Restraint has never been one of my virtues. I’d love to be one of those people who can have just one biscuit, one dainty slice of cake, a small glass of wine – but if I taste something I like, and particularly something I know I shouldn’t have, I can’t get enough of it.
I think I’ve always been that way. My dad’s favourite anecdote features me as a toddler hiding under the buffet table at my grandparents’ ruby wedding anniversary. Rather than mingle with my rambunctious relatives, I hid there all evening, sticking out my hand from under the tablecloth every few minutes to pilfer another jam tart or volauvent. They tried to tempt me out with the birdy song, the hokey kokey, even a tumbler of coke (which was a forbidden nectar as far as my mum was concerned) but I just sat there happily munching on treat after treat, ignoring the tummy ache that was fast developing, and muttering ‘leave me be’ while tugging the tablecloth back into place every time I was disturbed.
Dad likes to break this gem out every time I’m proffered the plate of biscuits round my gran’s house and though it’s a wonder I’ve not developed an eating disorder, the tale does do a pretty good job at summing up my appetite for things which aren’t good for me. It’s just that these days those things tend to come in skinny jeans and leather jackets rather than pastry cases.
So when my friend Debs asked me what I was giving up for lent this year, I reminded her of what I’d already given up: “Isn’t sex enough? Bread, chocolate and alcohol are my only guilty pleasures these days, I’m not sacrificing them as well.”
“Fair enough,” she laughed, “how’s the vow going anyway?”
“Great,” I assured her. And I meant it – since January, I’d become a beacon of virginity. No man had crossed the threshold of my bedroom and I’d even managed to break my nasty habit of giving in to late night booty calls from Chris, sending him the following response upon his last attempt: I AM NEVER GOING TO SLEEP WITH YOU AGAIN. STOP CONTACTING ME. I decided firm and clear was the best way to go.
I’ll admit this watershed moment was accompanied by a few tears on my part. I might have finally realised the boy was no good but there were still a flicker of hope that he might one day prove me wrong. But I was resolute - there would be no going back this time. I deserved someone who’d treat me well, who’d take me out and be nice to me…not just send me filthy text messages. And just a few weeks later, I met someone who seemed to fit the bill.
Bruno was polite, funny, attentive, complimentary, mature, self-deprecating not to mention frickin’ hot. And then there was all the ‘on paper’ stuff too, you know the things that aren’t really supposed to matter but really do ie. age (28), job (physio), living situation (home-owner/local), hobbies (boxing, guitar), nationality (Irish – a fellow Celt!). He was an instant hit with my friends and bizarrely seemed completely smitten with me.
I’m hoping all of this will go some way to explaining why I found myself waking up beside him one very hungover Sunday morning. In my defence, I’d really tried to resist his advances but with the girls singing his praises in one ear and him saying all the right things in the other, I was fighting a losing battle - my willpower gave way and my newfound restraint went out the window.
Lying awake as he slept contentedly next to me, I knew I’d made a mistake. And not because he was just another player, on the contrary, he seemed quite the opposite, he’d already made me promise I’d go to dinner with him the following week and he certainly didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. No, I’d made a mistake because I wasn’t ready for this – and the mess inside my head was testament to that: Where was my phone? Maybe Chris had texted. If I was going to go out and sleep with someone, surely I should just do it with him? Why couldn’t it be him that was here? Him asking to take me out?
Yep, I’d gone straight back to insanity. And to make matters worse, when I did eventually sneak out of bed to search out my phone, his name was right there on the screen waiting for me – he’d texted at the precise moment I’d been giving in to Bruno.
Clutching my phone to my chest, I walked back through to my room, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head, muttering “Leave me be” and wriggling out of Bruno’s reach when he stirred. I knew then that I wouldn’t meet him for dinner as we’d planned. I wasn’t ready to give up my unhealthy addiction to Chris yet. I’m still underneath that buffet table stuffing my face with things I know I shouldn’t.
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Sunday, 13 March 2011
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Poison ivy
MISSING: Tall, outgoing and happy 27 year-old man answering to the name of ‘Dom’ and wearing a smile.
I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.
Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.
Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?
And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.
On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.
To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?
Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.
Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.
I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.
Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.
Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?
And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.
On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.
To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?
Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.
Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.
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