04 March, 2011

All hands and heart

So last month I had a blog-threatening date.  Which is to say, a date that went so well that I thought that it might end my interminable and miserable dating life and leave the blog high and dry, a record of my romantic failure before my final, lasting success.

The date was great.  The guy was wonderful.  Smart, funny, working.  Good looking, charming and generally all round top bloke.  A second date followed, and a third.  Before long we were in the sack having the time of our lives.  And then it all went horribly pear-shaped.

Look, I know this is going to make me sound like I have unrealistic expectations.  I know you're going to think I'm a whiny bitch.  But if something's not right, it's just not right.  And this was not right.  You see, my paramour was just way too affectionate.  Cloyingly, graspingly affectionate. All the time. I'd be trying to cook and he'd be trying to cuddle me.  And I was toasting sesame seeds too.  Those little bastards go from golden deliciousness to black and bitter in about ten seconds.  You really have to keep an eye on them. I'd sit for a second on the couch to download something and his arms would be around me, pulling my face toward him, his mouth trying to kiss me.  Every fricken second of the day that he could touch me, he did.  It did my head in.  I felt like this.

Only more so.  Except it wasn't spicy, nor was it an adventure. And I don't look like that.  I looked far more aghast.

In bed it was worse.

He slept all over me.  Like he was trying to maximise the amount of skin contact. Is this how normal couples sleep?  I don't remember it being like that.   I was spilling out my side of the bed because he's pressed up next to me, head on my pillow, great expanse of mattress behind him, arms and legs all intertwined.  Hot and uncomfortable. I cannot sleep like this.  I can't.  Three times I asked him to move.  Three times!  I couldn't roll over because his face was right in mine.  Breathing on me.  Kissing me.  I seriously thought about moving to the couch just to get some rest. 

And the morning was even more appalling.  Because he woke me up before I had to wake up on a Sunday.  Now nothing sends me into a white hot rage faster than being woken up before it's absolutely necessary.  It's the reason I don't have children.  I gave up a perfectly serviceable marriage because I like to sleep in on the weekend, so you'd better not fuck with that.

He said "oh God, I can't stop touching you."  This compounded my fury! It's not my fault that he couldn't keep his fricken hands to himself. I snapped "Oh, for fuck's sake, cut it out!  Now!  I need sleep!  And move the FUCK over."  He moved over. Finally.

Even writing this is making my wrath rise as sure as the sun.

The damage was done.  After that, every time he reached for me I felt a desperate need to run. A choking, claustrophobic, strangling panic. A week later, I ended it.  I didn't tell him it was because dating him was like wrestling a giant man-squid.  I said it was no-ones fault but it just wasn't working for me.


  1. "Those little bastards go from golden deliciousness to black and bitter in about ten seconds."

    Your affections are not unlike those sesame seeds, my dear.

  2. You're absolutely right. I confess, I'm fickle. Hey, never said I was perfect.