When love comes to town

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A while ago, two people from two different parts of my life met and fell in love. I was their common denominator but as soon as they saw each other I quickly ceased to exist. Love is a powerful and blindsiding beast it seems.

A few months later I saw them again and they still only had eyes for each other. Their public displays of affection were so beautifully obscene, in my horribly jealous opinion, that I regularly shouted “get a room dudes” at them as they pawed each other like pussy cats trying to find soft sexy spots to fall asleep.

Many months later still, these two people are now one couple, living as one household under one roof, and are still into each other as much as they were that very first day. I don’t make fun of them anymore because I now only have to call one phone number, instead of two, which saves me both time and money and I am, after all, part-Scottish.

Back then, during long phone conversations with one of the parties, I would listen and provide helpful advice but my ability to identify with their blossoming love story was limited because I didn’t think I’d ever felt like that about anyone at all.

Sure in various states of drunkenness over my two-plus decades of dating, I’d pronounced to my family and friends that I’d found “the one” only to be single again in two minutes, two months or two years. I seemed that he was always Mr Right Now and very little else.

About four months ago, I said to a girlfriend who was having boyfriend trouble that the next time I had love in my life I would cherish it and I would nurture it. But first of all, I said, I would do whatever it took to make sure he was worth the effort before giving up part of my soul again because I didn’t know how much more of my soul I had left to give. I am so pleased that I have stuck by that pledge.

But now today, I fear, I have turned into one of those dreadful love-struck Romeo’s sarcastically mentioned above. It must be karma. Admittedly, my newfound relationship has yet to go public – well apart from me writing about it in my blog but surely that‘s not the same thing? So at least I don’t have to worry about embarrassing myself by lustfully staring at my paramour – let’s call him B – in a variety of social settings.

Indeed public outings have been relatively limited thus far. Most of the time we just hang out at our respective homes and talk about almonds, about altruism and about awesomeness. And then before we know it, the time vortex beats us up yet again and it’s past midnight on a Monday night and we’re illogically shaking our heads at what the fuck happened.

While it’s still too early to know whether love has come to my town just yet, the denouement – to use a wanky screenwriting term that makes me sound like a dick – of the situation appears relatively clear. That is, we know we both like each other a lot, and that every night we spend together seems to pass much too quickly, while every day we spend apart seems to pass much too slowly.

I really have no idea what it all means. But for possibly the first time in my life, I am trying very hard to not over-analyse or over-dramatise what’s quickly becoming a soul-enriching experience.  Each day brings with it new information and new feelings, but also a new awareness of what might be possible, maybe one day.

But one thing I do know is that, like BB King once sang, if love does indeed come to town, I’m gonna jump that train. If love comes to town, I’m gonna catch that flame. What a bloody great idea.

Let’s talk about sex

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The first time he sat next to me in my living room, I spent the night fighting the urge to do something about it.

That night, we were just friends watching a movie. Acquaintances that had met through a whole series of cool coincidences and decisions, and then started talking. Then we met again and again and the conversation always continued long into the night.

Then one unexpected day it shifted from cafes to my couch and our discussions about life, love and the universe carried on unabated with, perhaps, an added dimension of delicious chemistry.

And then we both got honest and said what had been lurking beneath the friendly facade for weeks. And then we both agreed not to do anything about it.

For a bunch of reasons, we decided to maintain and grow our friendship before disrobing under the bed covers together. This is a new turn of events – for me anyway.

Everyone is astonished at how calm I am with such temptation regularly lingering before me but without the opportunity to do anything about it to satisfy my lust and my fervent curiosity. But surely, I think, this is the way that most (normal) people begin successful love affairs? You know, based around mutual interests, morals and respect, not just too many beers at the pub and lust in our hearts, minds and nether regions.

So there will be no sex, not for quite some time – maybe never. Even though our chats regularly last until the wee small hours, it seems there is still so much more that needs to be said.

It took me many years to get to the point where I am very happy with my life without the aid of some inappropriate dude lying next to me to make me feel whole – temporarily anyway. And I recognise that giving my heart away too easily has cost me dearly over the years. I am loath to do it again. But I doubt I ever will. I am much closer with my invisible friend, Will Power, than I used to be, you see.

But, this very satisfactory life I have created, filled with lots of social activities and nice things to occupy my time, is not the panacea to a happy soul. I recognise that while I can be pretty bloody smug with my lot, there is one singular thing missing. And that is love.

Yet standing on the precipice of something potentially cool, and something potentially that could possibly become something awesome, scares the bejesus out of me.

My brother told me yesterday that I am very good at talking myself out of doing things – especially if it is matters of the heart. I said it was for self-preservation reasons. He seemed nonplussed with my answer. Maybe he has a point. Bastard.

I just remembered that this week, in my real life job, I wrote: Feel the fear… and do it anyway. I wasn’t writing about love but methinks it’s time to heed my own advice. So I wait. And hopefully I can finally be patient enough to just see what happens – and then continue to be happy regardless of the outcome.

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to the jungle

chester-cheetahI have never really been in a jungle. Not a real one where you can get attacked by an anaconda or chewed by a crocodile with a penchant for wilful writers.

While this statement of fact is correct, over the past week I have realised this might not be entirely true from a metaphorical point of view. That’s because the city I live in – any big city for that matter – can be jungle enough for anyone. In a city, nasty creatures can lurk behind every corner ready to pounce upon you if your eyes aren’t open and your wits finely-tuned.

The original title of this blog was Welcome to Loserville, but I thought that sounded a tad harsh and I must admit that even though I was stood up most brutally a week ago, within a few days all I felt was lucky to have dodged what was obviously a venomous reptile masquerading as a panda.

You see in some jungles, there are sloths, cheetahs and hyenas. In the city, those three creatures can actually be found in one single person who is also handily a chameleon known to impersonate a unicorn or at the very least something non-offensive like a llama.

But every animal has the ability to attack. I was once head-butted by a sheep so I know this maxim to be true. It’s just that we often get lulled, albeit briefly, into a false sense of security by their colourful feathers, their shiny coats, or their apparent eagerness to please. I have learned – once again it seems – that these are merely the standard guises one adopts when trying to pull the wool over someone’s eyes.

The funniest thing about the whole sad and sorry episode was that the charade that took place was completely and utterly unnecessary. If all that the hybrid creature of woe mentioned above wanted to do was get into my knickers, well, no one normally needs to put in that much effort nor adopt so many different disguises in what was obviously just an elaborate sexual subterfuge.

I have learned again that there is nothing quite like that moment when dreaded realisation smacks you right between the eye-balls. And so it was that I sat here last Sunday waiting for Beelzebub to show for a date that he had organised. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn’t turn up.  But as the minutes ticked further and further past the allotted hour, I muttered: “What the?” to a silence that was deafening.

But there would be no explanation for me. Not for nearly 24 hours. And when it came – via text – it was the most lame-arsed bullshit I had ever read in my life. A hairy-nosed wombat could have crafted something more intelligent.

I showed one of my mates the contents of the “apology” which he helpfully interpreted as a bald-faced lie to hide the fact that the devil-incarnate mentioned above was off shagging someone else when he was supposed to be shagging me. My friend also said: “Darling, if you’re going to be stood up by a musician, make sure it’s a famous one not one who’s only regular gig is down at the RSL”. I admitted he had a very good point.

My reply to the formerly bewitching, bat out of hell mentioned above was succinct and may well have included references to what is usual practice amongst decent human beings as well as a thank you for the excellent blog material and then I said goodbye. I deleted everything, including after this blog, him from my brain.

So it seems that even after all these years living in the jungle I still haven’t quite worked out how to successfully survive here, let alone how to recognise a poisonous soul from a harmless one.  The whole saga, however, did remind me that a leopard has many devilish spots; it always pays to be on your guard, especially in the beginning; and to never again fall for weapons of mass-delusion.