So, two blogs ago I had suffered the first crisis. Two weeks ago, seems like an eon. A big, glorious, mess of an eon. Marvellous. Oh, to wallow in one’s misplaced emotions. My favourite. As mr fish would say ‘at least yer living, most people don’t. you got the love pains, enjoy em.’ Amen.
Sick of reading about him yet? I fucking am. I would rather eat my own molars rather than listen to myself ranting on about the minor anymore. And I haven’t even had a wank since ingesting all of the substances god blessed us with over this, my birthday weekend. And that definitely ain’t usual.
Love is a disease, and my smear’s come up all smudgy.
Yes, I left you those two blogs ago somewhere round midnight on the 6 August as I remember. After his party. A washed out teenage affair, blow jobs and all. Coined the ball sack and perineum as well, so wasn’t all bad. But two weeks later, Friday 20 august, it was MY turn to have a party. And lo and behold, my boy is coming. It’s his turn to be a willing but slightly edgy guest.
Fantastic. Surround him with prolific beasts of the universe, from the farthest spread corners of my life. Let them poke, prod, speculate and harass him.
Erm. That’s not what happened:
Nine hours of running around in circles spinning a web of mystery. No quality conversation with a single person, but a plethora of activity with all. Trying to jump people’s bones. Oh, was I jumping donny, or dumping jonny?
The end of the evening arrived at four thirty am. Not bad. My hazarded guesses had been the one o clock respect, or the six o clock disgrace. Somewhere inbetween’s got to be good. It’s always that fucking third option (Shira).
A million texts the next day saying how prolific the happening was, and I’m stuck in my friend’s abortion nighty shouting ‘GUTTED. GUTTED’.
Because he stayed till last. He comes to the party, he chats and loves everyone, everyone chats and loves us together. It gets to the end of the night. Shall there be a cigar to finish with? It is my birthday after all, and I always say one should get laid within a week radius or one should pop ones clogs.
He plays me a new song. He can’t remember it. He’s fucked. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror after, and I’m fucked. Rank. Jesus may have been thirty three when he died but he did it well. I’m just the living dead.
He says, ‘oh it’s late, I’m fucked, I’ve got a fourteen hour shift tomorrow. I’ve got to find a bus or something and get home’. The guitar is a barrier. I am in full rapist mode. We go to the door. I force him to kiss me. Tis bad, tis awkward. He tells me to keep the book he gave me and not give it back. I take that comment as if that’s the last time I’ll see him. My gay friends take that as something meaningful. It’s his favourite book. It’s meaningful. It’s about rape, and I appear to already have that qualification. Bollocks, I say.
GUTTED. GUTTED. Alone on my near-comedown I don’t even wank. Worst party ending EVER. Wide-eyed psychotics telling me they’ve had the best time ever. The broken-hearted being kicked down the stairs. A 33 year-old trying to jump a 22 year-old unsuccessfully. And somewhere. On the other side of the universe, someone’s getting laid on their birthday. And I hate them.
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after the party it's the after party........
I wake up. Have I even been asleep? Did I have a wank? No. Did I lose any of my bodily functions? No. it’s okay. The place is a plane crash. And I’m gutted. I’ve a good mind to send one of those terrible female neurotic texts ‘so, will I ever screw you again’, to the boy. But instead I waltz about the flat grinding my teeth, haplessly trying to separate be-cigaretted peroni bottles from scud for the recycling.
Duke calls. He’s a bit slurry. We sort a bit of wheat from chaff from the party and separate. Johnny London calls. He’s scarpered from the hotel for an indiscriminate reason and is going to come and down a bottle of moet and chandon with me, smoke spliff, play guitar and make movies of me stripping. Business as usual.
This is good. We are annihilated by 2. we go for food at a faux-swank restaurant and he shouts ‘thank you very much, I mean fuck you!’ as we leave. This town sure ain’t big enough for the both of us. Duke indulges us with guitar and spliff. We fall out of his flat into a so-called ‘festival’. A minging gaggle of felt-trousered, be-feather-capped losers. Oh for fucks sake, why dress like a nutter and act normally, surely it’s best to look like a porn star and act like a freak?
Johnny eats cake. I develop paranoia of bumping into random cunts I may know. We circle the joint and end up near the strange south american-sounding band. Their limp costumes not compensating for their shit music. But we get this party started. I place my zebra bag upon the floor. Then perform a pagan-cum-morrisman-circusperformer dance. A lot of risky jumping. Johnny joins me, smattering his feet upon the floor and somersaulting. People gather. Yes, we are the best act here.
A few near-pisses later we get to mine with eleven-quids’ worth of rancid cheese that we begged off an arrogant depressive.
And I can feel a funeral of love approaching. Impending doom. Heartbreak hotel. After telling me how much I must love the boy, and how beautiful it is I’m not bitter, the last goblet of cheap red wine that followed the moet, spliff, champagne, vodka, spliff and wine induced a different take on the whole shebang:
‘oh, fuck it, he’s a cunt. He’s making you unhappy. Wait until Tuesday, DO NOT TEXT TILL THEN, then ring him, rant and give him hell. If he falls in love with someone else between now and then it’s a piece of shit anyway. If he wants you, he’ll come back to you after. I know, cos I’ve been that cunt. Someone loves you and your ego wants to keep that. Well, he can’t – you’re too good for him’.
Now THAT’s what I’m talkin about.
I respond with the fact that although I may be too good for this child, this town is full of ugly nonchalant wankers, and despite not being with him, I still can’t help but wank over the poor bugger.
‘well fuck what you can then, and fuck them till they die’.
Amen.
I fucked the text you next tuesday plan within two hours when my muse texted me with a mundanity that I simply HAD to indulge.
If only he weren’t one in a million. Or if only I could find one of the other 59 fuckers in this arse end of a country…….
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