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 bad boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad boys. Show all posts
Sunday, 13 March 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
A very grand statement
So here we are. Another new year, and what has changed? Not much for me. Still in the same job, still no progress on that book I’ve been planning to start for…oh, 10 years or so, and of course I’m still a fully signed up member of the singles club. This Spring, it’ll be 6 long years since I could legitimately be called someone’s girlfriend . Does that mean I get some kind of reward for my loyalty to the cause soon? A commemorative spoon or shiny plaque maybe? That’d be nice. I could hang it above my bed to mark the spot where all the trouble starts.
Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…
I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.
But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.
Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.
Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.
And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.
Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…
I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.
But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.
Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.
Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.
And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
A Man’s Perspective
I’ve just been given some pretty controversial man advice, and I’m not quite sure how to process it. According to my new love guru, Sam (more on him later), all the rules I’ve been religiously following for years are a load of old codswallop! Can this really be true? Lets see what you think. The conundrum was thus: Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, boy seems to like girl but ‘doesn’t want to be in a relationship’, girl tries the casual thing but still wants more, boy stands his ground. What to do?
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I’ve never been all that comfortable with change. The comfort of the familiar is much more thrilling to me than being in a state of flux. Which possibly explains why I’ve stayed in a job I don’t really want for the past four years despite always knowing it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.
Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.
Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.
So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.
On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.
There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?
Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.
I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.
Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.
So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.
Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.
Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.
So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.
On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.
There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?
Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.
I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.
Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
The Real Thing?
I’ve heard before that the second you finally stop thinking about someone, they’ll pop back into your life, but when John appeared next to me in the pub the other week, I literally couldn’t have been expecting it less.
“Hey, what you doing here?’ I sing-songed - trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.
“Well I live practically next door so you know…” Bollocks. There I was being all ‘what you doing on my turf?’ and actually I was on his.
“Oh of course! Well how are you? You good?”
“Yeah, pretty good. You?”
“Yeah, great. Well apart from my dramatic morning,” I began, launching into a nervously babbled version of the porch swing tragedy.
“Wow, heavy, well it’s nice to see you, I just have to go upstairs and catch my friend up but we’ll talk, yeah?”
“Yeah, cool. Okay.”
And that was that.
“Well that was awkward,” Liv quipped. “You okay?”
“Um, yeah, that was weird.”
“You upset?”
“No not at all,” I answered – and shockingly I meant it. Given that I’d not laid eyes on John since he kissed me goodbye on his doorstep after a particularly frantic quickie, you might think I’d be overcome with passion on coming face to face with him but as it happened, I felt absolutely nothing.
“Talk about an anti-climax,” I laughed, shrugging my shoulders, and following Liv outside to where the rest of our friends were waiting. “Time to find a new man to obsess over!”
Still, something was bothering me. I just couldn’t fathom how for the past few months, I’d somehow convinced myself that John was this massive missed opportunity. There was no spark there, no chemistry, barely even any conversation. And looking back, if I’m honest, I’d known from the beginning he wasn’t right for me – I’d just chosen to ignore the facts and go for the fairytale. The whole relationship had been dreamt up by my over-romantic imagination.
Realising this was liberating but also a little disturbing – mainly because I suddenly saw that this wasn’t the first time I’d done it. Truth be told, there had been many men I’d convinced myself I loved when in actual fact, there was nothing real between us at all.
First there had been Harry. I was 13, he was 17 and I thought he was magnificent. When he dumped me, I cried myself to sleep for months and, true to form, just as I finally started to feel normal again, he knocked on my door and begged me to take him back. It was the moment I’d been dreaming of but suddenly, I realised he wasn’t what I wanted at all. While I’d originally told everyone he was sensitive, deep, and intellectual – in reality, he was just dull. The real reason I’d gone out with him? To impress - a girl in 2nd year bagging a 5th year prefect was unheard of and, against all odds, I’d managed it. But did I actually want to be in a relationship with him? God, no!
After that, there was with Michael– for 2 years, I spent every moment I could with him, tortured my parents for forbidding me to see him during my exams, and shed many a tear at the thought of leaving him behind for university. In the end, I met someone else before I’d even started my degree and unceremoniously dumped him. Truth is Michael and I had nothing in common, spent most of the time we were together watching TV, and barely even fooled around but if I scrunched my eyes up, he looked a little like Noel Gallagher – and back then, that was reason enough for me.
After Michael, I had what I now recognise to be my only two real relationships. Both pretty serious, both long term, and both ending in broken hearts (in one case, his. In one, mine). You might think that after that, I’d have learned the difference between actual love and my imagination – but you’d be wrong.
Next, I spent two years imagining myself to be in a relationship with a boy who had a girlfriend that whole time. We’d sit up till 5am talking, drinking red wine and smoking before tumbling into bed together - then I wouldn’t hear from him for a week. I was convinced he’d wake up one day and realise I was his soulmate. In actual fact, I woke up one day and realised he was a narcissistic twat.
I moved on to Alex – possibly the most obvious mismatch of them all. An uber-trendy tattooed punk who rode a BMX, drank whisky, and played guitar in a metal band. We literally had nothing in common but the moment I slept with him, I decided I loved him. After a few more sleepovers, he disappeared into the ether – probably after noticing that my CD collection wasn’t quite as similar to his as I’d made out.
So what was it that had done it with John? He wasn’t older than me, he looked nothing like Noel Gallagher, and he definitely didn’t have the dark tortured artist thing going on. No, he was just nice to me. And it had been so long since someone had been that I’d decided that was enough.
Sad, huh? Well you’ll be pleased to hear now I’ve realised the error of my ways, I plan to settle for nothing less than the real thing. No more faking it…well not outside the bedroom anyway (come on, sometimes it’s just polite).
“Hey, what you doing here?’ I sing-songed - trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.
“Well I live practically next door so you know…” Bollocks. There I was being all ‘what you doing on my turf?’ and actually I was on his.
“Oh of course! Well how are you? You good?”
“Yeah, pretty good. You?”
“Yeah, great. Well apart from my dramatic morning,” I began, launching into a nervously babbled version of the porch swing tragedy.
“Wow, heavy, well it’s nice to see you, I just have to go upstairs and catch my friend up but we’ll talk, yeah?”
“Yeah, cool. Okay.”
And that was that.
“Well that was awkward,” Liv quipped. “You okay?”
“Um, yeah, that was weird.”
“You upset?”
“No not at all,” I answered – and shockingly I meant it. Given that I’d not laid eyes on John since he kissed me goodbye on his doorstep after a particularly frantic quickie, you might think I’d be overcome with passion on coming face to face with him but as it happened, I felt absolutely nothing.
“Talk about an anti-climax,” I laughed, shrugging my shoulders, and following Liv outside to where the rest of our friends were waiting. “Time to find a new man to obsess over!”
Still, something was bothering me. I just couldn’t fathom how for the past few months, I’d somehow convinced myself that John was this massive missed opportunity. There was no spark there, no chemistry, barely even any conversation. And looking back, if I’m honest, I’d known from the beginning he wasn’t right for me – I’d just chosen to ignore the facts and go for the fairytale. The whole relationship had been dreamt up by my over-romantic imagination.
Realising this was liberating but also a little disturbing – mainly because I suddenly saw that this wasn’t the first time I’d done it. Truth be told, there had been many men I’d convinced myself I loved when in actual fact, there was nothing real between us at all.
First there had been Harry. I was 13, he was 17 and I thought he was magnificent. When he dumped me, I cried myself to sleep for months and, true to form, just as I finally started to feel normal again, he knocked on my door and begged me to take him back. It was the moment I’d been dreaming of but suddenly, I realised he wasn’t what I wanted at all. While I’d originally told everyone he was sensitive, deep, and intellectual – in reality, he was just dull. The real reason I’d gone out with him? To impress - a girl in 2nd year bagging a 5th year prefect was unheard of and, against all odds, I’d managed it. But did I actually want to be in a relationship with him? God, no!
After that, there was with Michael– for 2 years, I spent every moment I could with him, tortured my parents for forbidding me to see him during my exams, and shed many a tear at the thought of leaving him behind for university. In the end, I met someone else before I’d even started my degree and unceremoniously dumped him. Truth is Michael and I had nothing in common, spent most of the time we were together watching TV, and barely even fooled around but if I scrunched my eyes up, he looked a little like Noel Gallagher – and back then, that was reason enough for me.
After Michael, I had what I now recognise to be my only two real relationships. Both pretty serious, both long term, and both ending in broken hearts (in one case, his. In one, mine). You might think that after that, I’d have learned the difference between actual love and my imagination – but you’d be wrong.
Next, I spent two years imagining myself to be in a relationship with a boy who had a girlfriend that whole time. We’d sit up till 5am talking, drinking red wine and smoking before tumbling into bed together - then I wouldn’t hear from him for a week. I was convinced he’d wake up one day and realise I was his soulmate. In actual fact, I woke up one day and realised he was a narcissistic twat.
I moved on to Alex – possibly the most obvious mismatch of them all. An uber-trendy tattooed punk who rode a BMX, drank whisky, and played guitar in a metal band. We literally had nothing in common but the moment I slept with him, I decided I loved him. After a few more sleepovers, he disappeared into the ether – probably after noticing that my CD collection wasn’t quite as similar to his as I’d made out.
So what was it that had done it with John? He wasn’t older than me, he looked nothing like Noel Gallagher, and he definitely didn’t have the dark tortured artist thing going on. No, he was just nice to me. And it had been so long since someone had been that I’d decided that was enough.
Sad, huh? Well you’ll be pleased to hear now I’ve realised the error of my ways, I plan to settle for nothing less than the real thing. No more faking it…well not outside the bedroom anyway (come on, sometimes it’s just polite).
Friday, 28 May 2010
Drama, drama, drama!
My friend Mary says my life is like a rom-com. She doesn’t mean that I’m hilarious and on my way to a happy ending. What she’s really saying is that I live with my head in the clouds, invite drama at every juncture, and am slightly ridiculous. She may have a point.
Take last weekend. The plan was for a boozy afternoon in Hampstead’s finest beer garden but come mid-morning, the sky had turned a menacing shade of grey and the wind was getting wilder by the minute. Pottering around, getting ready, I suddenly heard an almighty crash coupled with a hysterical scream. What’s Debi broken now? I wondered to myself, leaving my bedroom door firmly closed (she breaks things a lot so it’s sometimes easier to pretend I haven’t noticed). “Shit! CARRIE!,” she yelled crashing in the door. “YOUR SWING!!!!”
Okay, this was more serious than I thought. I’d bought said swing – actually more of a swinging bench, a porch swing if you will – for my 30th birthday, spent two days single-handedly constructing the thing and was anticipating many warm evenings out there with a glass of wine being rocked gently to-and-fro (yes, I said 30 not 60). One day it would be moved to sit proudly on an actual porch of an actual house where a beautiful man would sit and read me poetry (okay, I may have watched the Notebook too many times).
“What’s happened?” I demanded, pushing past her and running out the patio doors to the terrace. And there, where the swing once sat, was…nothing. “What the….?” I stuttered as Debi leaned over the side and ominously pointed down: “It was the wind,” she said. “It just picked it up and…well look.” And there it was, my beloved swing teetering on the edge of the warehouse roof next door. “Oh. My. God.” I managed. “How the fuck are we going to get it back up?”
Fortunately Liv appeared and went into teacher mode (she’s surprisingly good in an emergency): “Calm down and call the council,” she instructed, “And do it fast, if the wind catches it again, it could fall all the way down.”
“Down? As in to the ground?,” I stuttered. “Well the council will be no good. I’m calling the fire brigade.”
Hearing the approaching sirens, Liv and I dashed downstairs, only to find the worst had happened - the remnants of my swing lay in bits scattered all over the road, broken, splintered, and beyond repair.
“Is this yours, girls?” asked one of the firemen. “You’re bloody lucky. It could have fallen on someone.”
I digested this. “Do you think that might have broken its fall?” I asked sincerely.
A triple vodka and red bull later, I’d finally regained the power of speech but I was still far from seeing the funny side. “Carrie, we’re over an hour late. Lets go to the pub. It’ll make you feel better,” Liv somehow managed to convince me and twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting opposite her on the tube.
Staring blankly at the feet of my fellow passengers, I noticed a charming pair of scruffy Converse among the usual medley of sandals and brogues, and instinctively looked up to see if they were attached to a similarly charming man – they often are. They were this time too. But not just any man…
Felix was a friend of my old flatmate. I’d decided he was adorable the first time I met him, when he was all scrunched up on our couch in a grey hoodie complaining of a hangover. Inevitably it wasn’t long before we ended up in a clinch in my bedroom. Deciding an uncomfortable hello was best avoided, I put my headphones on, looked the other way, and hoped he wouldn’t notice me, but the next thing I knew, he’d sat himself down in the seat beside me, and proceeded to pat his knee invitingly at the very pretty girl I’d only just noticed he was with.
Could have been me, I thought to myself wistfully, before remembering why it wasn’t. Felix and I had kissed yes, but it was only that once and for very good reason – it was terrible. He’d practically choked me with his tongue, making the classic error of equating volume of saliva with degree of passion. I smiled to myself, then something in me clicked (the next phase of shock maybe?) and I had an uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing.
“What you smiling at?” boomed Liv from the other side of the carriage. I made frantic shushing actions, hoping she’d get the hint then just about managed to keep it together until we got off and I really let it go, collapsing onto the platform in hysterics.
By the time, we reached the pub, I’d finally regained my composure. “Wow, you’ve had a rollercoaster of a morning,” said Jane when we regaled her with the tale. “At least you’re here now. The drama’s over.”
“Wanna bet?” said Liv. “I’ve just spotted drama number 3 and he’s standing right behind me.”
“What do you m…..” I managed before I saw him, and my heart started racing again.
John. Of all the bars in all the world.
This really can’t be good for my nervous system…
Take last weekend. The plan was for a boozy afternoon in Hampstead’s finest beer garden but come mid-morning, the sky had turned a menacing shade of grey and the wind was getting wilder by the minute. Pottering around, getting ready, I suddenly heard an almighty crash coupled with a hysterical scream. What’s Debi broken now? I wondered to myself, leaving my bedroom door firmly closed (she breaks things a lot so it’s sometimes easier to pretend I haven’t noticed). “Shit! CARRIE!,” she yelled crashing in the door. “YOUR SWING!!!!”
Okay, this was more serious than I thought. I’d bought said swing – actually more of a swinging bench, a porch swing if you will – for my 30th birthday, spent two days single-handedly constructing the thing and was anticipating many warm evenings out there with a glass of wine being rocked gently to-and-fro (yes, I said 30 not 60). One day it would be moved to sit proudly on an actual porch of an actual house where a beautiful man would sit and read me poetry (okay, I may have watched the Notebook too many times).
“What’s happened?” I demanded, pushing past her and running out the patio doors to the terrace. And there, where the swing once sat, was…nothing. “What the….?” I stuttered as Debi leaned over the side and ominously pointed down: “It was the wind,” she said. “It just picked it up and…well look.” And there it was, my beloved swing teetering on the edge of the warehouse roof next door. “Oh. My. God.” I managed. “How the fuck are we going to get it back up?”
Fortunately Liv appeared and went into teacher mode (she’s surprisingly good in an emergency): “Calm down and call the council,” she instructed, “And do it fast, if the wind catches it again, it could fall all the way down.”
“Down? As in to the ground?,” I stuttered. “Well the council will be no good. I’m calling the fire brigade.”
Hearing the approaching sirens, Liv and I dashed downstairs, only to find the worst had happened - the remnants of my swing lay in bits scattered all over the road, broken, splintered, and beyond repair.
“Is this yours, girls?” asked one of the firemen. “You’re bloody lucky. It could have fallen on someone.”
I digested this. “Do you think that might have broken its fall?” I asked sincerely.
A triple vodka and red bull later, I’d finally regained the power of speech but I was still far from seeing the funny side. “Carrie, we’re over an hour late. Lets go to the pub. It’ll make you feel better,” Liv somehow managed to convince me and twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting opposite her on the tube.
Staring blankly at the feet of my fellow passengers, I noticed a charming pair of scruffy Converse among the usual medley of sandals and brogues, and instinctively looked up to see if they were attached to a similarly charming man – they often are. They were this time too. But not just any man…
Felix was a friend of my old flatmate. I’d decided he was adorable the first time I met him, when he was all scrunched up on our couch in a grey hoodie complaining of a hangover. Inevitably it wasn’t long before we ended up in a clinch in my bedroom. Deciding an uncomfortable hello was best avoided, I put my headphones on, looked the other way, and hoped he wouldn’t notice me, but the next thing I knew, he’d sat himself down in the seat beside me, and proceeded to pat his knee invitingly at the very pretty girl I’d only just noticed he was with.
Could have been me, I thought to myself wistfully, before remembering why it wasn’t. Felix and I had kissed yes, but it was only that once and for very good reason – it was terrible. He’d practically choked me with his tongue, making the classic error of equating volume of saliva with degree of passion. I smiled to myself, then something in me clicked (the next phase of shock maybe?) and I had an uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing.
“What you smiling at?” boomed Liv from the other side of the carriage. I made frantic shushing actions, hoping she’d get the hint then just about managed to keep it together until we got off and I really let it go, collapsing onto the platform in hysterics.
By the time, we reached the pub, I’d finally regained my composure. “Wow, you’ve had a rollercoaster of a morning,” said Jane when we regaled her with the tale. “At least you’re here now. The drama’s over.”
“Wanna bet?” said Liv. “I’ve just spotted drama number 3 and he’s standing right behind me.”
“What do you m…..” I managed before I saw him, and my heart started racing again.
John. Of all the bars in all the world.
This really can’t be good for my nervous system…
Sunday, 16 November 2008
No accounting for taste
My taste in men seems to be undergoing something of a strange transformation. If you’d asked me a few months ago who my ultimate crushes were, I would have responded without a second thought: Noel Gallagher (who I have loved blindly since the ascent of Britpop back in 1995), Caleb Followhill (the sweating, growling, and utterly captivating front man of Kings of Leon), and Joaquin Phoenix (the epitome of ugly-sexy). I think it’s the slightly tortured artist thing they’ve all got going on, coupled with that insouciant ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that gets me every time.
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Behaving like a teenager
It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
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