Sex or Sudoku?

The last thing I wrote was how I had loosely arranged to see Ex-boy. That was sometime before Christmas and it is now March. I have been out of action in as many months due to health - hence the reason I have not been blogging of late.

Anyway, taking off from where I left....

The start of Sunday the 5th was all quite normal and found me at work at Agent Provocateur.
The previous night had seen me finishing a long day at work; needing to unwind with a bottle of wine - looking back, long days at work, and bottles of wine in the evening were a recurring theme - anyway, I had a little too much to drink on the Saturday evening (a bottle of red to myself - greedy girl - on a near to empty stomach), which served to erase my thought process, which resulted in me phoning Ex-boy. The conversation of which can be found in all its (embarrassingly ineloquent) glory in the blog below.

At the end of our conversation we loosely arranged to meet one another the next day. Silly, silly words. Silly, silly words that fell out of my red wine stained mouth. Silly, silly words that fell out of my red wine stained mouth, and that I paid little attention to before passing out fully clothed on my bed.
Upon waking on the Sunday morning, and looking in the mirror, I stared at my face in disbelief, and noticed how my mouth looked like it had consumed the contents of ink pen.


'I really need to stop drinking so much', I thought.

Whilst looking into the mirror, I had a vague recollection that I arranged to see Ex-boy. After gazing at my inky blue lips in a haze of bewilderment, it hit me. I had arranged to see him.

Sure, I could back out. But then I'd look like an absolute idiot, as it had been me after all that had called him, and gone on at him about his lack of organisation at factoring me into his life.

Anyway, I was intrigued. I had lots of questions. How was his mother? What had he been up to lately? Had he managed to get his car fixed since I'd last seen him? Was he still thinking of going into business with his father?

But really, all that I wanted to know - and all that had been occupying my thoughts in the last few months of my dangerous thinking, (subsequently resulting in a large amount of destructive behaviour) was, would I still want him and would he still want me? Or, would it now be possible for us to meet up, and talk about all the above mentioned trivial nonsense, without ending up in bed together?

Throughout the Sunday at work I kept having mini-arguments with myself in my head. In the midst of serving, and making small talk with men who had absolutely no intention of buying anything, I found myself battling with an angel on one shoulder, and the (by now) ever present devil on my other.

By 4pm (I finished work at 6) the devil finally got the better of me, and told me to call him.

"Hello?", he said.

"Hello, it's me."


"Hello mind reader! I was literally just in the middle of sending you a text. Are you still OK to meet up later on?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm really, really tired though. What are you thinking of doing? Because remember what I said, if we meet I want to go somewhere." (I told him I wanted to "go somewhere" as I thought that way we would be less likely to end up in bed with one another.)


"Yeah, no, that's cool. I was thinking we could go for a drink somewhere, or get something to eat?"

"OK, um, yeah, should be OK. What time are you thinking?"


"What time do you finish work?", he asked.

"Six."

"OK, so how about you meet me at mine for about seven."

Perfect, I thought. I'll finish work at six, and by the time I drive home to get out of my uniform, and put some normal clothes on, I'll have to run out the door again, just to get into the city for seven. This would hopefully take away any opportunity for me to try and make myself look presentable, and I would therefore be forced to meet him looking and feeling unattractive. Perfect. There's no way I will let myself do anything if I feel tired, and look a mess, I thought.


I think I speak for pretty much all women when I say - tiredness + feeling unattractive = NO SEX.


"Seven is good for me." I said.


In the two hours that remained of my shift, it became obvious to the girls I worked with that I would later be meeting Ex-boy. Another battle of words ensued. Although this time, it was not between myself, a devil and a (by now completely vacant) angel. It was with my trusted girlfriends whom I worked the shop floor with.


"You're blatantly going to get some loving." the first began.

"No! It's not like that! I'm literally going out of intrigue, and I haven't seen him for so long....."


"Well that all sounds very sweet, and, a complete lie..Underwear? Have you thought about what you're going to wear?"


"Absolutely not. It is so not like that! It couldn't be less like that. . . Although, I did blow over £150 pounds on the most beautiful white silk, tulle-ruffled set from MYLA last week."

"Caught red handed mate. You're thinking about wearing beautiful underwear. These are not the thoughts of an innocent woman!"


In between serving customers, advising handsome middle-aged men what would look best on both their wife and their mistress, and getting chatted up by a bunch of Sath Lunnun lads, discussion time had run out; the end of my shift had finally made an appearance.


Gone were the days I'd needed to feel reassured about what I looked like by Ex-boy. I'd got that and more from the last guy I was seeing. The one who thought I was beautiful and lovely ( I never did find out if he was visually impaired). The one who said he couldn't wait to tell me he loved me. The one who was handsome and successful and hugely funny, and well, perfect in my eyes. The one who nearly matched my appetite in bed. The one I began falling for until it all went wrong.


It was then, with my little new found confidence that I purposely decided I didn't want to make a huge effort on my appearance for Ex-boy. So, arriving home I got changed, put some lip gloss on and ran out the door. I did also manage to change very hurriedly into the new MYLA set; but I fear this was more for my enjoyment than his.


I'm an honest girl, so I'll admit something to you. What went through my head, as I made my way to Ex-boy's in my car, was that I hoped Ex-boy would make a move on me. I hoped he would try something with me, so that I could knock him back, and let him feel rejected for a change. Even if it was purely physical. Perverted and mean I know, but human none-the-less. It was for this reason that I was now glad I had put the MYLA set on. If it was going to get the point where I would reject him, at least I could stand before him and do it in pretty underwear.

I arrived a little after seven to find him smoking a cigarette on his front door step.


"I thought you'd quit." I said, as I crossed the road to greet him.

"I know, I know...", he laughed as he hugged me.

"Please put it out, or finish it quickly. You know I hate you smoking."

He tossed the cigarette to the floor. "Look, gone." He put his arms around my waist, and kissed me on my cheek. "You look pretty."


"No I don't. I've been on my feet 9 hours, and all my clothes are in Southampton. I look like a tired little hobo."


"Not to me you don't. You look gorgeous."

Weird. Ex-boy rarely paid me compliments.


We made our way into his living room. I sat down on his sofa and looked around. I hadn't been in his house for over half a year, but it hadn't stopped it feeling like he had done to me. Safe. This would be my first jaunt there without the promise of curling up with him in his bed. This would also be my first time in his company, in the last eight and a half years where I wouldn't be 'girlfriendy' around him. Unfortunately, however, these facts did not negate the excitement I felt as I curled my feet beneath my legs; they added to it.

I sat there for a while, watching him in the kitchen, trying to figure out what I felt for him. I thought about the last time I had come to his house.

I had picked him up in the afternoon, absolutely blind drunk, after being out all night with friends to celebrate May day. I had brought him back to his house, removed all the clothes from his body, lovingly ran him a hot shower and stayed with him, propping him up in said shower whilst I helped him wash. I then dressed him, and put him into his bed, whereby for the next four or so hours I fed him food, coffee and laid with him whilst he slept. Upon waking in a hungover state, he found me lying next to him and thanked me all too sweetly for my efforts as his nurse. Afterwards, we slept for the rest of the day.

As a feeling of contentment made me dizzy with the memory, I thought it best to get out of his house.

"So, what are we doing? Where are you taking me?"

"Well, I thought we could go for a drink. There's a nice little pub just outside town..."


"Cool, sounds nice. I hope it's chilled."


"Very." he said.


He was right. The pub was very chilled. Although, feeling a little nervous on arrival, and unsure of the correct protocol, I necked my first glass of white whilst he was in the toilet.


We flirted for a while and bounced a few sexual innuendos back and forth, but it all felt very harmless. It also felt very different to what we were usually like with one another. It was a surreal situation. Like a first date between two people who had been lovers for the last 8 and a half years. We were trying to be grown ups in a situation that felt strangely adolescent.


"Do you want another?" he asked, as he noticed my empty glass of wine.


I pondered for a while, remembering I was driving. I promised myself if I had anything else, I would make it my last, and that I would drink it very slow. "Go on then."


After he returned from the bar - for the life of me I can't remember how - the conversation started to turn a little more serious. He brought up the subject of our friends who were settling down and having children. We spoke about it for sometime, until there was moment of silence and he looked at me and said:

"You'll make a good Mum, baby."

I'd been trying to understand just how it was I felt about him for most of the night. For the most part of it, I'd come to the conclusion that: I hardly fancied him anymore. He no longer matched me intellectually. Our goals had changed. I had different aims to him. Our pleasures now differed hugely. Where my ambition had grown, his seemed to have shrunk. I seem to want more from life than him.

He wants women who will provide him with a slightly (all too safe, in my opinion) no-frills sex life. An easy, carefree companionship with a possible side order that would see her occasionally stroking his ego. If he was lucky, she may even like Top Gear.

So too do I look for a man that offers easy companionship, with the possibility of something a little more serious in the future. But I also look to a man, with a level of intelligence that may promise to teach me something. With this, age seems to play a part. It comes as no surprise then, that Ex-boy is the only person I have ever gone out with near to the same age as myself. (He is nearly two years older.)

A love of decent (by decent I mean: credible) music is necessary, so too is a sense of humour. Looks are not a prerequisite. Although, a nice face and height (six foot and over....and BINGO) is a bonus. For me, a man offering the above as a complete package would appear to be my type. Being able to keep me interested mentally, and old enough to teach me a thing or two about myself; he would also equate to good in bed.

All this aside, it didn't take away the fact though, that when Ex-Boy turned to me and said what he did, I felt incredibly sad and at that moment in time, he was the only person in the world who I wanted to console me.

Shortly after the silence, I lifted my head off of his shoulder, he unwrapped his fingers from my around my wrist, and we decided to make a move back to his. Only, I must have drunk quickly than I had thought (empty stomach from not eating at work) as when I went to get up from the table, my legs buckled beneath me.


"BABY!"


I stumbled off the chair. "Oh no. How embarrassing. I can't drive. You're going to have to drive. Uh oh!" I grabbed the table to steady my feet. "What are you like?! You're such a cheap date!"

He laughed at me a little more, then he pulled me up off the chair I was,by then sat back down upon. A few people began to look over at us.

Watching me fail miserably at putting my leather jacket on, Ex-boy held my hands and put each one into the sleeves for me. Funny how, the last time I had seen him I had dressed him, and now he was returning the favour.

Standing a considerable distance below him, I looked up at his face to see him smiling down at me. Shit, suddenly things didn't feel so 'friendly' between us. We stared at each other for a moment, with my body flimsily draped in his arms, until he slowly began to zip my jacket up, stopping when he got to the V in my dress. "This is nice". He ran his index finger over by my bra - he'd seen the lace peaking from under my dress.

Standing in the middle of the pub, with people surrounding us at all angles, I remembered Ex-Boy' s penchant for risky behaviour in public, and how much I loved it.

As we made our way out of the pub, he grabbed my hand, and led me across the road to my car.
Scared he'd get pulled over by the police in my car, we agreed the best route back to his was to go back the country way. As he pulled away he grabbed my hand again. What was he playing at? We had agreed friends. Making me change gears for him, he didn't take his fingers out of mine until we arrived back at his.

What happened next is a blur to me even now. I know that the events that took place after this were spaced out over about four hours. However, with time now passed, and some details faded by memory, I will simply tell what I can remember.

After the car ride back, we made our way up to his bedroom. I laid down on the bed. So did he. I lay there for a while, sure that he was about to make a move on me.

He put a film on.

We laid watching the film, with him barely making any physical contact with me. I thought this was perhaps due to the fact he was concentrating on watching the film. It was one of his favourite films after all.

The film ended, and he said he wanted to make some food and have a cigarette.

"Are you joking me? You made food before we went to the pub, and you had a cigarette when I arrived. Plus you told me you'd quit." I said.

"But, I'm hungry and I really want one." He retorted.

"Whatever."

He told me he'd be ten minutes, as he closed his bedroom door and left me on his bed.

What on earth was going on? I know Ex-Boy. I may not be able to decipher signals from other men, but I certainly could Ex-Boy's. He'd been firing "I want you" all night at me, yet when it came down to it, with me laying next to him in bed. . . .nothing.

I laid on top of the sheets surrounded by silence and in almost complete darkness.
Most of the evening had been built around my intrigue into whether Ex-Boy would try and make a move on me; without a glimmer of this I must admit by now, I was feeling pretty frustrated. After a very strange few months, I really needed something, or someone to make me feel wanted. Stupidly, I believed Ex-Boy would be the easiest person to provide me with this. I thought if I got this validation from someone, I might, just might drag my sorry arse out of my little bout of destructiveness, and get on with things again.

'I need to take this up a leve',l I thought, as I lay waiting for him. 'I'm going to have to be a hell of a lot more suggestive', I said to myself.
45 minutes later, Ex-Boy returned. Yes, that's right. 45 minutes later. What the hell had he been doing?
As he got back into bed, he put his arms around my waist and pulled me into him. I knew I was being stupid, as even if I had to back out there and then, I'd have found it hard to unwrap him from me. Yet, I wanted more. I wanted to know that he still wanted me. So I didn't move.

It was very strange. Each time he would hold me, he would back off for a few seconds. Thinking that maybe he was unsure of I wanted him or that perhaps he wanted me to take the lead from him, I'd put my hands on his chest or kiss him sweetly on the cheek. I was trying to be patient with him, but couldn't really understand why he was backing off.
Feeling like an absolute idiot, I moved away and turned my back to him. Only, then he pulled my back into his chest, and while breathing lightly on my neck, unzipped the back of my dress.

Trying my best to think rationally, I told myself this was where things needed to stop. But, as quick as I'd told myself that, he'd moved away again. What was he doing? Had he only met up with me to see if I still wanted him? Were we both playing the same game with each other? This was starting to get confusing.
Frustrated (and by now humiliated) I pulled the covers off of me, and sat on the end of his bed. "What are you doing?" he asked, as I started to zip my dress back up, and recover my hair clip from his table. With the front of my dress still open, I turned around to him. (I thought the overpriced MYLA may make him think otherwise) "I'm going. It's late and...........", I let out a huge sigh. THEN, with no change in his tone of voice, or difference in his expression.....he said "Oh. OK." and proceeded to pick up a sudoku book (!?!?!??) "This is so annoying. I'm stuck on this one part, and I can't finish it. I've been trying to solve it all day."

So this was it. This was where our 'relationship' was going to finally end. Not on some amazing, earth shattering, life changing, mind-blowing sex. Not by an irreparable argument. No. Our relationship was going to end by him choosing to play sudoku over sleeping with me.

Without saying another word, I walked out of his room, down the stairs and let myself out of his front door, without looking if he was following behind me (I knew he was behind me, I just didn't want to turn around and look at him).

I have not seen him since that night.

I sent him a text message as I was on my way home.

"Forget everything I told you tonight. Forget tonight ever happened."

In hindsight I should probably not have dignified the evening with any form of a response. However, after opening up to him in the pub about a subject incredibly raw to me (this needs no further explanation), I felt massively vulnerable - Only to then be tossed around by him in his bed in a very bizarre game of cat and mouse.

I of course, wish I had never told him anything. Silly girl. I know better than to open up to a man. But this was Ex-Boy. He was the one person I knew would be lovely to me. And he was. He took my hand and didn't let it go until we got back to his. But then?

Was I really not that attractive to him anymore? Was he genuinely more interested in sudoku than sleeping with me? It wasn't adding up though. He was the one that had pulled me back when I'd moved away. He was the one that had kissed my neck. He was the one who had put his hands all over my body, and he was the one who had unzipped my dress. Only to keep moving away.

Exhausted, I got home, crawled into bed and tried to erase the evening from my consciousness.
I woke the next morning trying to figure out if the night before had been a dream. When I remembered it hadn't, I began asking myself the same questions, and telling myself the same things as what I had done in the car on the way home.

About a week later, whilst on a social networking site we both use, I looked at his page.

X amount of new 'tagged' photos.

He'd been 'tagged' in about 15 photos with the same girl, looking very couple-like. There was one of them kissing. There was a wall post from said girl, saying "I can't believe you call me your girlfriend. I have text you so many times, and you haven't replied. I think you should read the email I have just sent you. I really can't be bothered with this."

He has a girlfriend? Why the hell had he not bothered to tell me that? Surely I had a right to know this piece of information, no?
He had all night to tell me he had a girlfriend. Actually, no, he had a long time before that. He had been asking to meet me for some time, and at no time had he even mentioned he was seeing someone. Let alone, that there was some poor girl who considered him to be her boyfriend.


I have not seen him since (the now infamous) sex or sudoku night. We have also barely spoken.

I've been looking for closure from the situation for over two years now, and still haven't found it. Maybe I won't ever get it. I can't really explain how I had hoped to achieve closure from him; I suppose if we had a row so catastrophic that it would cut erode all memories between us? Or perhaps if we'd acted in a way towards one another that was irrepairable?

A few months ago, I instant messaged him by accident on my blackberry (I was drugged up). He responded, telling me he was abroad. We wished each other well. It was then, laying in bed, looking at his name on my contacts list, that I began to think about closure again. The thing is, Ex-boy and I have never really rowed. We've also never tried to hurt the other. I've come to the conclusion that, just because we have never done either, it does not mean that there is not closure from us. It simply means that after being in and out of each others lives, for the last ten years, (and each others beds for eight and a half in amongst those); we don't hate each other.

I now understand that closure for us, means that we are still hugely accesible to one another (we are on each others Blackberry messenger contacts list, phonebooks, and on each others friends list on a social networking site) but that we no longer speak.

Life has, indeed, moved on.

Oh dear. I'm slighlty drunk. I have therefore felt it necessary to phone Ex Boy. Our conversation mostly consisted of me telling him what an idiot he is.

This all started because a mutual friend of ours phoned me shortly before hand, informing me he was meant to be seeing Ex Boy tonight, and how annoyed he was because Ex Boy had ditched him because he was meeting some girl. Don't know why, but it bothered me.
I've imagined him countless times in bed with another girl since we stopped being with one another; and know full well he has been with other girls. But, tonight it annoyed me. Tonight, I have had over half a bottle of wine, am very tired, am frustrated by a lot, and wanted to vent. On someone.
I guess I was pissed off imagining him making time for someone else. So I phoned him.
"Hello?" - Him.
"You're an idiot. You seem to find time for other girls, but not me. Tell me, my life is ridiculously busy, yet I always make time for my friends and boyfriends, but you? You seem incapable of factoring anyone into yours. Anyone, being people that you claim you love and care about." - Me.
"Whoa. I'm sorry. I know I'm lame, I'm crap at making plans." - Him.
"Yes, you are. I'm tired of it. I don't have the energy for it anymore, and I'm sick of trying. I feel like a mug with you sometimes." -Me.
"What are you doing now?" -Him.
"Oh my God. Are you kidding me?! I'm literally just going to bed. I've had the busiest day ever, and have work tomorrow." - Me.
"OK, so what are you doing after work tomorrow?" - Him.
"Um, well nothing really." -Me.
"Perfect. So we can see each other tomorrow?"-Him.
"Well, I'm not holding out for anything."-Me.
"What you don't think we'll end up seeing each other?" - Him.
"Nope."-Me.
"Well we will. Are you not wanting to?" -Him.
"I'm not saying anything. I will say, if it does happen, I will most probably be looking and feeling really rough after work. Plus, I will be needing a huge glass of wine." -Me.

So, we've arranged to meet tomorrow night.
I don't know if I should. In fact, I know I shouldn't.
I have not been in my right mind recently, and I know he can read me. I need to bloody back out, but something in me - the devil who consistently overbears the angel on my shoulder - is telling me "screw it".

I don't even care anymore. I'm just in an incredibly destructive little frame of mind where I feel like abusing everything to excess and seeing how much it pushes me, and where it pushes me.

He's not the one for me, and never will be.

I need someone who is : motivated, ambitious, driven, not easily intimidated, makes his own way in life, has strong values, good morals, is a good listener, intelligent, calm, dependable, punctual, does what he says, says what he means, fights for what he wants, wants a family, believes in marriage, and appreciates old values.
This seems to be what I need. Yet I rarely fall for it. I've fallen for two men in my life.
Yet, it's never really these credentials I fall for. It's not what's on paper that makes me imagine having a future with someone. It's the way they make me feel.
Maybe that's why I should back out of tomorrow. Ex Boy. Oh dear.

Apologies for how backwardly fluid this post is. Too much wine.

Love and Marriage. As Sinatra may say.

Revelations. Many revelations this month.

The fashion of men walking back into my life has continued; none of which has been welcomed. It has only reaffirmed something I've always known: men want what they can't have.

First of all it was Ex Boy: haven't heard from him since the 4am text (more of him later.) Then it was F2 (more of him later also). Then came along The Soul mate. Hadn't heard from this one in months. He now has a girlfriend but has appears to think nothing of texting and calling me telling me how he misses me. Amazing. Then came along a friend of Ex Boy.

It's like the bus theory. You wait ages for one, then three come along at once. Same with men. The funny thing is, I'm not one bit interested in any who have come back into my life. They are all single handedly playing a game, wanting the chase; each wanting to taste victory. I'm not interested in games though, and I never have been.

Even more amazing is the only one who has occupied my thoughts to some degree is Ex Boy. I have two theories for this.

1. He appears to now be ignoring me, leading to the 'wanting what you can't have' theory (granted I haven't even attempted calling him in eight months) but he has rejected a friends request from me on a social networking site he is on ; a little pointless as we share a large amount of friends, and are bound to bump into one another at some point.

2. He was my love: it could simply be that I miss him. But, no it's not that. I don't miss him. It's more of a sadness of how the love we once felt for each other is now completely gone. I'm sure he doesn't feel sad though. Only me. I don't even want to be with him anymore. He pisses me off and I know he feels the same about me. We piss each other off. It doesn't stop us from still finding one another attractive, but that page has turned.

So back to F2. Well, this one really takes the biscuit. I've met a lot of less than charming men, but I think F2 just about manages to top them all. I massively regret going anywhere near him.

He knows nothing about me, which I am now really quite happy about. A lot of my girlfriends have said I should call him up, and 'give him a piece of my mind', but what's the point? It would only fall on deaf ears. It wouldn't fundamentally change him as a person. I'm going to carry on acting just as I have since we first met. Dignified.

It may sound a cop out to not inform him what a horrible piece of work he is before deleting him from my life, but it's the opposite. He doesn't deserve my tears, let alone my words.

Nope, I'm over bastards, and I'm over wanting what I can't have.

I know it's part of the human condition to want what we can't have - be it a pair of strappy sandals we can't afford, a chocolate cake we know we shouldn't eat, or a man we know we can't have, but I truly don't. I may want the cake and the sandals, but not the man.
If a man gives me his number and I contact him, he gets one chance to reply. If he doesn't reply then, the number is deleted, and the man is forgotten. Simple. I believe a mans contact to be a reflection of who they are as a person - certainly, too much is unattractive, but too little implies they believe you to be something they can pick up when the mood takes them. Tut tut.
It's also a very simple and effective way to find out who is genuine and who isn't. I found out who were the genuine men in my life this month when I was unexpectedly admitted to hospital. The ones who didn't ask if I was 'okay' were deleted.

I don't like how men in London deem it appropriate behaviour to date three or four women at the same time: Sex and the City culture. It started in America and now it's moved over here; it's becoming an epidemic. What ever happened to just enjoying one persons company and taking the time to get to know them? Everything is too fast paced: it's like you get one date, and you're on trial. If it doesn't go well, then you are immediately sentenced to the next date. Plenty more fish in the sea and all, but no....NO.....NO. I don't like it. It's tedious, I can't bare it. I'm aware that my views appear to be somewhat old fashioned, but I don't care. People are far too quick to throw things away.

Divorce is one in three now- the same rate as Cancer. Cancer kills everyone; just as everyone knows someone who has had Cancer, everyone knows someone who is divorced. Why is it then that most of our Grandparents are still together? Because quitting has never been an option to them.

I asked one of my Father's friends - who is like a second Grandfather to me- how he had managed to stay married for over fifty years, and if he still loves his wife. "Divorce isn't something our generation can comprehend. Our parents were married for the entirety of their lives', just as theirs were before them, and those before those, and so on. Love isn't always passion. It's doing things for someone else, and staying with them until the end. Your generation are always in pursuit to find something better. Sometimes there is no 'better', sometimes, it's what you already have." He told me that two years ago and it's just as vivid in my memory now as it was when he said it.

Until I lost both grandparents on my fathers side two years ago, I could say that both sets had been married for more than fifty years. Talking to my Dad's friend made me realise just how much I want to grow old with someone, and feel safe in the comfort that they won't want to leave me when something better comes along. I don't care what I achieve or become in life, the two things I will strive to most successful at are, being a wife and a mother. Those would be my greatest achievements.

So here's to you, all the men who want what you can't have: save it, because I'll be holding out for a man who appreciates what is already stood before him.

Many more buses may arrive at my stop, but at least now I know which one I should be on board with.

Human stepping stone.

Just when I think I'm finally over him: I have to go and dream about him.

I don't know why it is, but whenever a relationship of mine comes to an end, the powers above very cruelly make me dream about my ex night after night. The dreams are never good, I mean, they can only be nice or horrible; but either one will have me wake up thinking it was real, and then missing them.
In the nice dreams, all the problems that were, are mysteriously erased by this weird haze of perfect contentment that surrounds us, which results in us having the most perfect sex. I wake up thinking it's true for five minutes. When I realise I was in fact dreaming, I start to miss him.
In the horrible dreams he is usually shagging someone else in front of me. Usually a friend of mine. He has her up against a wall so that she can mouth the words "I'm a better fuck" to me. Smugness seeping from every pour on her body, until she comes. Loudly. As I said, horrible.
Last night had me dreaming about the most recent male failure in my life. Not Ex Boy: the other one. The ridiculously good looking one, who pursued me for the best part of a year: F2. Seemed lovely, but turned out to be, well, abit of a dickhead really. It was a nice dream. Ergo: we had perfect sex. Ergo: I woke up reaching for my phone to call him. Silly girl.
Laying in bed, staring at my phone, I started to remember how happy I had felt when I first met him. I remembered how gorgeous he was, and that he had a nice smile. In my sleepy, sexually hazed state, I started to think perhaps I hadn't tried hard enough with him. Maybe I hadn't tried hard enough with Ex Boy. Maybe if I'd done things differently.
I'm ashamed to admit that, from that train of thought, I momentarily, (very momentarily) questioned if I could sleep with Ex Boy with no strings attached. One final farewell. Or maybe even F2? After all, both of them had made it clear that they still wanted things to continue on that level. But I hadn't wanted that; I'm a pretty all or nothing girl, and I know myself well enough to know that, for someone to get the best out of me, they have to keep me interested mentally as well as physically. I knew then, that it was never going to be as good as it could be, by simply being bed buddies alone, and I wholly believe that if you're going to do something, you should do it properly. So no, I wasn't about to start trying to divorce emotion from sex. Just not that kind of girl I'm afraid. Wouldn't want to be either.

Towards the end with Ex Boy, each time I was getting ready to meet him, I would stare at my reflection in the mirror and question what I was doing.
I'd felt us drifting apart for a while, but I'd resisted thinking about it. I didn't want to quit, and I didn't want to walk away: I wanted to fight.
Over the years, our relationship had always been hugely up and down, yet, the one thing that had always remained constant between us, had been passion. At times, when little else seemed salvageable, it had kept us together. Each time we tried to walk away from one another, it had always brought us back to each other. When neither us knew what to say to each other, it said all that needed to be said. Yet, towards the end, when neither of us had anything left to say, it started to fade. For eight years, it was the strongest connection we had with each other: without it, everything started to unravel; the splits, and tears that had always been between us, could no longer be repaired. Without it, there was simply nothing left to fight for.


(ms-kzm)
n.
1. The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused.
2. The deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from being humiliated or mistreated, either by another or by oneself.
3. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.


After Ex Boy contacted me last week I sent him a friends request on face book in the nature of all things 'friendly'. He rejected it. What the fuck?
Quick to text me at four in the morning to tell me he "'oves" me, but can he be my friend on a social networking site? Obviously not. Obviously he found himself horny at four in the morning and decided he would give me a text. After eight months of nothing.
Well, well done Ex Boy, you have just reminded me what an emotionally stunted, manipulative, fuck wit of a human being you are. Well done. Here's to the next eight months of no contact.

Booty calls no longer accepted.

The Ex-Boy phoned me last night.

Eight months of no contact: not a peep, until four o'clock this morning.

I was lying wide awake in bed, and felt my phone vibrating underneath my pillow: unknown number calling me; unknown number sending me tetxs. Most confusing.

Being in hospital is probably never going to be a positive experience, however, determined to create some good out of a bad situation: upon leaving hospital on Tuesday, I made a conscious decision to delete all contacts on my phone who had ever a) remotely used me: in any way shape or form. b) hurt me - to an irreconcilable degree c) treated me badly d) hadn't bothered to see if I was OK.
Ex-Boy was one of them. Scrolling down the list of contacts, I knew if I deleted his, it would be pretty difficult to get in touch with him again. To get his number again, I would have to ask one of mutual friends for it; this was most definitely not something I wanted to do. And, no, I'd never known his number off by heart - something, I've always been quite proud about.
So, you'd understand my confusion at four o'clock this morning, when I received a text from an unknown number, saying they were at my University wanting to see me.

Ex-Boy.

Eight months of no contact.


The last time we spoke, I think I was telling him I loved him, and that I wanted him to be mine; mine, and no one else's. Then, nothing, eight months of nothing.

I stared at my phone in disbelief for a while, and thought what the best thing to do was. Lying there reading, and then re reading the message again; I could see just how much had shifted between us, and how much I'd changed. A year ago, and I would have most probably got out of my warm bed, and driven to where he was. In my pyjamas. But, I'm not that person anymore. I'm nowhere near to that person. She left a long time ago.
He broke every piece of my heart so exquisitely, that it's taken a hell of a lot of strength not to go back to him. But, I've done it, and I would never compromise myself for him again, not for one minute. I knew what he was calling for. If I went to him, it would change nothing. He hasn't changed one bit. He may never change. I have. I want more than anything he could ever offer me.

I'm not at University. I'm at home.

Maybe I'll hear from him, maybe I won't? I know I'm okay though, and I know I'll be okay if he doesn't call.

Unable to sleep, at about 5 o'clock this morning I tried to imagine being his friend: I imagined meeting him, and I imagined being at his house. Could we be friends? Could we sit with one another as friends? I don't think so.
You see, my strength comes from not seeing him and not speaking to him. My weakness, however, runs though every vein in my body when I'm with him. It's incredibly hard to train your brain not to do something it's done for eight years.

There are many factors still tying my emotions to him - nearly all of them masochistic. However, as I seem to be someone who struggles to divorce pain from pleasure, and ususally revel in all that both have to offer - it's for those reasons alone that, at five o'clock this morning I decided I wasn't ready to be his friend.
I could very easily slip off of the pain free mountain I've managed to climb, and I don't want to. I want to move on, hopefully to a prettier, more pleasureable height; so if it means not having him in my life for another eight months, then so be it. Besides, whatever he has done to me or made me feel, I loved him far too much to ever let him grow into a person I despise.
I want to be fond of him again. I want to see his good side again. I want to fall off the bed laughing with him again.
Rome wasn't built in a day was it?

Should I stay or Should I go?

Date: Somewhere in the month of X, in the year of 2003.

Have been playing text tennis with Mr. P-S for nearly two weeks now. He has been out of the country on business.
Can't wait to see you. Xx
Can't get you out of my head. Xx
Always a kiss at the end of his messages. The Ex Boy never put kisses. The Ex Boy never told me he missed me; infact he was more than happy to go a few weeks without seeing me, with a distinct lack of contact.

Yet, here is a man, far older than me, who is in another country who can't wait to get back and spend time with me. Don't worry, I'm not that naive, I am more than aware he is after a little more than companionship. But, it feels amazing. Everything I have to fight so hard for to get from Ex Boy is being offered up to me on a plate, and to be honest, I feel like lapping it up.
The night he got back into the UK he called me:

"Sweetheart, are you coming over tonight?"

"Er, little problem, I don't know where you live. . . ."

"Be outside your house in fifteen minutes. I'll send a cab to pick you up."

"A little presumptious, seeing as I haven't said yes yet. Plus I don't want anyone seeing me get in a cab this late."

"So, be smart and walk half way down the road. Ok, see you in half an hour. Oh, and bring a swimsuit...." he said laughing, as he put the phone down.

Haven't heard from Ex Boy, since the night I phoned him drunk.
I'm so tired of trying with him. Tired of trying to be the perfect girlfriend. Tired of trying to get him to love me. Tired of feeling inadequate. Tired of him sleeping with other girls. Yet, here I am in the back of a taxi, on my way to another mans house, and all I can think of is how lovely it would be if Iwas on my way to his house. Madness. I think they call it love, or something.

Reminding myself that Ex Boy seemed incapable of loving me, I remembered just why it was I was trying to move on.
Ex Boys incapacity for love is somewhat of a lie, as he has told me he loves me, and the fact that I felt it: when I laid in his arms all night ; in the look he gave me before he kissed me; in his car, where we'd had many a country detour when we couldn't keep our hands off one another; and finally in every memory of the last five and something years with him -five, very on and off years. But none of that was enough, and the situatuation is far more complicated than the above simplified sentences would suggest.

The Ex Boys Shortcomings:

He never expressed anything to me.

He never took me anywhere. The extent of this particular shortcoming was so extreme, that I remember feeling happy when we went to the shop together one morning, to buy eggs. How sad.
I'm not exactly sure if this should be listed as a shortcoming or not: he had a thing for having sex in odd places. Nearly always in places where the odds were we would get caught - which of course we did. I'll tell you what's not funny: getting caught in a layby by two middle aged police officers who felt it necessary to make a list of safer places to have sex - a bed being the first obviously.

He never told me how he really felt. It was asthough I was expected to know it; and over the years I did get to know it -which is probably why it lasted as long as it did. That and because of my massochistic nature.

He never complimented me, would show me little attention in public, was insensitive &c. &c. the list goes on.

In the back of the taxi, my mobile phone began to ring. Jane calling flashed across the screen.

"Hey, oh hang on two ticks....yes I think it's down the end, yes, if you can pull in on the right. Yes in the drive."
"Who are you talking to? Where are you?"
"Sorry, just directing a cabby. Just going to see the Man."

Jane was a friend of many years, who I had told select information to about Mr. P-S - after she went mad at me for the year age gap, I thought it best not to tell her about him trying to coax me into phone sex. She didn't agree with the situation, but would "support me" none the less.

Jane: "You're going to his house?"
Me: "Yes, don't worry though. I don't think he's the predatator you imagine him to be."
Jane: "Don't be so naive. Let's look at the facts here. The man is old enough to be your father, and is IN FACT FRIENDS with your father."
Me: "Ok, look, I really don't want to get into this now. I'm sat outside his house, and am starting to wonder what i'm doing here."
Jane: "Then go home. It's obvious why you're doing this. You're just wanting someone to pay you attention, and I don't blame you after the way that idiot has treated you..."
Me: "I have to go, he's coming out his front door..."
Jane: "Ok, ok, but quickly what are you wearing?"
Me: "Trousers, and a top. Standard. Why?"
Jane: " Oh, it doesn't matter. Babe?"

"Yes?"

"Please be careful."

Shortly after arriving at Mr. P-S's house, I found myself on his sofa waiting for him, whilst he got a bottle of wine from his kitchen. I couldn't help but think about what Jane had said on the phone. "You just want someone to pay you attention." - She had a point of course. There was no denying that. But it was more than that. At that time, I could have embarked upon a relationship with other men. In fact, there were about six or seven who were perfectly nice guys -all early to mid twenties -who had asked to take me out.
Why was it then, that I was sat in the living room of a man who was double their age, when I could have been out with one of them? Simple. What I really wanted, was stability. It was this, that I knew I would never get from anyone near a similar age to myself. I wanted to take care of someone, and for someone to take care of me -although at the time I would not have admitted to this.

Whilst in his living room, I noticed photo's of him with his children. This was probably the point where I should have found my shoes and made an exit (I was 17 remember) but, my instinct was not to run. I felt safer sat talking to him than I had done in a long time, and because of that, I wasn't about to go anywhere.