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.
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.
posted by KJT at 2:33 pm
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