I don't know. Perhaps I just have a tendency towards unfailing romantic ideals in the face of absolute and continual disappointment. I wouldn't have said so about myself but it's becoming more and more apparent that my utter willingness to believe the best about men can withstand more pressure than a large slab of lead.
Traveling N returned home just before my holiday. Having known each other for just two weeks prior to his departure, we spent three months emailing and texting almost every day. I tried not to get too invested, I really did but it was hopeless. In my mind, he would return, gather me up in his arms and not let me go for at least half an hour or until one of us needed the loo quite badly. What actually happened was that he turned up in a mood, managed to call me fat and insult my job choice within approximately 4 hours. Oh, and we had to go dutch on lunch. Despite that, I slept with him that day (I know; weak). After this appalling display I went on holiday and vowed to sack him off when I returned. He asked me to lunch and over lunch was a different person. He was apologetic, kind and full of remorse claiming jet lag and nerves as the root causes of his knobbery. I was won over and decided to give him another chance.
The night before my birthday he wanted to take me to dinner. We met at the tube and, once again, he was in a mood. Sorry, but this was MY birthday dinner, supposedly and yet here I was doing my manic cheerleader impression, trying to cheer up a guy who I wasn't even sure I actually liked that much. In the bar we actually bickered. I bickered with a guy I've met a handful of times who's intention had been to take me out for the evening and convince me he was worth a shot. He called my opinions stupid (we were discussing politics) and told me I clearly had no experience of real life or real people (we were discussing infidelity - could we have chosen more volatile topics?). We were in danger of descending into actual drunken rowing so we went to eat (I had to suggest and then find the restaurant). Throughout the meal I tried to be civil and ignore the barbed comments coming at me. I asked him why he was being such an arse and he said it was because I was being defensive without actually thinking that perhaps that was because I was being attacked. As the meal ended, I escaped to the toilet to breathe deeply and chastise myself in the mirror. When I returned, the waiter was poised with the electronic card reader thingy.
"Oh thank goodness," my tormentor exclaimed. "I was about to put the whole meal on mine."
The real shocker is that once again, I slept with him. Now, in my defence it was the eve of my birthday and I didn't want to be alone. Physical comfort was required and he was clearly willing to provide it. Plus I was quite drunk.
On Monday I spent the day in Brighton with four friends to whom I relayed this sorry tale. The open-mouthed horror with which they received it made me grateful they weren't furnished with weaponry. Thank God for friends - they have all confirmed what I knew to be true. That he might have a nice side and might be good in bed but by God he's got issues and is actually a bit of a bastard. Enough was enough. I sacked him off by email (I'm chicken). He's text me a couple of times asking me to see him to 'discuss it' but I won't. I've had enough blokes knock my always-shaky self confidence in my lifetime and I finally realised it was only me that could preserve my own sanity. I'm aging physically, perhaps I'm at last beginning to age emotionally as well.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
If we took a holiday...
In the case of holidays, in the past good food and a quiet place to sun worship have been highest on my agenda. However in the past, I have only ever ventured abroad as part of a couple, intent on relaxing together and hopefully having as much sex as possible, punctuated only by visits to quaint tavernas and the odd place of cultural interest. However, given my single status and current obsession with sex and partying I jumped at the chance to take a holiday with one of my newest pals. R is an absolute inspiration when it comes to both men and partying and we often meet to compare stories of filth and shame (in fact, we have vague plans to one day turn our 'Hall of Shame' into anonymous memoirs).
The destination was chosen for its cheapness on all counts. We arrived at 10:30 on the first night and were out the door by 11:15 to sample the delights of the locale. Our first venture onto the main drag of the town prompted us to walk close together, arms linked and eyes wide. We were easily the oldest visitors there by a good seven or eight years and felt it very keenly. Coltish girls in tiny shorts and bra tops tottered past, ogled by young lads in Osaka t-shirts and too much Lynx deodorant. Our only recourse, we soon realised was to spend the week blind drunk. Which we did. Well, the nights anyway, the days were spent lying very still by the hotel pool, trying not to be sick.
That first night we scored. A group of guys from Birmingham were out in force and we accompanied them on a crawl of a few bars, purely to find our bearings. (An interesting point to note and one that has great influence on our behaviour is that in the resort, when one drink is ordered you always get one free and invariably a shot too for good measure. I have never been anywhere that encourages liver-abuse quite so unashamedly but then again I've never been to Glasgow). Later that night (or early the next morning) I was on the balcony demonstrating my talent for regulated breathing combined with careful teeth placement on one of them, whilst R got a vigorous workout inside the room with his friend. It was to set the tone for the week. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of squadies on the island and we were thrilled to be able to do our bit for our 'brave boys'. Worryingly, my 'par amour' for a couple of nights was a paratrooper aged just 20. Enthusiasm made up for a lack of technique in the bedroom, predisposed as he was to the classic 'jackhammer' shagging as favoured by most young men who have yet to realise that there is a major difference between their hand and a vagina. I managed to slow him down somewhat from warp-speed and he actually showed a great deal of promise. His best friend apparently suffered from the same issue, R reported later. You think I would have noticed, given that at one point during our first night with them, the four of us were copulating in the same room. R and I have now very much established our friendship, given that we have seen more of each other than any of our other friends. A couple of nights later we met up with that group again, minus R's recent bedmate. Undeterred, while I got down to round two with the paratrooper, R snared one of his best mates but not before, quite sweetly, 'marrying' him in our favourite bar. I was in the bathroom at the time but on my return I was told that their scariest looking army friend had been the vicar, a very drunk group member who had been trying it on with me all week (with no success) was the best man and another had been a bridesmaid. I was to be the photographer, apparently. I obliged and ended up with a really lovely photo of the 'happy couple' kissing. Had they been an actual couple it would have been one for the album, however as it is the photo is blatant proof that given the right amount of alcohol, geniune affection can quite easily be faked. This is worth remembering.
At the end of the week we dove into our favourite indie bar (an oasis amidst the 'banging choons' of the rest of the island) for a quick nightcap before retiring. Four cocktails and several Sambucca shots later we got talking to yet more army boys. After approximately fifteen minutes of innuendo-laden conversation, I agreed to accompany one of them, a corporal, back to his shared apartment. I can honestly say I have never in my life been lucky enough to wriggle around on such an astonishing body. His main function in the army, it would seem, was training recruits in the gym and my goodness it showed. I spent a good few seconds just admiring him before we got down to it. Although 23, he had passed through the embarrassed fumbling stage of life and clearly understood what was expected. I was pretty much helpless and was thrown around like a rag doll for a great deal of the session. We wrecked his bedroom with the sheer passion we both threw into the sex. We pulled beds away from walls, we knocked over tables, we broke a glass and, most worryingly, managed to knock the switch on an oven ring, turning it on. We realised later just as the hairdryer which some idiot had left on top of it started smoking. I never found out whether he was able to remove the puddle of melted green plastic from the stove - I was just glad we weren't electrocuted or asphyxiated from chemical smoke.
All in all it was a good holiday. I learnt that actually, sex with younger men can be very fulfilling as they seem endlessly happy to please and were always impressed by the experience of an older woman. I learnt how to set light to Sambucca shots in my mouth. I learnt that seven nights straight on the lash is my limit and that actually, sunbathing makes hangovers worse. I learnt I now have a sense of humour about difficult and trying situations whereas in the past I would have spent the week in tears rather than making the best of it. I also learnt I have a great friend in R who is a fantastic partner in crime and someone with whom I now have enough in-jokes to annoy the rest of our group for a year. I'm skint, tired and pretty jaded but overall it was definitely worth it. Not a bad tan, either.
The destination was chosen for its cheapness on all counts. We arrived at 10:30 on the first night and were out the door by 11:15 to sample the delights of the locale. Our first venture onto the main drag of the town prompted us to walk close together, arms linked and eyes wide. We were easily the oldest visitors there by a good seven or eight years and felt it very keenly. Coltish girls in tiny shorts and bra tops tottered past, ogled by young lads in Osaka t-shirts and too much Lynx deodorant. Our only recourse, we soon realised was to spend the week blind drunk. Which we did. Well, the nights anyway, the days were spent lying very still by the hotel pool, trying not to be sick.
That first night we scored. A group of guys from Birmingham were out in force and we accompanied them on a crawl of a few bars, purely to find our bearings. (An interesting point to note and one that has great influence on our behaviour is that in the resort, when one drink is ordered you always get one free and invariably a shot too for good measure. I have never been anywhere that encourages liver-abuse quite so unashamedly but then again I've never been to Glasgow). Later that night (or early the next morning) I was on the balcony demonstrating my talent for regulated breathing combined with careful teeth placement on one of them, whilst R got a vigorous workout inside the room with his friend. It was to set the tone for the week. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of squadies on the island and we were thrilled to be able to do our bit for our 'brave boys'. Worryingly, my 'par amour' for a couple of nights was a paratrooper aged just 20. Enthusiasm made up for a lack of technique in the bedroom, predisposed as he was to the classic 'jackhammer' shagging as favoured by most young men who have yet to realise that there is a major difference between their hand and a vagina. I managed to slow him down somewhat from warp-speed and he actually showed a great deal of promise. His best friend apparently suffered from the same issue, R reported later. You think I would have noticed, given that at one point during our first night with them, the four of us were copulating in the same room. R and I have now very much established our friendship, given that we have seen more of each other than any of our other friends. A couple of nights later we met up with that group again, minus R's recent bedmate. Undeterred, while I got down to round two with the paratrooper, R snared one of his best mates but not before, quite sweetly, 'marrying' him in our favourite bar. I was in the bathroom at the time but on my return I was told that their scariest looking army friend had been the vicar, a very drunk group member who had been trying it on with me all week (with no success) was the best man and another had been a bridesmaid. I was to be the photographer, apparently. I obliged and ended up with a really lovely photo of the 'happy couple' kissing. Had they been an actual couple it would have been one for the album, however as it is the photo is blatant proof that given the right amount of alcohol, geniune affection can quite easily be faked. This is worth remembering.
At the end of the week we dove into our favourite indie bar (an oasis amidst the 'banging choons' of the rest of the island) for a quick nightcap before retiring. Four cocktails and several Sambucca shots later we got talking to yet more army boys. After approximately fifteen minutes of innuendo-laden conversation, I agreed to accompany one of them, a corporal, back to his shared apartment. I can honestly say I have never in my life been lucky enough to wriggle around on such an astonishing body. His main function in the army, it would seem, was training recruits in the gym and my goodness it showed. I spent a good few seconds just admiring him before we got down to it. Although 23, he had passed through the embarrassed fumbling stage of life and clearly understood what was expected. I was pretty much helpless and was thrown around like a rag doll for a great deal of the session. We wrecked his bedroom with the sheer passion we both threw into the sex. We pulled beds away from walls, we knocked over tables, we broke a glass and, most worryingly, managed to knock the switch on an oven ring, turning it on. We realised later just as the hairdryer which some idiot had left on top of it started smoking. I never found out whether he was able to remove the puddle of melted green plastic from the stove - I was just glad we weren't electrocuted or asphyxiated from chemical smoke.
All in all it was a good holiday. I learnt that actually, sex with younger men can be very fulfilling as they seem endlessly happy to please and were always impressed by the experience of an older woman. I learnt how to set light to Sambucca shots in my mouth. I learnt that seven nights straight on the lash is my limit and that actually, sunbathing makes hangovers worse. I learnt I now have a sense of humour about difficult and trying situations whereas in the past I would have spent the week in tears rather than making the best of it. I also learnt I have a great friend in R who is a fantastic partner in crime and someone with whom I now have enough in-jokes to annoy the rest of our group for a year. I'm skint, tired and pretty jaded but overall it was definitely worth it. Not a bad tan, either.
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