So, I know you all want to hear about it. Alright, calm down, I’ll tell you.
Saturday was uneventful, I spent it in the gym, and in the hairdressers (Hair By Fairy, £13, thank ye very much) and catching up on a few weeks of open uni work (yes, I do that now) until 9.30 rolls round and Twinkle returns from work. We watched far too much Cougar Town and drank far too much wine, and then I got a text.
‘Hey you, here’s a maverick idea. I’m actually just round the corner playing this gig, how about I come straight to you when it’s done?’
Oh em fucking gee. Battle stations! As IF I’m ready for a boy to show up on a Saturday night when I wasn’t expecting to see him until Sunday afternoon.
‘Quick!’ Twinkle yelled, ‘you go tidy your room, I’ll do the washing up then I’ll grab my tweasers and we can de-hair you!’
-please note, when she said de-hair, she was referring to my werewolf eyebrows. Not my lady garden. Although that did need a bit of maintenance too… but not by Twink’s evil tweasers.
Three hours later, I’d basically redecorated the flat, washed my sheets and dried them to the best of my ability (with a hairdryer), removed all offensive traces of hair, removed and reapplied makeup, and passed out on the sofa. Dressed casually, of course. Oh this? I just threw this on – I wasn’t expecting you or anything…
AF showed up and it was… fine. A bit awkward at first – made swiftly less so by the introduction of French wine. I had previously alluded to the fact that his visit had not been timed at the ideal time of the month, so sex was not initially on the cards. When conversation dried up however, I had to keep my mouth occupied somehow. Sometimes, the only way to get rid of heaps of sexual tension is to get down on your knees and swallow it.
The next morning, after an annoyingly long lie in (I don’t do well with lie ins) I was thankfully certain that Flo had left the building. I’d been pretty sure the night before, but not that keen to risk it. I can’t imagine any boy would be that keen to come back for seconds if that happened half way through. So, I gave the all clear, and was spectacularly shagged into oblivion.
So – then followed a whole day. We strolled around my neighbourhood (yes, apparently I now live in America), hopped on a bus to Tooting Bec and popped into a pub for cider and a Sunday roast. We chatted and laughed, with only a few awkward silences. We flipped a coin for cinema or movie at home – and went to Brixton to see The Artist (which is over-rated) and then went home and ended up watching our original home move choice anyway (Megamind – which is under-rated)
We went to bed. Fumbled a bit. I applied my miracle hands to the fucked up muscles of his back – a favour which earned me much reciprocal favour – and went to sleep. I got up, got dressed, and went to work.
And not a single actual meaningful word was spoken.
I’m not after big romantic gestures or anything, but the problem is that we’re just not talking about it. There’s a fecking massive elephant in the room, and it’s not going away. In fact, it just started acting out scenes from The Jungle Book, and we’re just ignoring it.
We both sort of want to know if we can manage going from casual to not so casual, but the problem is – I’m an emotional cripple. I cannot start these conversations. I get uncomfortable when I’m expected to hug my own mother.
This wouldn’t be the end of the world, except… AF is also an emotional cripple. There’s no way he’s going to start that conversation. So we’re potentially just going to remain locked in this back and forth dance until one of us grows some balls.
Or someone else shows up who already possesses said balls, and steals one of us away.
Knowing the ratio of decent men to shit men, I don’t really fancy my chances. Do you?
We are both quite awesome people. There are moments when a tiny break appears in the thundering cloud of our own baggage, and it just works. But in order for it to actually be anything, the weather seriously needs to turn.
So that’s where we are. A permanent state of fucking limbo. Forever and ever. Amen.