Basically there are men and there are women. Some men like men, and so on. It’s not that complicated. We are only animals. There are an infinite amount of creatures to shack up with. It makes me tired.
All the rules of your 20s just dry up and pale into significance when you hit thirty, or as I have just done, 31.
Speaking to a friend about it last night, she said she just has one rule; let them do the chasing. I see what she means. Generally a male desperado is accepted by the nurturing female, but a soon as a woman even hints at the possibility of being umbilical, the glorious alpha male retreats back into his predictable, but safe, cage.
The men in my life this year have sat on both sides of the push-me-pull-you sea-saw. It’s nice to be worshipped, but also invokes the impulse to ring their necks, or pick them up and wipe the floor with them. Power. Who wants it?
So, after my summer run abruptly ended, (although my mind had already sent enough signals to my control centre), by the death of my ex-boyfriend by hanging, I was prepared to cut the man-thing out of the equation for at least a while: or so I thought.
Put it in front of me and I will eat it.
Do I have a type? Do I have any powers of elimination at all? Does deleting all the ugly men from my soulmates profile count as some form of discretion and dignity, or show signs that there are some kind of selection powers?
Like the sweets in an Indian bakery, you just have to try them all, and at the grand age of 31 I’m still not full. Admittedly, themes come around again, but nothing wrong with a quick reminder. Learning lessons is important. The spunky Spaniard, who to quote myself, was ‘too good to be true’, was just an absolute hunk, god knows what his agenda is. He did booty-text me in the end, but there’s a profession for that kind of servicing.
Why, for example, did I give my number last night to a man who already annoyed the hell out of me with his inability to be straight down the line, real, honest? Do I really have to give myself the challenge of completely modifying or ignoring someone’s personality?
He said it was sarcasm, and that he’d try to be serious instead. I told him to be funny – it didn’t work. And why he couldn’t discreetly tap my digits into his phone I don’t know. The poor bridesmaid behind us was not best pleased. Well I tried, and feigning ignorance is bliss. Well that’s an overstatement, but it stops you getting caught out so much/knifed in the throat.
As I pause for a sip of my ‘decaf’ Americano, I have already cruised a young man with his book, though men of England, please stop wearing jeans that don’t show the contours of your arses. Ah, he’s sitting down, that’s better – the front contour is pleasing.
But then, you do meet people with so-called morals. My friend Rix, for example. Extremely virginal, but with a quiet allure, he claims that my vaguely brash statements are against his ‘moral fibre’. He has an allergic reaction to phrases as harmless as ‘a bit of the old heave-ho’, and suddenly becomes absorbed in an acidic under-the-breath muttering of disgust. I tried to hold his hand once. That is a different story.
But what is this over-reaction? Have I learnt anything? Yes, that he has a very odd relationship with his sexual identity. Not my problem. Move on.
So the latest escapade is a 28 year-old Irish lad. On my blithering way home from a gig my girls from the Heard had organised in a cute local, one of them foolishly pushed me towards a group of men, saying they had brought them for me. Mistakenly thinking I’d checked them out earlier, only to find they had my nightmare phobia of unattractive teeth, I marched up to the specimens in question and prised their lips apart for a full inspection.
What charm! Did the trick though. Or should I say, turned a trick. The problem is, shock horror, I think I might like him. You notice how many words I decided to include in that sentence. Am I being a womb-un and latching on to the first thing that comes along not brandishing a knife/hammer/chisel; because there’s a light on in his eyes must I yearn for him to power my generator?
Blame it on the booze blues, the cloudy weather, my vulnerable post-birthday-suicide-pre-menstrual array of emotions, or deal with it.
My body is tuned into my message alert frequency. I texted him from a wedding. Blame the circumstances. Nothing too embarrassing. Just a bit sentimental, what do you do when they act keen but don’t lay down on the floor begging to be stamped on? I do it to myself, I do, and that’s what really hurts. Thumb-happy, now I’m always waiting on his reply!
Well he did reply, but today. Which is okay. But I want more. I can only remember snippets of conversation. Selective drunken shag indicators. The worrying alarm bells all explained away. I am now putting it down to the jigsaw being somewhat unfinished! Bu yes, I am right in saying he couldn’t get his erm ‘hands’ in, oops, I mean off me. He said he wanted to be 100% for me, don’t even know what that means, but then, is there ever much sense in primal moanings? I think I remember us getting on well, even sharing a joke or two, and yes I think I like him. I need to attend patience school.
Charm eh? We’ll see who had the charm in the end! Nowadays I have little dignity, and even less shame. Still don’t take it up the arse but apart from that I’m pretty free and easy with how I feel. So basically I want him here, now, I want to study his relievingly fine Irish teeth, his lips, and see about the craic. My point is, the worst and most achingly torturous scenarios are those when you’re not sure whose shoe is on whose foot. Shoes are a good old analogy.
Why can’t I stalkbook him? Why?! Was it a high pitched Irish voice that asked me if I was okay in the sex-silence? Why hadn’t he seen the mighty boosh? Who the fuck is he anyway? I think I need the next instalment. He did comment that this would last for a while, and when my face contorted in an adverse reaction, he replied ‘weeks’.
Now there is a man after my own heart!
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