I’ve been thinking a lot about the exquisite mental torture of unrequited love (or lust – delete as appropriate). My latest object of attraction has two twisted front teeth and a gap in between which is large enough to do severe damage during kissing or oral sex. He has a reddish skin and a fixed ice-cold stare that looks permanently alarm.
He falls far so far from my pretty boy ideals that I find myself staring at him thinking “Why?”
On the plus side he has a quick wit a northern accent and is an ex drug user which ticks, my completely messed up and flawed requirement. He also made the fatal mistake of being empathic one of my many bouts of self loathing which is a fatal to the chemical in my brain that says let’s create a false relationship in my mind and turn it into a repetitive thought thus rendering any normal conversation with the poor guy impossible.
So far this week I have managed to verbally duel with the guy to the point that he’s walked out saying that I take things too far, making me paranoid that he can read my less than pure thoughts and triggered my unstoppable need to try and fail to impress him by being clever and funnier followed by guilt and shame.
This is also aided by I am never entirely sure whether he actually thinks I am a dick – which for a woman on the cusp of 50 is not very sophisticated.
As my hormones make a death rattle for attempt of a sexual connection with yet another person who is emotionally unavailable I start to reflect on the fallen unrequited lusts and wonder how they fared once the light of my lust was no longer upon them.
Let’s start with the boy in the flight jacket who sat opposite to me at French, his jacket of distressed brown leather was always half unzipped a promise of things to come. I remember he had fair hair that I think was in a fringe but most of all I remember the jacket and his name which would dance across my tongue as I fantasised about whispering into his ear just before he took and I entered his bi plane to travel to far off place where popular boys would see the beauty in the Ali Mclore types, I choose to conveniently forget that the Breakfast club was not real and that I was far less popular than even the geeky kid in the Breakfast club. I was the girl that people would compare to kissing a bowl full of cold vomit with He came into his own one day when after a particularly horrific maths lesson I had been outed as fancying him which caused both mirth and horror, people took it upon themselves to enter the French room and tell him. I had been aware that this was going to happen and spent the night throwing up, as I knew that the humiliation of such as disclosure would not make my life worth living. Though why I didn’t take the day off I don’t know. He rather gallantly just nodded and said that he already knew it was a moment of clarity that made me realise that there might be people who had common decency after all.
Art school gave me an opportunity not to be loathed and also it gave me the potential of increasing my object of lusts by doubling the genders. Under the cover of paint and charcoal I was more successful at both hiding my objects of obsession and found out that capturing such a treasure is never as pleasurable as the mind.
Some people were not so noble on my revelation of desire. The look of shock and horror on one woman’s face as I declared my feelings was one that echoes with me still, literally as I met her in the local gym 15 years later and she repeated that look as I foolishly waved at her.
Having read “he’s just not that into you “I realise that this would actually be every relationship that I ever had and had I overdosed on false romantic thoughts and desires to the point of If I don’t tell this person now they are going to sue me for stalking or hit me for extreme sarcasm, on love I would still be a virgin. A virgin with no scars on her heart perhaps. Though since most of my favourite genres are film noire I wear them well. So I suppose I ought to be grateful to my lust for letting me embrace the slim chance that someone might be desperate or bored enough to think, “Well she’ll do for a bad night and the batteries in my vibrator have run out.
Sadly there is no “She’s just not that into you”, mainly because the rules are a little more complex or maybe because I am a little bit dense when it comes to be able to know if a woman is attracted to me or just being friendly, I have literally ended up in bed with a woman not entirely sure whether she is being sisterly, and on one time I am pretty sure she was attracted to me but later found out that she really just liked the excitement of nearly being caught in bed by her rather scary fiancé, where I ended up running out of her apartment with no shoes and hiding in the corridor, possibly not my finest moments.
This lack of clarity can be lethal in the unrequited front and with one woman I maintained a fairly persistent unrequited love affair with was a neighbour for four years.
She was a musician and a bit of a vinyl freak: I have absolutely no knowledge of music but learnt how to nod and say “that track’s really layered” and “it’s so much better in vinyl“. I even offered to paint her bedroom, shades of mauve, while she sat becoming tearful and reading aloud from Hunter S Thompson and talked about her one night stands. The combination of intelligence, narcissism and alcoholism was a heady mix for me which could I lasted for eternity, had I not declared my affections to her and a audience of bemused people on stage.
I learnt two important things: first was that she really had no idea that I was attracted to her, and second – never do stand up material in front of people you want to impress.