Ode to albatrosses

I met a guy. Six three-ish, blonde, gorgeous blue eyes. Casually devastating.

We put him on camera. He looked into the lens, gave it a smouldering look, and told it solemnly, “I love you.” To a camera. When you played the film back though it suddenly wasn’t an inanimate object he was speaking to, it was you. You felt like it was real, you felt like all he wanted to do was rip your clothes off and show you just how much he loved you.

That sums him up. He’s attractive in the classically perfect way. When you separate each feature off they’re good, but when combined it’s magnetic. Basically he’s just sexy as hell. But his appearance, while gorgeous, has absolutely nothing on his personality. He’s a man who’s turned charming women into a true art form. The guy does lines, looks, and even the whole knight in shining armour thing to the many women who fall at his feet and happily turn themselves into distressed damsels for his attention.

But it’s to the camera. Every woman is that lens- inanimate. He wants us, he thrives on our attention, and he needs us. He’s a guy who needs women. As in the plural sense rather than singular. He knows what it takes and he does it, but he never does it because he feels like it’s the right thing to do, it’s just there as a ploy to get us. He’ll tell you he loves you, and the only response can be, “Oh yeah? Like hell you do.” He loves every woman he wants to sleep with, but that won’t stop him leaving the next morning, or later on that night.

And I want him. I want him because I already know all that stuff, he doesn’t hide it, but I want him because I’m still thinking, “what if it’s different with me? What if this time it isn’t the lens he’s speaking to, it’s the person behind the camera?” I’m thinking that somehow I can reform him; somehow he might not break my heart.

It’s stupid. It means that I’ll be just another female in a very long line. And that, inevitably, means that of course I won’t reform him, others couldn’t, I’m not going to bring any new ideas to the project. So I played it safe. I flirted, I let him play the knight in shining armour and seducer all at once, and I thanked him when he showered me with compliments. I even managed not to laugh when he did the whole “I’m undressing you with my eyes,” look while drawing out “Good evening” for approximately thirty seconds longer than is really required.

I want him. I think it might even be worth it simply for the sex- god knows he’s had enough practice to make it one hell of a ride. But I’m not going to pursue it. I’ll meet up with the safe guy. The guy who won’t fuck with me. The guy I sat with and lost three hours with in a pub in which it’s hard to make three minutes pass quickly. The guy I went out of my way to make arrangements with after flirting with the wannabe-Casanova and then leaving him standing.

I guess I was cruel. He stuck around for me. He made a fairly spectacular effort. But while I’m sitting here thinking, “at least he liked me more than the other girls who were trying to win him,” I’m also thinking that in truth he probably didn’t. I’m just another girl, so yeah he definitely tried, but he’s tried for so many others, there isn’t anything that makes me special. He’s too practiced, too sure. So yes, I was a little cruel, but if I hadn’t been then I would have slept with him.

It’s nice to think that after that I’d have gone to work the next day and seen him leave without any regret. It’s nicer to think that he would have wanted more and that it would have been longer than one night. But nice isn’t real. He wouldn’t have left a number, and I would have been miserable, pathetic, and worse: used.

But still he’s the one with longevity, if only in my memory. I may not have left with him, but the one I did leave with didn’t come home with me. One was nice, but the other was electric. I’ll see nice on Friday, but it’s electric who’s been giving me such vivid dreams.

Labels: Coquetry, Pleasure

Apparently men with really big penises can never get fully hard. This is due to the fact that they are so big and heavy that they don’t have enough blood spare to maintain a full erection. I’m not going to get pornographic with you; I just felt that this information seemed interesting because it explained a few things.

Unfortunately, finding out this particular piece of valuable information has been about as close to sex as I have come lately. Or not come as the case may be. Being single full time is occasionally rewarding, and generally better for me than the boring coupled-up counterpart version of me, but it is a slight strain.

Looking for love is about as rewarding as looking for your keys when you’re late leaving the house. There’s just no way you’ll find them and still be on time; you might as well just give up. Looking for sex in a drought is similar. When you swear yourself off it you find yourself a magnet for attractive, nice men. When you need it all you can find are complete shits and stalker-freaks.

My love life is boring. I’ve got a Best Friend [of the ex] thing which, whether I like it or not, I can’t touch, and a charming, attractive bartender with a girl friend and far too much emotional baggage. Oh yeah, and in the spirit of repeating mistakes over and over and over, the ex (who from this point forward shall be known as The Numpty) wants to know if I’ll be back home [and able to have sex with him] at Christmas.

Casual sex, even with an ex, is fine, brilliant even, it’s just that when you’re planning to meet up in three months time and shift plans and everything, it starts to become less casual and more planned. Planned is less good. Planned means that you’re thinking ahead, you’re committing to a date, time, and practice. Commitment, to anyone, and especially the Numpty, is not good.

I’m in limbo. As soon as I go to uni I’m going to be over-run with people and wishing I was back here stuck in limbo again because it was easier. But I don’t leave until next Sunday so I guess I’ll confront that when I get to it. Right now I want to complain.

But, as irritated with limbo as I am, I’m also slightly relieved. I can listen to Counting Crows- Accidentally in Love again. I haven’t been able to listen to it since April because when you realise how much you’ve lost, that song just sounds so smug and well, irritating. That, my darlings, is major progress. Music is the biggest outlet for my emotions. There is absolutely no doubt about it, you can tell what mood and state of mind I’m in simply by which playlist I’m listening to on my mp3 player.

Single life is boring. It’s incredibly interesting, embarrassing, and eventful at the same time, but eighty percent of the time it’s boring. You don’t have consistent sex, someone to phone when you’re bored, or someone to cuddle up to and comfort you when you feel down. If it isn’t by choice then it’s the most miserable state of being that it is possible for you to be in. But once you choose it, once you realise that real love and happiness is impossible to find properly when you’re stuck in a bad relationship, you start to appreciate the boredom.

It’s like stars in a night sky. Most of the sky is black, empty, dark and dull. It’s depressing, soulless. But without the black you don’t notice the stars. The emptiness emphasises the fact that there are stars. You need the blackness to find them. It helps your search.

I loved the Numpty, and right now I simply can’t abide the celibacy. But I understand the need and I accept it as my due. Being with someone is comfortable. It’s easy, and it’s rewarding. But it’s lazy. I need to find the stars, and I need to be bored and frustrated otherwise I won’t look; I’ll sit at home with the boyfriend who isn’t really, but is just enough to fill the need. I need to be single because that way I might learn how to search.

* * * * *

Kudos goes to blogger for working out how to put labels onto posts. After opening a wordpress account months ago, the lack of labels has been the only drawback to blogger weblogs. Now, due to the new beta version, I am an extremely happy bunny.

Labels: Courting, Flying, Pleasure

I came home from Germany like Santa Claus, only with slightly more… distinctive presents. Jewellery, dream catchers, fluffy sheep, and photos of lederhosen I really would have bought had I been able to afford them.

Texted David, “when do you want your present? x”

In my defence, and this is a very bad defence- it wouldn’t get me anywhere in a decent court of law, I was feeling lonely and pathetic at the time. He replied “anytime” and he came over.

I asked him over because I missed him. I can’t lie and pretend that missing him was the only reason I asked him over, and it definitely wasn’t the reason that he came. And it’s stupid. We’ve not been together… four months now.

But he came over. We sat on the bed. Stupid place to start off a conversation I know, but while there wasn’t anyone else in the house, it still feels strange trying to sit with him downstairs on the sofa. So we went to my bedroom like kids, closed the door, and talked on the bed.

It should have been awkward. It should have been something, I don’t know what. It just should have been different to what it was. It was too easy. We just talked like we used to, called each other names, and promised ourselves the world. He wanted to have enough money so he could buy a new motorbike, a train, an airplane, basically anything big, fast, and dangerous. I wanted the world to play with, to travel the universe, and to be adored by millions.

I called him… something. A numpty maybe, whatever. He tickled me, I tried to escape, kicked out, he moved to stop me kicking and so he could tickle me more. I hate being tickled. I’m the tickliest person in the world, I can’t help it. It just isn’t something you can work up a resistance to. I wasn’t kicking him hard, but he had to move because I was getting dangerously close to somewhere that he definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed being kicked. So he pinned me under him and called a truce.

A truce is all well and good, but the tickling and kicking at least distracted from the fact that I was lying underneath him and his lips were approximately an inch away from mine.

I want to tell you I don’t know why I did it. In fact, I’d love to tell you that. But, the simple truth is that in those few seconds when we were just looking into each other’s eyes, waiting to see if either was going to back out, I took a measure of myself as much as him. He waited for me, he didn’t do anything, he just stopped. Right then all I had to do was wriggle out from under him and start up another conversation. We both would have known that I’d turned him down, but it wouldn’t have hurt anyone.

I made my choice. Tell me it was a bad one, feel free, but I won’t apologise for it. He stopped me later, said that he only wanted to take what I was willing to give, put words to what we’d earlier established just from looking into each other’s eyes.

He's gone back to the navy now. It was fantastic, but made better because we both knew that it wouldn’t happen again so enjoyed each other like we had to take everything because there was no point in leaving anything behind.

He stayed for a while afterwards, but still left me lying on the bed as he had to go to work. We laughed about him loving and leaving me, we both watched the clock, and when he said goodbye we kissed but very briefly. In all honesty I have no idea who used who. But I know that I came out of it with a feeling of conclusion rather of unfolding possibilities.

I do things my own way. A lot of my friends aren’t going to talk to me for a while because of this. And maybe they’re right. Maybe it was the wrong thing for me to do, and maybe I was indulging him and hurting myself to do so. Except that it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels like I had fun, rediscovering him was at least as great as discovering him the first time. And it feels like we both got the best end of the bargain. We both got to walk away.

Labels: Falling, Pleasure

He said: Yeah, I get leave in two and a half weeks. When will you be back?

She said: I don't know- I haven't booked yet. Sometime around the 26th.

He said: Well we should go out sometime when you get back. I need to catch up on some serious drinking.

She said: lol me too. This trip has put a serious dent in my plans to become an alcoholic good for nothing.

He said: I know, I haven't been drunk in nearly seven weeks! If I get drunk I can be kicked out! Think I'll enjoy getting drunk with you again, it usually ended quite well : )

To which, in the end, there was simply no way for me to reply. I'm a drama queen and an outspoken idiot, but I'm not good at showing my actual feelings. I guess I'm the female equivalent of those macho fools who keep their emotions locked in a box never letting anything show. And anyway, I'm not sure how to slap someone across the face by text.

Assuming that "ended quite well," means sex rather than falling over drunk a lot and laughing at each other, I have to wonder when "going out" was equated with sex. I'm also quite curious as to whether I even agreed that I would go out sometime with him. I don't think there's a "yes" in there anywhere. Though I can't really object that much to that one considering there was definite room for improvement in the clarity of my refusal. Personally I think I just avoided answering the question directly in order to leave my options open, and avoid conflict.

But the assumption that I will sleep with him is barely veiled, if at all. And that makes me wonder. What exactly does he want? Actually, that's a stupid question. I know exactly what he wants. But what? I'm just expected to sleep with him? Like there's just no chance of me rejecting him. I can reject him! I did it once (though only once and it ended up making me much more miserable than him) and I can do it again. Definitely.

I don't know why on earth this bothers me. The casual assumption that I will sleep with him whenever he wishes is irritating, but not entirely new. In fact, it's pretty much the story of the last six months. Or so. It's slightly more irritating now because we aren't together, and until now he hasn't actually said anything so completely impossible to ignore. "Going out sometime," is so easy to take the wrong way. You can debate whether it means "date" or "friendly gathering," for hours. But I know how everything ended with us; that isn't so easy to debate.

Basically he's a twat. I'm easier than I should be, but I'm not going to sleep with someone purely on their whims. I'll admit, I'd love to on a purely... animalistic(?) level. But letting him walk all over me isn't fair trade for an orgasm.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Pleasure

I’ve turned frigid. At least, for the time being. I realised this last night, sitting in a random’s lap, and with his tongue half way down my throat. It was alright, it was actually nice, but only in the same way that cookies and sunny days are nice. There was no accompanying feeling of, well anything. Now, I’m not a slag, I promise, but usually I at least care that someone has their hands wandering all over me. To be honest, I might as well have been sitting having a cup of tea with him for how much I was turned on.

I’m really quite confused. I actually had a guy avoiding me because he though I’d mess him around. Again. Since when have I turned into an icy bitch with no libido? I spoke to Dave about it and he just didn’t understand it at all. I’m not easy, but I’ve really never been frigid.

I’m perplexed. I’ve spent the week promising people things slutty, slagish, and generally all things nasty, and then, as soon as I get into an atmosphere where I can be those things, I just really don’t care. I was reasonably provocative I guess, I don’t think I know how to dance like a “nice girl,” never mind keep my mouth shut when there is the possibility of an innuendo. But I just really could not be bothered with any of it. The only reason anything happened at all was because I was bored and had already tried to fall asleep on a sofa in the back bar. It didn’t work, so I had to find something else to occupy myself. In the end I gave up on the useless Casanova and went to talk to someone about the size of my ex’s cock (not my choice in conversation, but I felt like I should set him straight when Dinky was telling some random person about how small he’d been).

I’m tired. I’m tired, frustrated, and annoyed at myself. I don’t understand me, and I don’t understand this sudden turn towards sainthood. Not that I’ll ever be even close to a saint, but it looks like I’m turning celibate. I’m miserable anyway because I’m packing my life up into a suitcase. Packing is a giant contradiction in my opinion. On the one hand it represents unlimited possibilities and embracing the new, and on the other it means an end to one way of life, the death of something. I hate packing because I hate trying to work out which side I veer towards. Do I embrace the new, or mourn the death of the old? Can I do both while still retaining a reasonable number of brain cells?

I give up. I’ve got things to pack still, passports to check on, and shoes to deliberate over taking. I need to remember to take my toothbrush, and stop thinking everything through because when I do I just end up annoyed at myself. I don’t like the fact that last night I spent the whole time basically unfeeling and ice-queenish, but it’s past and hopefully tomorrow, or sometime soon, this complete disinterest will pass. Unless I’ve really been ruined for good this time.

Don’t wanna think about it anymore. Whenever I next post, possibly not for a while, I’ll be on the other side of the ocean, and a lot less hungover. Until then, auf wiedersehen.

Labels: Alcoholism, Coquetry, Mistakes, Pleasure

I’ll cry it from the roof tops with a smile on my face and joy in my heart, then I’ll down my double vodka, turn around, and fall backwards. It’s a double edged sword, to quote, trample, and obliterate a cliché. See, the thing is, no matter how happy you are, you still hate going home to an empty bed, being able to mark in your diary when the last time you have sex was, and the realisation that it was nearly two months ago.

And of course it isn’t (and this is a direct quote from Stacey, not cliché) all about sex. But when you don’t have to go without for longer than two days at a time, then yes, you do have the luxury of saying that. She is, of course, completely and utterly correct. But then, you could also say that life isn’t all about breathing. Breathing isn’t even something you think about until you stop being able to do it. And then it sort of catches up with you a little bit, you know? You start feeling a little light headed, you get tense, and you really can’t stop thinking about all this breathing you aren’t doing. A slightly exaggerated case I’ll admit, but the results are pretty similar.

Let’s put this in language that any lame brain can understand: being single, in a word, sucks. It’s wonderful; I adore it, the freedom, the not having to worry about your boyfriend getting jealous, the not getting jealous yourself. All of that, great, isn’t it? But if it’s so fantastic, why are all these people going out there, being single, and trying to pull people? Surely if you were so fucking ecstatic with your status, you wouldn’t do anything to risk it? Yeah you can date and be single, I’m good at that. But if the date went really well, really really well, then you’d want to see that person again and enjoy their company for a second date, and then maybe a third.

And suddenly you end up realising that you’ve just spent the last however long with someone and that you’re going to get married. You loved being single so much, so you’re starting to wonder what happened to that a little bit. Not that you’d risk this utterly fantastic person for being able to sleep wherever you wanted, and eat pizza at two am with the random drunk person that you met five minutes ago who also didn’t pull this evening. Being with this person is worth more than that.

Who, more than me, has made being single into such an art that it’s practically a religion? I love my life. I adore it, and I wouldn’t give it up for anyone. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel slightly put off when I’m sitting on the bus alone, going home while my friend sits behind me and texts her boyfriend. You realise that the closest you’ve come to intimacy that night is a guy in the seat opposite you blatantly trying to see up your, admittedly too short, skirt.

You’ve gone to all this effort, tried to turn yourself out to look half decent, and you’ve got no one who cares. I don’t begrudge her having a boyfriend to text; I just wish that it could be as effortless for me too. I won’t give up being single right now. But that isn’t because I don’t miss the companionship. It’s for practical reasons like me having exams for the next month, and then me leaving for Germany five days after the exams finish.

I enjoy the life style, and I know that changing it is beyond stupid. I know that it isn’t all about sex, and that I’m still far too young for it to be of any consequence at all if I spend a few months dating a few people rather than in a proper relationship. Yeah, rational thought occasionally does take a detour through my brain. But I have my cracks; I can’t be vivacious, crazy or drunk all the time.

Sometimes I have to sit here and wish that I was more “plastic” so that if I did something as demanding as expected someone to buy me a drink, they wouldn’t run off after someone else as attractive, but less demanding. Call me sexist, or a gold digger, or just plain ugly, but that’s what I expect, and that you wouldn’t expect that too… I’m not sure whether to be insulted, or well, insulted. It’s actually pretty hard not to be.

So, while I keep being demanding and over confident in my appearance, I’ll also have to be sad. Sad that I’m alone, lonely, and hating coupled up people everywhere. I don’t hate you personally, I just don’t think that I want to leave the house or be subjected to your happiness for a while. It’s all very anti-social, but fuck it, if I’m going to be miserable, then I intend to do it properly.

This is me crying it from the roof tops. “I’m siiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggglllllllleeeeeee!” And it’s great. I love it, but yeah, sometimes turning around and seeing what it would be like to just fall backwards, that doesn’t seem so bad.

P.S. this is more metaphorical than real. I don’t hang out on roofs, and it isn’t in my nature to be suicidal.

Labels: Falling, Pleasure, Theatrics

“The best things in life are free.” The Beatles, Money.

She was fifteen. Barely that, having only just had her birthday the week before. He was twenty three. It was, as these things always are, at a party. She’d been drinking for six hours, he was probably worse. I knew she’d gone, but I couldn’t find her. A pretty large part of me didn’t want to find her. When she came back I’d collapsed.

We haven’t had a mother. I couldn’t be a mother to her, she was too strong willed and stubborn. But I was her confidante, I looked after her, stuck up for her, helped her whenever I could. But I couldn’t stop her, and I couldn’t leave her. So while I waited I drank. I drank away the memory. I saw her walking out the door, hand in hand with him, into the darkness. I just kept seeing it; over and over. And every time it came back I’d drink more, faster.

She came and lay next to me, “I’m sorry Harriet, I’m so sorry, I know its cos’ve me, I’m just so sorry.” I cried. I cried as she told me all of it; I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want her to tell me. It hurt too much- I understood. She went to the hospital the next morning and took the morning after pill. When she got home she cried too. She cried for hours with my dad shouting in the background, wanting to know what the hell was going on. I told him she was feeling really ill and that someone had rejected her the night before. He believed me unquestioningly.

I knew it had to happen eventually. She looks old for her age, and she dresses provocatively. She wasn’t ready. I knew it, she screamed at me when I approached the subject with her months before that. She knew she was ready, how dare I try to influence her life like that, it was none of my business. But I knew what would happen, I went through the same phase at her age, and I knew how much she would regret it.

The best things in life aren’t free; they come at a high cost emotionally. It took her weeks to recover, and six months later she still hasn’t regained nearly half of her previous confidence. She regrets it. I don’t tell her, “I told you so.” I barely tell her anything anymore. We don’t talk; I find it hard to get on with her at all. I love her, but ever since then I’ve found it increasingly hard to communicate with her.

Yesterday she cried. She told me that she feels like she can’t talk to anyone anymore, like I hate her. She feels lonely and hates it because she’s always fighting with both me and dad and there’s no one on her side anymore. I can’t explain why I’m not on her side anymore. I know that I stopped sticking up for her, I stopped covering for her. In a slightly vindictive way, I guess I’ve made things harder for her recently. She was hurt that I’d returned from my interview and she’d had to hear what had happened from dad as I was on the phone to Stacey.

I don’t know. I guess I just gave up. I still remember feeling completely powerless, it’s the one feeling that I can’t physically tolerate. Whenever it happens I do something incredibly stupid. Since that Saturday night I haven’t been properly drunk. I have had only one hangover, but it didn’t even compare to the one I had at work the next day. They nearly sacked me for that one shift alone. Since then I haven’t been sick while drunk or hungover. So it cured me of binge drinking, it cured her of casual sex, and it stuck a gradually widening rift between us. I knew there was nothing else I could do for her. And I don’t know what I can do now.

Labels: Alcoholism, dynasty, Mistakes, Pleasure

“So what’s he like anyway?”
“Small.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what she was talking about. It doesn’t take much really, just a certain susceptibility to innuendos. Just the idea was enough to make me think, am I sure that I want things to continue with this man. The implication that he might not be good in the sack and suddenly I’m backing off. Now, that either makes me a complete slut, or it means that there is something really wrong with our society. Is it so important to be well endowed? Women seem divided in opinion. Some are of the opinion that it isn’t the size or shape, it’s what he does with it that counts. Others say its the thickness that’s important, and then there are some that say that a huge dick equals great sex.

I’m not sure what men think, I’m sure their opinions probably vary as their sizes vary, a man who is less endowed would probably maintain that it isn’t important while a well endowed man would say that it was. A lot of men seem to be under the impression that they are considerably larger than they are. Wishful thinking really. They’ll ask you whether you think they’re big and you can’t exactly say, “actually, I’ve seen bigger.” And you aren’t going to if you’re about to shag him, unless of course you are very drunk and in a particularly vidictive mood.

Romans (or some other people approximately around then) found it vulgar to see large phallus’s so in all their statues made small ones. And they had a lot of statues. But then going back waaaaay before then you get absolutely ginormous ones expressed in art. Like that chalk person, can’t remember the name now, the one carved on a hill. Anyway.

Everyone seems to have an obsession with size. Actually, everyone seems to have an obsession with cocks in general. I can understand it, but the size just seems over rated. If I hear that a guy is small I shouldn’t suddenly start to worry, it shouldn’t be important. Admittedly I don’t want anything more than a fling so whether he is a good shag is pretty important as its going to be practically the only part of the relationship. But size doesn’t really matter, the performance can be just as good whatever.

Right?

Labels: Courting, Pleasure

Following the breakup of one of my best friends, we all got together to write a list of why men are bastards. Please don’t be insulted or send me hate mail.

• They only reply to you if you put a question in the text.
• They’re sexist and egocentric.
• I still haven’t met one who knows where my clitoris is.
• They have no conscience.
• They mess you around and don’t have a clue what they’re doing wrong.
• They’re so STUPID.
• They see women as something to collect rather than love.
• ‘Cos they are!
• They all just assume that they have the biggest dick you’ve ever come accross.
• They get off with your sister then move straight onto you.
• They lie about everything.
• They’re really selfish.
• They’re dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb.
• They think with their dicks.
• They dump you by text because they’re too scared to say it to your face.
• They still expect you to shag them after they’ve broken up with you.
• They get off with you then don’t ever call or get in contact with you.
• They’re useless.
• I don’t like them.
• They think poking you in the belly button turns you on when it really really doesn’t.
• They continue to have sex in a weird position even when you’ve told them it does nothing for you.
• They like women in sweaty clothes.
• They go for private lap dances behind their girlfriend’s backs like the horny pervy dickish scummy cunts they are.
• They are either sexually or socially inept.
• They don’t give a toss when they don’t see their girlfriend for 2 weeks and make NO effort to see you.
• They’re REALLY REALLY REALLY nice to you and flirt lots and make you feel bad about fancying them because they aren’t your boyfriend.
• They think they can pull you by putting their hand up your skirt.
• They think that because you are wearing a short skirt it is okay if they randomly stick their hand up it as they walk past you in the street- it isn’t!
• They assume that if you don’t fancy them you are a lesbian.
• They only ever look at tall skinny or blonde women and never look at ugly little stumpy women (not true, she isn’t ugly and what’s so great about blondes?).
• They love their dicks so much they build statues of them only enlarged cos they don’t have the size themselves.
• They have HUUUUUUUUUGE egos.
• They put their cars before their women.
• They think that your whole life revolves around them.
• They make stupid remarks like “there are two types of women- those that take it up the arse and those that don’t”.
• They’re only capable of loving one person- themselves.
• Creepy old men look in your hand bag.
• They want you to sell your body.
• It’s always the ugly ones that like you.
• They all turn into pervy old men as soon as they hit forty.
• They expect you to give them head but have no intention of returning the favour.
• They mess you around and then just when you’re getting over them, they come back and mess you around all over again.
• They ignore you for days and then expect sex just like that, like they can get it on tap.
• They use you as a contingency plan for if they might feel horny later, completely ignoring the fact that you have feelings and don’t like being treated like a piece of furniture.
• They think that a short skirt means that any random ugly, annoying, or old man can come up and get it off you, life doesn’t work like that, if you don’t turn me on then I don’t give a fuck how much I turn you on.
• They still give you puppy dog looks and make you feel bad months after they’ve decided they aren’t interested.
• There really are sweet ones, but most of them are just all chauvenistic bastards who talk too much about themselves then get confused when they realise you actually have something to say.
• They’ll happily tell all their friends about how great you are, but they never actually tell you so you only find out about it months later from some complete random.
• They never reassure you- all women are insecure, if you don’t reassure us we just move on to someone who does.

Labels: Courting, Lists, Pleasure