All posts tagged: love

84. Compromisery

When do you know it’s time to go? When do you decide that this job or this partner or this home or this country or this version of life isn’t for you anymore? When do you say – enough? I have a low threshold for misery. I will walk away from a job or a relationship or a friendship that’s making me unhappy. No. Scrap that. I will run away. I won’t just throw in the towel, I’ll throw in the kettle and the 3-piece bathroom suite and the keys to the Ford Escort and the pension and I’ll leg it screaming blue bloody murder. But I’m not like most people. Most people are patient. Most people are triers. Most people work at things. They don’t give up or give in. They give it time. They give a shit. They cut their life some slack. Is that better? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe sometimes.

83. Two’s company, three’s a hat-trick

Last week I had 2 dates. Two! I’m like the Hoff. I’m like the Heff. My pecs were positively quivering with anticipation. It feels good to get back into the swing of things. Sometimes when you’re busy, the search for love can get rudely shoved to the back of the queue. It’s time to shove it back up front again. The first date is all curls and soft cheeks and a laugh as naughty as a wet thigh. I take her to a Spanish bar where we drink wine at pre-Brexit prices that tastes like piss and bludgeons the back of my head the next day. “Sorry,” I say mournfully and she laughs. She’s a bit posh and well-to-do and buttoned up, but in a way where if you undid all the buttons you wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of nipple tassels leering up at you. She likes “the penis museum in Iceland,” and “the sex museum in Naples,” and when I head to the bathroom her eyes cling to the curves of …

82. Love letter II

The other night I saw two women having a drink. They were sat outside at a picnic table, with fairy lights hanging from the trees above them. One of them – the one I could see – had a smile so broad I thought her cheeks would crack. Later they shared a kiss – one, two, five, a dozen – before slipping out hand in hand. I saw this and I was so envious. Not about the kiss – kisses are easy. It’s the love. I miss loving someone. I’m so full of love it leaks out of my toes and my ears. What a waste, to see it swilling down the drain like dirty bathwater. Seeing women together makes me ache and yearn and pine so hard I have to look away, like I’ve seen something terrible.

78. Take the rainbow

So, this Pride I’m a little grumpy. Can I say that? Is that allowed? Or is someone going to come and confiscate my glitters? NO RAINBOW FOR YOU – BACK IN THE CLOSET, NAYSAYER. For one thing, every brand is jumping on the pride bandwagon to flog its wares. From Volvo (“Drive with pride”) to the Body Shop (shining a light through different coloured shower gels to create a rainbow. Caption: “let your true colours shine,”) everyone wants in on #pride – but without showing any actual gay stuff like kissing or holding hands or bumming in the back of a Volvo. Then, there was the conversation I had with a friend recently who said: “Pride isn’t really an LGBT thing anymore, is it? It’s about accepting everyone.”

76. Mirror mirror

After our night of passion, the genius and I part ways. No one’s hurt or angry. There are no bad feelings. But we both recognise that this isn’t and probably never will be love. There’s no point flogging a horse that, if not quite dead, is very unwell. She does leave me a parting gift though when she messages later to say: “I had fun last time so feel free to call me in an emergency 😉 x” I smile and slide the gift under the bed. Just in case. The truth is, there’s another reason this won’t work: Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Thai. At the time, I was so hung up on the Friend I never gave us a proper chance. Every time we kissed or laughed or got close I’d feel guilty and back off. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see it was the Thai who made me feel good, who treated me kindly, who left me in no doubt that I was the one she wanted.

23. Snap, crackle and pop

What’s your type? People always ask me that and my response is always the same: I like femme girls. She can be tall, short or middle of the road; blond, brunette, red-head or blue-head; fair, tanned, dark or Boots’ finest; she can be a skinny little slip of a thing or a happy tumble of curves. But (insert grunt here) I like a woman to be a woman *swings club over shoulder and heads into cave*.