Welcome distraction

In the library checking emails/other blogs after a hard 5 hour stint doing...more of the same, when a beautiful, gorgeous smelling specimen of the male species saunters in behind me to take a seat two computers to my right.

How the hell am I supposed to do any work now?

Just checked, and he is as adorable as first suspected.

What is it about sitting in the library for hours on end that turns one's attentions somewhat impatiently over to the opposite sex? In fact, I challenge anyone to prove me wrong that after the first hour, no, twenty minutes, eyes aren't frantically flitting round in search of a little piece of eye-candy to indulge upon in one's inbetween-words fantasizing time.

For example, I got to the library about 4 hours ago, and since then I have spotted 5 potential Hotties. Before I carry on, you must be fully aware as I am, that after long enough in confined spaces filled with books and mutants, one tends to lower one's standards quite significantly. A library-based hotcake is by no means of the same calibre as one you might find sauntering about the Northern Quarter, or even sitting at a Fallowfield bus stop. However, this only adds to the perverse, and dare I say it, kinkiness of the pleasure derived from locating one. A model fit for one's eyes to rest upon while you think about your next word or paragraph and perve freely, under a delusional cloud of 'Like they're ever gonna say anything'. Just as long as they're not drooling and have matching shoes on (I'm fussy, and what?), anything goes.
Myself and the fella to my left are both dancing about happily to the tune of Let's Have Covert Eye-Sex With Each Other, and I'm loving every second of it. The well-aimed glance. The well-timed smile. Oh, doubt it not, every move is important. You don't wanna fuck it up and be left sitting next to Can-You-Smell-Me-Yet?-Man. No, I want full on, visual penetration.

The thing is with Library crushes, is that they don't have to lead to anything serious. It's purely so that you can put a face to the body you imagine pressing, rubbing, breathing against yours when the Biblio-Horn takes over. (Biblio-Horn (n): desire for sexual intercourse whilst immersed in a studious environment.) You know, when you start wondering how you'd have to angle yourself if you wanted some action in the aisles; how you'd have to stand if you wanted to get carnal in a toilet cubicle; how silent you'd have to be to get away with a bit of touching under the tables - don't act like I'm the only one.

Everyone looks for distractions, but fantasizing about sex somehow seems more legitimate. It's not like you're imagining what it'd be like to fly, you're focussing on something that could potentially happen. Call it forward planning.

Right now, my Biblio-Horn's got me planning how I could 'accidentally' rub my leg against his, initiate some more eye-contact, maybe a smile or two. Maybe eventually lure him into my Special Collections Unit...

Best just get on with this essay.

Another male breed, noted.

I'm one of those gals who has lots of guy mates, and that's a situation I'm totally cool with. However, after living with 5 of them for a year there were some things I started to notice as we grew more and more comfortable with each other. Specifically speaking, the moment that they all decided that it was totally acceptable to play with their balls in front of me. All the time. Fair enough, every now and then things need adjusting - I wear a bra. I understand. The thing is, it's become one of those things that has made me more aware of other guys fidgeting with themselves. Guys I don't even know. I'm starting to really wish it was just another one of those facts of life that I was ignorant of. Now, it's like when a friend gets a new car and it's yellow, so everywhere you look people are driving yellow cars. Only more disturbing.

Ever since my enlightenment, I've come to notice that it's not ALL guys, just a certain strain. The Gotta-Scratch-My-Balls-Man.

(Gotta-Scratch-My-Balls-Man (GSMBM)(n): A man who freely places his hand inside of his trousers (sometimes even his pants), in order to cup his scrotal area into a more comfortable location. Mostly spotted next to you in cinemas, on couches at house-parties or standing up on the tube. Often said action is committed during conversation. From the same school as Gotta-Pick-My-Nose Man, he believes that something so natural for him is one of those things that is invisible to the naked eye.

"Screw you, World" screeches GSMBM, "I've just copped a feel of my whole scrotum AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE!!!! Maybe I could use my powers for other things, like stealing Werthers Originals from Grandads, or curing cancer or something...")

No, GSMBM. It's not that the world can't see you, it's just that they wish they didn't have to. By conforming to this type of reckless activity, you've become one of those things society turns a blind eye to, like beggars, chewing gum under tables, or snot on someone else's face. Basically, either wait til noone's looking, or just stop doing it while I'm talking to you. It's thoroughly distracting. GOSH.

Maybe it's my lack of imagination or something

You know when you're watching TV with a couple of friends, and one of them will inevitably point to a particular character onscreen, exclaiming "Doesn't he look EXACTLY like so-and-so?!" At which point you're forced to squint at said character who doesn't even have the same colour hair as the person in question, and then reply, "Kiiiinda? But, um, so-and-so's brunette."

"Yea, but you know what I mean."

No, not really. I never know what you mean. Why is there always one that does it? And are they partially blind, or is there something wrong with me? Just had that thought on my mind as I had to sit through a very confused 2hour film last night with a friend who likened Juliette Binoche in 'Chocolat', to Susan Kennedy from Aussie TV show Neighbours fame.

Whatever you say, dear.

Procrastination

As you can probably tell, I'm in a bit of a weird place at the moment. I think it's the anticipation of summer - the warm weather causing people (men) to wear less, and all the hotties coming out of wherever it is they hide themselves during the winter months. This alongside my tendency to re-focus all the attention I should be paying to my finals, to the opposite sex. I think I deserve to revel in it now after years of rejection. Plus, you know what they say: when it rains it pours.

I distinctly remember being 17 at a New Years eve party with one of my great friends, Z, discussing the hotness of this boy all the girls liked. We'd spoken, but he like every other guy I liked at the time, saw me as a 'good friend' and nothing more. Endless conversations with Z were had - "why is it never me? Am I fat? Is it because I'm not blonde?" etc etc etc. And she, as a fellow non-blonde, unconventional-looking hot-cake, would nod and shake her head in the right places as we reassured each other that we were not in fact freaks, but that these were just immature boys with no imagination.

Anyway: the party. Having been unsuccessful with any guy I'd made eye-contact with, I decided to make myself the DJ. Don't get it twisted, I wasn't scratching vinyl, merely selecting tunes on the CD player of the 6 disc (very hi-tech for the time)hi-fi. It was just a school-boy's house party after all. Freddie came over to me to tell me he LOVED the song that I just put on, and then started dancing. With me. I couldn't believe it. I strained my head to catch Z's eyes and she beamed at me, proud that one of us was finally getting some attention. I was loving it. Freddie put his hands on my waist and leaned into me.


"This is it!" I thought to myself, glad that I'd thought to compulsively chew gum all night instead of stumbling, depressed into the kitchen to indulge in the fried snacks I'd inevitably find in there.

He smelled great. You know that smell that teenage boys have when they've made an effort. Lynx Africa and the like. I loved it, and as he was so close I revelled in my immersion in it.

I felt his hand on my waist, his fingers hooked into the belt loop of my jeans and I looked up at him and he smiled down at me.

And then the music finished, he leaned in, kissed me on the cheek, told me I was "such a great girl" and swished off leaving me in a haze of Lynx and an overpowering sense of disillusionment. Looking round for Z, I caught sight of her heels ascending up some stairs with some guy of her choice. Well, at least one of us was getting some attention.

Just a typical night out for me. A good party, but no new years eve kiss. And it was like that until I got to university. I don't know if it was because I chose to get out of London to a place where guys had more of a willingness to try something a little different or what, but my 1st year was crazy haze. I did feel like a bit of a cliche - the repressed girls'-school student turned boy-fiend, but hey, I was finally getting somewhere and I was loving it! It was in my first year that the first incident with the Hot Potato (see below) happened.

Since then, I've had bitty relationships with a few people; including a steamy but mis-guided secret affair with one of my housemates (who later went crazy and decided he was in love with me. He wasn't, but it was definitely weird for a bit), and had a slightly more intense and involved relationship with another friend from my first year. He was loving but unavailable, and sent tremors through my heart when he eventually broke up with me before he embarked on a year long jaunt in Japan (is it wrong of me to enjoy the fact that he HATES it there?). Again, Z was there to pick up the pieces of that one.

My mother loves to mention that I always seem to have better and longer lasting relationships with the gay guys I hang out with than actual boyfriends. But what she doesn't realise is that this is because I'm secretly terrified of missing out on something. I'm waiting for, looking for something amazing. Someone amazing, who makes me feel amazing. With all my relationships despite all the good things, there have always been little things wrong. They were just that bit too short. They hated reading (I'm a stickler for grammatical correctness, and need to be mentally stimulated by a guy or it just won't work). They smoked too much (if a guy forgets to meet up with you because he got too stoned, END IT.) Or they were just too emotionally stunted. Whenever I find someone who meets most of my (extensive) criteria, I freak out and jeopardise it somehow. Like JP. When I realised I might actually like him, I tried to end it.

It always seems that when I try to be a little bit sorted, focussed on one guy another one that I may have shown interest in decides to like me or something. Like, now I'm torn between JP and THP, there's a third guy who I expressed an interest in about 9 months ago who has just now reared his curious head. It's always been like that, and I've never been able to decide whether I should go for one - the closest option - or just roll with them all to see what happens. I'm choosing the latter for now. I reckon it'll all become clear at some point. As soon as I stop reminiscing about what JP did to me in a hammock in a little village north of Rio. Or fantasizing about the way my breath caught in my throat when The Hot Potato threw my arms over my head and rested the weight of his taut body on top of me...

*Ahem*

In the meantime, I'm gonna try and get on with my bloody dissertation. What am I playing at, ranting about boys when I really need to be writing 7,000 on Shakespearean presentations of gender in a last minute attempt to save my degree. Yeah, just focus on the Shakespeare.

Limbo

JP.

HOW could I forget about JP? He's the reason for the wonderfulness of my New Years Eve. And the wonderfulness of the two weeks that ensued after that. The one I left in Brasil, who has now travelled back to the land of even more gorgeous women (who are more his height, but we dealt with that...) aka Buenos Aires.

You can't have your cake and eat it, I know that. To be honest, JP was my cake. That guy who I tried to ignore. The guy I knew I liked but tried to invert it, focus on his height, or slight lack thereof. His ability to get distracted inimaginably easily - can you get ADHD over the age of 25? How anyone can walk as slowly as he does is beyond me. How he can read my mind, know exactly what I want and let me have it without a fuss. How he is a hallucinogenic fog that descends over me when I get too close and makes me do crazy things on a 7 hour bus journey.

It was Brasil. It was my birthday. I was on holiday. It was only two weeks - what the hell could have seriously happened in that time?

Who am I trying to kid. The Guy, (the Hot Potato, see below) is great, gorgeous and funny. And he's on the same continent - bonus. But JP is...JP. He's the guy who reassures you. The guy who's selfless and generous and loving and lovely. Funny and intelligent. Who teaches you and learns things at the same time without you even realising it. Theu guy who listens and remembers. The guy who made me realise that I'm worth more than I thought. He's the ultimate. He's my ultimate.

But he's in Argentina and Lord knows when I'm gonna see him again. The Hot Potato - he's from near me in London, and lives 20minutes away from me in Manchester. Sometimes geography matters! Oh, but does it really? Would I be jeopardising a potentially beautiful thing with JP in the favour of short term gratification (and it would be gratifying)? Or should I just go for it - after all, you're only young once, and how many Hot Potatoes does a person meet in their lifetime? Two?

...And now I'm back in Limbo.

You can't always get what you want...can you?

He was tall, athletic, dark hair, green eyes, bashful smile, nice, white teeth (what? It's important..), features sculpted out of marble or some other beautifully smooth iridescent stone; and he was looking at me.

I don't know if anyone else has imaginary pre-requisites for partners. You know, in an ideal world, what would he/she look like? How tall would they be? What eye colour etc etc. Well I had those thoughts, and here was mine. Looking me in the eyes, asking if I wanted another drink, laughing at my jokes and offering up his own. I went to the toilet whilst he went to find his friends, and said 'Oh My God', 17 times to myself in the mirror before re-appyling, re-adjusting, and sashaying out into the warmth of his smile.

I'd imagined what he'd kiss like with that perfect, pouty, cupid's bow mouth of his. Soft at first, running his hands up around my waist, and then stepping up the pace a little whilst his fingernails traced the length of my spine. When he stepped into me and smiled at the look of bewildered anticipation on my face, I held my breath. It was exactly as I'd imagined it.

A year later, it happened again. This time, I wanted to do things a little differently. The last time, he overpowered me. His scent, his voice, those looks he gave me...it was all too much and I freaked out and cut it short. What do you do when you get what you want? It was all too confusing then, but this was now and we were doing the dance again. He talks. I talk. He smiles, I smile. He leans in, I accept his kiss, warm and intoxicating. Intoxicating. It sounds like an idea of a kiss, something you'd read in a Danielle Steele or a Jackie Collins. But, this was just that. A kiss that seeped into your brain and warped your mind. A kiss that made you forget where you were. Forget how to speak, how to breathe.

We had to get out of the bar, Jacob's birthday or not I wasn't going to let him go this time. I caught myself glancing, no, staring at him sporadically all the way home. Just checking, like. In case it wasn't real and I'd have to bring myself to terms with the fact that I'd dreamed up the presence of the Gorgeous Man. No, that couldn't be his hand on my leg. That couldn't be his breath on my neck. That couldn't be his hair running inbetween my fingers. That couldn't be his tongue tracing the contours of my mouth.

I don't know how we got home (actually I do and it included me being a little caught in the moment, going to far and then having to walk further than necessary BACK to my house) but we did. And that's where the fun started...

...and ended. After I came back from the kitchen to find him looking through my book collection, pointing out that he loved Hemingway too, I felt the first jolt. The second came when my favourite song came on from that album, and he whispered 'I love this song.' Finally, I realised I was screwed when, after the whirlwind 5 hours (every minute of which stuck in my head, replaying itself throughout the following few months, triggering a smile at the slightest recollection of what we did,) he snaked one arm under my head, and rested the other over my tummy and just smiled into my eyes.

So fucking inconsiderate. I was fine before that. It was just supposed to be sex. I'd imagined it, spent days, weeks, months fantasizing about what it'd be like. How we'd be together. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he be quiet or loud? Maybe he'd be a little kinky and throw me off. But it was flawlessly fulfilling. Great. And that was fine with me. But, then he had to hold me. Draw little circles around my belly button and search my eyes trying to trick me into liking him, into intimacy. So I did the only thing I could do, I rolled away from him and went to sleep.

In the morning I woke up before him, and for a little while I felt at liberty to just look at his face. His cute, broken nose. The mole under his eye. The little hole in his ear from where he'd had it pierced in his teenage years of rebellion. I allowed myself to indulge in those thoughts that you never let yourself have until you know they're possibly having those thoughts too. Him cooking me dinner. Holding my hand as we walk, giving it a little squeeze every now and then just to let me know he's happy to be with me. Him smiling at me with that mouth as we watch telly, wrapped up on the sofa on a Winter's evening. My body wrapped up in his arms and his breath in my ear...

He woke up, I pretended that I hadn't just been staring at him for the best part of an hour, and we chatted some more. Then he dressed, and left.

Two weeks later, he had a girlfriend.

I found out in the worst way of course. Was out at a club, dancing like noone was watching - until I realised that someone was watching. Him. I smiled as he walked over to say hello and we talked a little before I excused myself to go to the bathroom and to have a word with myself. In there I met another friend who happened to live with him. She asked how I was, I said I liked her shoes, she asked if I'd noticed how down He was because "his girlfriend's got tonsilitis."

Girlfriend? What? Ouch.

When I went back outside, he was waiting for me with a drink. Mid-conversation I noticed him looking at my mouth. Later, I noticed his touches became considerably less fleeting. In fact, one of his fingers had found its way onto my tummy, and was embarking on a journey around my belly button. Before it could rev its engine I asked him where his girlfriend was. Silence. He bit his bottom lip and replied "She's at home."

"I had tonsilitis a few years back - horrible stuff. Is she ok?"

He shamefacedly asked how I knew and I let him know that it didn't matter, but that he should be ashamed of himself. Secretly though, I was a kinda thrilled.

Throughout the remaining year of their relationship though, I was to expect more incidents like that, although far less blatant. Stolen glances over the bar that I worked in, which he visited. A lot. Once with Her, but we won't talk about that. Rushed conversations as we passed on the street, both knowing what we'd rather be doing. Eventually it became too ridiculous and I just avoided him altogether.

Two months ago, he walked into the bar after a 6month absence from my social radar. He was looking better than ever, and was apparently a man on a mission. I avoided him, as per. He stuck at it. Waiting for me at the end of the bar. Appearing as if from nowhere when I emerged from the stock-cupboard. Worst of all, waiting for me at the end of the night, talking to my manager whilst I pretended to be busy just to not have to deal with it.

He wanted my number.
They had long broken up.
He wanted to see me again.

Now I'm in his throes once again. Still playing that game of Hot Potato because I enjoy the thrill of wanting something so much that you don't know what to do once you have it, other than throw it about and hope that someone else doesn't catch it. Unfortunately, this time it seems that he wants to be caught. By me. What the hell happens now...?