2. Even she had had one, about the most unlikely Casanova in the office. Her advice was to tell him, you can then both have a laugh about it and you’ll be able to move on.

It wasn’t until I practically rammed into him, coming around the corner from the kitchen that I blurted out ‘Oh I just remembered that I had a dream about you last night’ and promptly walked off. I sat down and about five minutes later I had an email from S asking what this dream was about. And that is how it started.

I admit my part in all of this. I am aware that I made a series of choices that got me to this point and that at any moment it could have seriously come back and bitten me on the arse. I knew that going in but I played the game and fell right in. A sucker for the adrenaline. I can’t imagine what else I was thinking. It wasn’t as if my relationship at the time suddenly meant nothing, although perhaps I acted in that way.

It fucked me right up. I had never made one mistake in my life that has made me so unhappy. S and I never slept together. But instead of making love we made intimacy with each other that mutually went beyond the boundaries that either of our partners would have been happy with. So I didn’t tell him. I raised another up to the same level as him in my heart.

After a while I realised I’d actually broken it. What was whole before became deformed and twisted and only selfish. I don’t know what I wanted from S. I wanted sex, and passion, but I also wanted intimacy and a friendship so intense that it would make me forget how lonely I was, and how few real friends I now had. To fill up the part of me that others couldn’t fill. I never told S this, I just became disappointed, painfully so, when he didn’t give it to me.

Our affair was very post modern. Next to nothing of a physical nature but hot as lava over technology. He would text me such things that the memory of them would stop me on the stairs in the middle of the day. I would blush making tea and the sugar spoon would shudder in my hand. Coming to work was a unique mix of pleasure and pain, because just to see him would make me wet, and yet we would barely speak to each other. A month of headiness. Of heightened feeling. Those feelings were so high but the foundations they were built on were weak.

I didn't separate sex and emotion well back then and the passion I was feeling and receiving didn’t satisfy me, it left me craving more. I couldn’t tell if we were just playing a game of if it was real. The jokes and games always continued but they culminated in him picking me up in the mornings. He talked about touching me as he drove. He asked if I wanted to touch him. I felt shy. So he said he would go first. He touched me, touched me on the thigh. Then he pulled up my dress and touched my bare skin. I sighed with shock and pleasure and fear all the while feeling how heavenly it was. Heat rushed to my face and I felt feverish. He brushed his hand up over my thigh, then dipped it in between my legs. He touched my underwear, then pushed it aside to put his fingers inside my cunt. I was wet. He told me to touch him, so I put my hand on the bulge in his trousers. He removed his hand from my warmth and unbutton himself. I placed my hand through the zipper and felt how warm he was. Burning. Then as he slipped his fingers back inside me I realised how large his cock was. My confidence rose and I pushed my hand further inside his zipper until I met with flesh, and my hand surrounded it. It was shocking. He pulled in the car park and we composed ourselves.

I couldn’t stop myself, I didn’t want to stop myself and I wanted more of him. But after that morning it was never the same. A peak had been reached, a line had been crossed and all of a sudden it wasn’t just make believe. It wasn’t a game any more and we had both done something that we not only couldn’t defend, but couldn’t dismiss as ‘just flirting’ or just words. That evening I got the text I’d dreaded, and the beautiful short sweet affair was over.

I was more okay than I thought I would be. Life went on, and surprisingly it wasn’t much different than it had been before. I went to sleep with the person I still loved I woke up next to him. He still made me laugh and I still loved stroking his soft cheek. But now, instead of being whole, these simple things and an undercurrent of unhappiness in my heart. I knew what I had risked, and I knew how capable of hurting D I was. I realised that I had foolishly gambled that for someone who was no longer replying to my texts.

S and I still laughed together at work, but now I looked at him a little longer. I stopped going into the kitchen when he was there because I didn’t want him to think that I gone there to get him alone. I was terribly terribly conscious of myself and forever conscious of him. It was what I imagine having a child is like – a sixth sense for knowing where they are. The days he was out seeing clients was terrible. Empty. What was the point if the only reason I was now here was to see him? Suddenly my life had a new, self destructive focus and that was S.

Then all of a sudden, a text. Out of the blue. It started again. Nothing as passionate as the first time and more cautious. An offer to drive me home. I accepted. I showed him the new flat I shared with Dan. I showed him the whole place and then the bedroom. He said ‘so this is where the magic happens’. Then he thrust me up against a wall and asked me if this is what I wanted. Was this the way I wanted it? Did I like it when he did this? His hand slid up my skirt again and I watched his face discover that I had taken off my underwear at the office. His beautiful large fingers slipped inside and me and he fingered me in a way that D didn’t. I don’t know if I preferred it but I relished that it was different. I couldn’t speak. I felt shy and scared but I didn’t want him to stop. He came closer to me and I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt his burning cheek next to mine. He whispered that he wanted to fuck me. He wanted to turn me around and fuck me with his big cock from behind. I didn’t let him. Jesus Christ I wanted to, but there was something fucked up inside me that said if I didn’t fuck him, then what I was doing wasn’t as bad as I thought it was.  


He told me he cared for me after he came on my tits. It was so foolish. I believed it for a few months longer, and then one day I realised that he didn’t actually want me at all. That was such a painful epiphany. He’d never wanted me, but had just seized the opportunity of me wanting him. 


It’s only the time that has passed now that lets me reflect on this. It was a terrible, foolish time in my life that I will never ever be able to undo.

Coping with Not Coping.

On reflecting on my last post, I guess that I am trying to teach myself how to be okay when I don't feel okay. How to be happy in yourself when people aren't reacting the way you want them to or when you feel insecure.

M is away. He will continue to be away and I might not hear from him. Let's just take a breath here and be okay with that.