#67 was another boy I kissed because I couldn’t get the girl I wanted. Still, I made a stab at an actual relationship this time. We lasted three and a half weeks, I think, which was an astonishingly long period of time.

The girl in question was, in keeping with tradition, bi-curious, femme and American. She’d reportedly had an erotic dream about me, and I was interested in making it a reality. The only thing was I barely knew her, although we had a mutual friend in #68. Finally I walked up to her on the dance floor at a drum and bass club and asked if we were ever going to get off or what. We didn’t. Having just met #67, I made out with him instead and took him home with me.

I was living with #79 at the time, and when we got home his foghorn-like voice woke her up. This affected her mental image of him, so when she finally saw him the following morning she was unprepared. As he exited my bedroom, she blurted, “Oh my god, you’re gorgeous!” She told me she had trouble coming to terms with how good-looking he was.

It was the beginning of summer and I felt like I was on the edge of something epic, and plus I spent pretty much all of summer term drunk and having gleeful adventures. I cooked Japanese food every night and had dinner guests most of the time. They’d always bring me wine in tribute, and I didn’t wait around to drink it. I was in fact doing half my final exams as well, but was supremely unstressed about the whole thing.

#67 was a couple years younger than me, a first year student, and we didn’t have a whole lot in common. Okay, I guess this is an understatement. He was really good at turning me on, which counts for a lot, but we were kind of from different planets. Although it feels far too simplistic nowadays to describe myself in these terms: I was a queer feminist doing a gender studies degree and he was, well, none of those things, nor particularly inclined to learn more about any of them. Basically, I didn’t feel able to talk to him about things that mattered to me. He came across as kind of immature, although I appreciate that I wasn’t necessarily in a position to make that judgement given that I was the one who was getting wasted all the time.

In the midst of all this, #56 and Jen were on their way to Scotland. I started sitting across the road from my flat at 5 in the morning, drinking brown rice tea, looking across to Salisbury Crags and being quiet and pensive. I’d waited nearly a year to see #56 again and I hadn’t banked on suddenly having a boyfriend. Also, I felt really weird about the whole boyfriend thing and it was kind of hard to figure out if it was the general concept or just this particular boyfriend.

The gap was obvious when they arrived in Edinburgh and I was aware of how many things we were able to talk about together compared with my scope for conversation with #67. I tried to split up with him, but I kind of messed it up and he talked me out of it and I felt guilty and plus he was still hot. The following night, we all had a picnic on Calton Hill and then went out on the gay scene, and I had to admit I was impressed he was making an effort, since this was clearly an alien world to him.

But we wound up at Motherfunk, and I ran into #30 there. I was pleased to see him because we didn’t run into each other much and I’d processed through all my issues. We caught up on things and danced together.

#67 was leaving early. He said to me, “Promise me you won’t get off with that asshole.”

He didn’t even know #30, to call him an asshole. The territorial bullshit wasn’t something I could stand for. This time I broke up with him for real.


~ by Nine on 8 January 2009.

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