#181

It’s dumb, but it’s no dumber than many of my preceding encounters: I kissed #181 just because it was New Year and I was damned if I was going to attend a New Year party without kissing someone.

Even so, I was already well-versed in the anti-climactic nature of New Year. I was at #166’s party and I guess I wasn’t really in the mood, and I wound up drinking gin with orange juice. Nobody wanted to make out, which was fine because I wasn’t really interested in anybody, but I was still being kind of predatory anyway, trying to ingratiate myself to a really drunk girl who wasn’t my type in real life. Not cool. But I did bond with some folks and then when I was going home I drank whisky with some strangers on the street.

I had an acquaintance back then who said how you spent New Year was basically a trailer for how your year would go, so I got halfway superstitious about that and I was like: goddamn I need some action. I didn’t want another curse of January.

#181 was a boy from the Internet who’d come down from the highlands to have sex with Leonard. That’s all. I kissed him when we were saying goodbye. Beyond that my main recollection is when he asked what Leonard’s deepest fear was, and Leonard paused and reached deep into his soul and confessed, “Being alone, I guess,” and #181 said, “Huh,” and explained that his was being crushed by a fold-out bed.

#180

I felt weird in the days leading up to my twenty-eighth birthday. Kind of disconnected. Kind of like I was waiting for something. Leonard was going to leave the country in less than a month and I wasn’t ready to think about that yet.

It was my first birthday since losing my mum. I hadn’t called my dad in about two weeks. I didn’t know what to say to him: “well, I’m fine, I’ve been getting drunk and doing stupid things.” I resolved to make lists of things that were safe to report to him. But when I called him, it would remind me that my mum wasn’t there any more, and then I’d feel sad to think about him all alone, and then I’d make it worse by avoiding calling him.

I got a new tattoo for her. I had minor surgery. I had a dream about #129 contacting me and being all friendly like nothing ever happened. I had a crush on someone which swiftly came to feel utterly pointless. Frequently, I got waves of wanting to cry. It was cold and dark most of the time. I went to meetings at work and there was this woman whose voice drove me crazy and I spent a lot of time thinking about how it sounded like cold soup being slowly poured down a drain.

On my birthday I went out for dinner with Leonard and #110, and then we went to Planet Out and finally wound up in CC’s because we’d had copious amounts of alcohol and no longer knew any better. I ran into #180, who I’d met a few nights previously at a party at #108’s place. We bonded a lot, and he stuck around all night so I figured my company must’ve been okay. I was all excited because I reckoned he was going to be my new friend. Then I made out with him when I was leaving, and couldn’t remember afterwards whether it was hot or just dutiful, I mean dutiful on his part, I mean because I was basically like “Let’s make out!”, and that was dumb. I think he’s actively avoided me ever since, so I guess that says it all. I really was behaving like the anti-suave lately, I noted, though I couldn’t remember enough to discern whether I’d been really obnoxious or whether I was just suffering the hangover of the soul.

#179

My chronology is out of whack again, because #179 actually happened before #177 and #178, but I didn’t find out about him till later. This is because I barely have any recollection at all of the CAFDAB boys’ party. I knew I’d brought #28 along to it after he cooked dinner, and I remembered something about teasing some 20-year-old boy for knowing everything. That was about it. It had been a cold night and I didn’t remember anything about walking home singing, so I figured I’d eventually been shovelled into a taxi, which turned out to be right. When I woke up on the futon in my living-room – I’d moved into it for the winter because the bedroom was so goddamn cold – the light was still on and so was the halogen heater. That was about all I knew about my movements.

The CAFDAB boys told me a few weeks later that I’d actually wound up making out with the 20-year-old boy, but decided not to take him home with me because that would be weird. This was surprisingly smart of me! Especially given the subsequent interlude with #178.

I didn’t know anything else about #179 except that he had a cool name. I thought I remembered that he was quite likeable, and I had a sense that making out with him had been hot, but it wasn’t like I had any proper memories to go on. I never heard his name again, so I don’t know what became of him.

#178

I woke up with a hangover and slowly cast my mind back to the previous night. What had I done? Oh, I’d gone out for dinner with #110, and then we’d had a few drinks at Planet Out. What had I done after that? Presumably I’d just gone home. A nice simple night, I figured.

Actually, when we parted ways, #110 settled down to sleep in the doorway of a pet shop while I jumped in a taxi to go to an art student party that #166 was at. It was starting to come back to me now that I’d switched on my phone and found the text #166 had sent once I was already en route: “Full of wankers. Avoid!” Too late.

Head thumping, I struggled to piece together the rest of the night chronologically. Making a failed pass at #166; making out with #177. Okay, fine. Oh, yeah, and then there was this other boy I made out with too. Huh. Well, y’know, these things happen. I gradually remembered that the party was an eighties party and the boy was wearing a tracksuit and a sweatband and I’d said “Mark Knopfler!” and he’d had no idea what I was talking about because he was TOO YOUNG.

I’d left the party with Leonard, hadn’t I, so presumably going home had been quite straightforward, right? Except – my hazy recollection triumphantly delivered another flash – we’d somehow encountered that same boy wandering lost around Marchmont, so we’d taken him back to mine. Leonard had wanted to get off with him too, but me and the boy swiftly got busy again, so Leonard did the sensible thing and left us to it.

#177

When I first met #177 he was a go-go dancer at my friend’s club. He was subsequently responsible for my return to the world of journalism. I hadn’t written for a magazine in years, and wasn’t particularly interested in doing it again, but #177 flattered me into writing a couple of reviews, and then the next thing I knew he was leaving town and wanted me to take over his editing role. (“You’re moving away?” said #110. “If I’d known you were going to do that I wouldn’t have wasted all this time getting to know you.”) I said okay, but only for a little while until I found someone more suited to it. And then I never really looked for anyone, and now here we are, almost four years on.

The reason I’d quit journalism had been a sense that I was bluffing my way through it, and a feeling of exhaustion from trying to find things to say about stuff I wasn’t really interested in. This time round, I paced myself from the beginning, only signing up to write the occasional review or feature, and mostly just focusing on editing other people’s work. I guess it’s gone pretty well, and I’m pretty happy with some of the stuff I’ve done, though the size of the readership is actually terrifying so I usually just pretend half a dozen people are reading. And now that I’m in the redundancy club, it turns out that editing makes up the bulk of what I’m doing for money nowadays, so I’m indebted to #177 for sending me down this path.

Plus I wouldn’t have met #182 if it weren’t for him, but we’re getting to that.

As for when we kissed, it was at an art student party in Marchmont. I was already pretty drunk and had just made a pass at #166, who’d politely declined, which was when I realised very belatedly that our fling-or-whatever was over. I guess #177 and I were bored, so we made out. Afterwards, a friend asked him what the hell that was about, and allegedly he explained that although he didn’t fancy girls, he’d felt attracted to me there and then. Making out with him was pretty damn hot, and seeing as I have some gender issues which we’re not going to talk about here, the feedback was also good to hear. Anyway, it didn’t last long because Leonard pushed me out of the way and proclaimed that it was his turn.

#176

The Venue in Belfast is a place I’ve only been to a couple of times, once when I was about sixteen and once when I was twenty-seven, which is the night in question. As I understand it, The Venue gets to stay open longer than other places in Belfast, on account of having a restaurant licence. To justify the alcohol, which is clearly its real appeal, and to avoid getting shut down, they ensure that food remains available at stupid o’clock. This means that after you pay in, you get a voucher entitling you to a burger and chips, or some such. You can also purchase drinks tickets, which I promptly stockpiled, but I have no idea whether I used them or whether they just disappeared or what.

The Venue is also rawktastic.

My night turned into a brief series of hazy recollections.

FLASH

I am on the dance floor, punching the air with glee, possibly to Crazy Crazy Nights by Kiss.

FLASH

I am sitting near the dance floor talking to someone.

FLASH

The Venue has closed and I’m outside a chippy on the Dublin Road waiting for a taxi with Joanna, her boyfriend, and a boy I acquired at the club.

FLASH

Me and the boy are getting busy on Joanna’s sofa and Do I Look Like A Slut? by Avenue D is playing on the stereo. It’s a classy scene which is only enhanced by my cringeworthy dialogue.

FLASH

I am at the top of the stairs plaintively calling Joanna’s name because I can’t find my backpack and I don’t know which room is hers. But maybe she’s already passed out. Instead, I find an unoccupied bed. I summon the boy.

And then it was morning and the boy needed to go to work. He was cute. He also looked about nineteen, although I’d woken up with the number twenty-two stuck in my head so maybe that was it. I couldn’t remember his name. He wanted to see me again but I told him I was leaving in a couple of days and I should do family stuff till then. This was true, but also, I couldn’t remember a damn thing about him so I had no idea what we would have to talk about. Also, I didn’t know how to navigate the not knowing his name thing.

The one thing I did remember about him, because it was the kind of thing that’s hard to forget, was that he worked in my dad’s pub of choice, where I was going to show up a couple of hours later to surprise him. Given that the pub was outside Belfast, this seemed like doubly bad luck.

It was #176 himself who served us lunch. I hoped desperately that #176 hadn’t told all his colleagues about me. But I had other problems besides that: I couldn’t eat a fucking bite because my hangover was making me so goddamn nauseous. I had to go outside for some air the moment the food arrived. I’d never previously looked so blatantly wretched in front of my dad, and I was mortified about that, too.

Joanna’s sister Carolyn had, the previous night and at my request, loudly introduced #176 to people in front of me, multiple times, so I could get his name into my head. It never worked. The one thing that did work was MY DAD INTRODUCING HIM TO ME.

#175

Why did I make out with #175, or why did she make out with me, or what the hell was going on? I only know it happened because I came downstairs with a wretched hangover after my ludicrous night with #176 and asked Joanna if I’d gotten off with anyone else that I should know about.

But this one, this was a surprise to me, because a) she wasn’t my type, b) I thought she was straight, and c) she was going out with #112. Seeing as I’d never met her before (and only met her once since, in a group with #112), I was never to find out what happened. When I can’t remember details, it’s usually safe to assume it was me who made the move, but this one remains a mystery. I have a vague sense that maybe we kissed in the toilets of The Venue in Belfast, but that’s only a guess.

#174

After I kissed #173 and she ran away, I somehow wound up drinking with Leonard’s ex-boyfriend and #113 after hours in the pub where #113 worked. I think we got a bottle or two of wine to bring back to my place. The bartender was with us too and #113 was encouraging me to get off with him, seeing as he’d just split up with his girlfriend and everything, and I was like: no, it’s okay, he kind of reminds me of #117 in the vaguest of ways and anyway did you notice I just got off with the hottest lesbian on the planet which I think merits further discussion.

#81 had also noticed the resemblance on an earlier visit to the pub, so I was glad it wasn’t just me seeing things that nobody else did. Still, it was only surface stuff. He maybe had the same arms, maybe a not altogether different haircut, and his name was related, but that was surely where the similarities ended. I mean, it wasn’t about behaviour or personality traits. So I guess it didn’t matter, and anyway, I suspect the more prominent reason for my reserve was I’d decided that I could maybe try not taking every opportunity that came my way and that might be, you know, kind of novel. I mean #172 had been the previous weekend, and the next day I was flying to Dublin to visit #128 (and, yes, assemble flatpack furniture for her).

So, not altogether surprisingly, the bartender wound up staying over at my place. To be honest? I don’t remember a damn thing. I think we can err on the side of tradition and assume I made the first move.

I guess it was a little awkward in the morning, but not awkward like: oh god, how mortifying, I need the ground to swallow me up, I need him to leave. Just awkward like: damn, I don’t remember how things turned out this way, and I reckon he’s not bothered but for the sake of decorum it would be nice to have a more reliable memory. We maybe lay and talked for a while before he left, but I don’t remember for sure about that either, and maybe that’s because I was still drunk, which would make sense.

We subsequently said awkward hellos at the pub a couple of times, and in latter years I got awfully confused when his gay doppelganger from Alice’s trapeze class started showing up.

#173

I originally met #173 on the same pub crawl that introduced me to #170. Her radical queer perspective was refreshing to encounter, so I was more than a little perplexed by the response from my subconscious: I dreamed that night about the two of us holding hands while we walked around IKEA.

I sporadically ran into her on the scene, where we’d bond over our common interests and I’d try really hard to be cool. (“She is the hottest lesbian on the planet,” advised the 20-year-old very tactile, very passive gay boy I was still failing to get off with.) After sufficient Dutch courage, I lunged at her one night in Disko Bloodbath and we made out briefly. Then she kind of … ran away when the place closed. I don’t know, it’s blurry, I’d been at my work’s AGM earlier that night so I’d basically embarked on drowning my liver in alcohol. I had her phone number, but the next day I couldn’t quite remember why. I opted to stall. I decided it would be easier to just wait till we casually ran into each other again.

We didn’t run into each other again for a few years, as it turned out. While this was fine in the sense that a future of shopping together for flatpack furniture was never on the cards for us, it’s probably nonetheless a valuable lesson about actually calling the person when you have the chance. Still, it worked out okay. We finally met up again last summer and then maybe a half-dozen times after that, and for a while I was appalled by my own inept conversation skills (memorably, I once blurted “I got my best friend a felt edamame bean badge for her birthday” just to fill a gap in discussion. #173 looked at me kindly and invited me to elaborate. I had nothing to offer). But as it happens, she’s the last person I was in contact with before I ran away to Barcelona last week.

Which is a whole other story of course, and it may or may not get told in this blog, given that I haven’t kissed anyone here and nor do I intend to. So.

#172

I never really bother with fancy dress, but that Halloween I decided to be a nu-metal kid. I put on oversized black trousers and clumpy stacked shoes, and worked on looking angsty all night. Gregor applied eyeliner for me and smudged it, but I managed my own lipstick, although this required a lot of encouragement, careful instructions and moral support. One of the regulars at Frenchie’s had donned Nora Batty drag, but overall not that many people had really made an effort, so after a while we thought fuck it and went to Planet Out, where Gregor fell on the floor a lot. I deftly avoided the usual trip to CC’s when it closed, opting instead to go to a friend’s party. I listened to Linkin Park on the way so I could stay in character.

I had expected the party to be full of goths, but it wasn’t. People played the piano and the saxophone. I mingled. When everybody was leaving, a tall boy who I hadn’t been introduced to suggested that the two of us should go somewhere and have some fun.

I like brazen. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if I’m not interested then brazen is not going to change that. But I appreciate when people take the risk of being up-front, because that’s usually me. I was interested enough with this one, and plus he had a bottle of rosé which was of interest too. We sat on the steps outside the vet school and he pushed me down and kissed me.

That part was good. But beyond that, what I remember most is being unsure at first about taking him home, and telling him up-front that he couldn’t spend the night.

“Last time someone stayed over,” I said by way of explanation, “… something happened.” Great, now this sounded way more dramatic than I actually meant it to. He looked worried and said, “But we don’t have to talk about that, do we?”

I fucking hate it if I’m just acknowledging my boundaries and somebody assumes that means I’m trying to trick them into a therapy session. There was no way in hell I was interested in pouring my heart out to a stranger whose name I’d already forgotten. I was just letting him know that there were limits on where this was going. And the something that had happened, it wasn’t like someone had attacked me or anything: far from it. It was simply that it was all too fresh in my mind of what it was like to wake up still grieving, and I had absolutely no desire to share that experience with him. Still, his response, an attempt to just gloss over my vague disclaimer and skip to the action, didn’t win him any points. An “Okay, no problem”, for example, would have sufficed. Not that difficult.

And so, we went back to mine. “I don’t usually look like this,” I explained, like it mattered, like I was ever going to see him again. I realised I didn’t really feel like being with him. I hadn’t wanted much more than a makeout session anyway, which clearly clashed with his expectations. He stayed for the duration of a Smiths album and then I sent him on his way.