Blanket

For some unfathomable reason at 2am last night I found myself getting out from under my warm duvet and into a taxi and making my sleepy way over to MW#1′s. The escape from Caversham Princesses’ abode was conducted in complete darkness and was all highly covert. I felt like I was 15 and was sneaking out for a rendezvous and a quick smoke with my boyf under the bleachers. Heh. Not that I did that, but if I was wearing pixie boots and starring in a John Hughes film i would certainly be engaging in such behaviour.

After I complained that he hadn’t said a goram thing about my appearance after all my effort to look “classy and sexy” as requested, he pronounced that I looked better in my civillian clothing last Monday than I did in my cocktail gear on Friday; apparently I looked “tres hot” just in my kickboxing trousers and casual top according to Mister #1. Not to entirely defend the egomaniac, but I can understand how he feels. Unless it’s Pierce Brosnan we’re talking about, I often find that people look hotter in just their regular clothing as opposed to dinner wear (although I am a sucker for a good suit on a man).

I pointed out that I am not the sort of person who needs attention all the time but that it would have been nice for him to at least acknowledge my appearance rather than totally pass it by. Anyway, I dressed regular as I did for wrestling and he was most appreciative.

I should probably point out that MW#1 had consumed more than a little alcohol; thus conversations of a strange nature ensued. He asked me what all my friends thought of me and him- I was like “erm there is a you and me?” I said that everyone thought he was awesome and great to me *before* he broke my heart, and now people are more than a little wary. He replied that he was a man and that being a bastard was what men do.

I objected ever-so-slightly to this statement- I mean for fuck’s sake, I expect to be treated with kindness and consideration whether you’re male or female or undecided. The excuse that you’re one or t’other and thus you must behave in a certain way and thus heartbreaking is the norm is utter bullshit.

Anyway, he was inebriated and his ego was showing (how unpleasant) so I didn’t take too much of his commenting seriously. I did however tell him that we needed to discuss such *minor* issues as him breaking my heart and that it was vital we have a dialogue about things I feel are important if he’s going to get access to me as more than “just a friend”.

That whole “no intimacy until you decide” proclamation I made kinda went out the window…

He was as usual devoted, considerate and patient… I actually find his behaviour slightly distressing; on some level I cannot understand why he treats me so.

MW#1 also bestowed upon me some scarily lovely comments about myself (no child-bearing hips for me)… when I wrap myself in my blanket this week I shall think of the undiscovered country that is my skin, flesh, and bones. The notion that my corporality provides comfort is suddenly wildly important; the idea that I can just “be” and (for a short time at least) provide respite from the suckage of the world is strange yet lovely…

Of course, all of this means precisely fuck all if conversations are not had and things honestly set out. And hey, I could be just one of many individuals told these things and treated this way- but i’d like to think that’s not the case. What can I say- I can’t help being an icy cynic with a warm romantic core. I’m warped.

Word of the day: Massivity