The Player And The Played

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I’d never really noticed you. Not as anything more than a friend. Not until it was nearly too late.

‘I like someone and I don’t want my ex to fuck it up,’ you’d said.

I eased your concerns, offered advice. Just like a good friend should. But your words worried me, because that very afternoon I’d thought to myself, ‘he’s kinda cute. I wonder…’

Friday night arrived and I’d drunk more than I should have. It made me speak my mind. It made me honest and forthright. Brutally so. I told you I didn’t trust her, this girl that you liked. I told you the knowledge I already held and my female intuition were both screaming at me to warn you to watch your back. I also told you my words may be coming from a place of jealousy.

‘You’re beautiful,’ you said, ‘I really like you but I didn’t think you were interested’.

All night you kept telling me I was beautiful, amazing, strong, intelligent, funny. You said you wanted to be with me but were scared of getting played, being hurt. You followed me into the pub bathroom, wrapped your arms around me and kissed me as if the elixir of life was held in my very lips.

‘I just wanted to take things slow,’ I said, ‘see how things progressed. I didn’t want a big heart to heart about it all, but your interest in someone else has forced my hand. Can we just hang out and see how it goes? I don’t want to be played either’.

All night we laughed and joked around with our friends. We drank, shared stories, stole secret kisses.

‘You and me…’ you kept saying.

‘We’ll talk when we’re sober,’ I’d reply.

You never called and met me on the Saturday evening, as arranged. We never talked when we were sober. You were friendly when I saw you this evening, but you said very little.

‘Do you remember anything about Friday night at all?!’

You laughed, ‘No! Nothing! That was a messy night!’

I tried to hide the pain as your words slid like a knife slowly cutting into my stomach, ‘so you don’t remember telling me I am beautiful and that you really like me?’

He said no.

Guess I’m the one who got played after all.

Fat & Ugly

‘You’re not attractive. I like my women skinny’.

Would you like to ram a red hot poker into my eye while you’re at it? How about removing my innards with a meat hook? I’m sure your comment would go down better if you battered my kneecaps in with a shovel!

I don’t care if he thinks I am the most monstrous beast to ever walk the planet, nobody should enjoy telling someone that they’re fat and ugly. For the last two weeks he’s been grovelling for forgiveness and he swears he didn’t mean it how it sounded, but the damage is done now. The salt is in the open wound and it hurts.

This delightful comment came from Samson. Admittedly he wasn’t first in line when they were dishing out the brains, or conversational skills for that matter, but despite his dopey exterior I considered us friends. Well rule number one guys…friends don’t call each other fat and ugly!

I understand that not everyone is attracted to the same type of person. This is a good thing, variety being the spice of life and all that. I appreciate Samson has his own tastes and I am not it. I also know that some people are just fat and others really are fucking ugly. What hurt me was that, as a friend, he couldn’t sugarcoat the bitter pill for me, not even a little bit. Why couldn’t he have said I wasn’t his type? Why couldn’t he find one redeeming feature and concentrate on that? Why couldn’t he reassure me by remarking on my back catalogue of insanely attractive lovers? He didn’t need to drop to his knees and worship me like a goddess, but as a friend, did he have to be so brutal?

‘Never listen to anything I say, yeah?

This is his continual defence. I am to disregard what was said and act as if it never happened. Well Samson, rule number two…I am a girl! I have a vagina! I cannot forget! If you don’t want me to throw your mean observations back in your face, don’t say them in the first fucking place!

Deep down, us women usually know where we fall on the pretty-o-meter. I’m not fat as in, 10 buckets of chicken a day and sores in the creases of my 37 bellies, but I’m not next in line to suck on a lettuce leaf before strutting down a catwalk at Paris fashion week either. I am curvy, maybe a little voluptuous, definitely womanly. I buy my clothes in regular shops and, apart from the impressive heaving bosom, I wear a size smaller than the average British woman. ‘I like my women skinny’ may just mean he likes transparent skin, protruding bones and an obscene thigh gap, but in my head it translates as ‘you’re a giant heffer!’ Rule number three…her arse NEVER looks big in that dress. She wouldn’t have put it on if she thought it did. She’s asking for your reassurance, so give it to her.

Weekly Update #59

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Let’s face it, these weekly updates are becoming more unreliable by the minute. They’re appearing at different times on different days and most of them are more than a week apart. The weekly update here on Dating Dramas is waning to say the least. It’s not because I’m losing interest in my little blog world. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s because modern technology and I are sworn, bitter enemies.

On more than one occasion I have been regarded as a puritan when it comes to the written word. For example, an ebook is not a book. A book is made from paper and has a story or information written inside, preferably in beautifully ornate, handwritten calligraphy, although I understand why printing is such a hit. I didn’t welcome the era of modern technology with open arms, rather, I was dragged towards it, kicking and cursing while holding a crucifix in one hand and a bottle of holy water in the other. I miss the days of leaky fountain pens and sheets of paper that bore watermarks of quality.

Computers, iPads, mobile phones, they can all sense my loathing. They’ve reacted to my distrust not by embracing me and showing me their apparently superior ways, but with unreliabilty and protest. They hate me. They laugh and sneer as I wipe away tears of frustration. They hide or delete things randomly and break at the most inopportune moments, just to show me who’s boss. I hate them and they hate me.

Their recent ploy is to take away the very few things I enjoy about modern technology, this being music, gaming and blogging. My broadband internet is slower than a 90 year old after a hip replacement. My laptop refuses to charge 99% of the time and if it does, it overheats within 5 minutes and I narrowly avoid third degree burns to my upper thighs. Even the WordPress app on my phone is built to taunt the puritan grammer Nazi within me. I can type on it, as my last 20 or so posts will prove, but it only provides half a service. I want to align my text, highlight key words and link back to previous posts, less you, my poor readers, don’t have a clue what I’m babbling on about. I want pretty, centralised images in a variety of eye catching sizes. In short, I want my writing to be presentable and easy to read. It pains me deep within to know that each post is not bloody alligned!

Modern technology uses my anally retentive approach to the written word as ammunition against me. I hate it. Ergo, my posts have become infrequent not because I am bored or have nothing to share with you, but because HP and Android phones and Microsoft and WordPress all suck giant donkey balls!!!

In other news, my physical health has been this week’s priority. I’ve been weak and pathetic and feeling very sorry for myself. As well as the chronic kidney disease and leukopenia, I now, unsurprisingly, have anaemia aswell. Iron tablets now join the vitamins, steroids and prozac that I pour down my throat as part of my daily morning ritual. I swear, if I was an animal they’d have put me down by now!

To top it all off, my teeth are causing me issues too. Have you ever had your teeth professionally cleaned? Do you know how it feels to rediscover how sharp they are? Well, I do and its driving me a little crazy. I can’t help running my tongue over the newly rediscovered grooves in my teeth, but they’re starting to make my tongue very sore. Consequently I have two small welt like marks on the tip of my tongue, that, if I’m brutally honest, actually resemble a vagina. Two teeny, tiny labia. Like Barbie’s, if she had them. That’s right, my inability to leave my own mouth alone means I’m walking around with Barbie’s sore cunt on the tip of my tongue. I bet Ken’s really jealous.

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So yes, I’m a little mopey right now. I keep thinking a good fuck would sort me right out, clear my head and put a spring in my step but truthfully, no-one has had old Lola’s loins stirring for a while. That’s typical. I finally look ok naked, thanks to a little weight loss and a killer British tan, and all I want to do is sit on my arse eating carbs and playing xbox. Pfft.

Sex: 0

Drugs: 0

Alcohol: 0

Physical Health: Barbie’s cunt. Seriously.

Mental Health: Meh. But hey, sane well behaved women rarely make history! ;)

How To Be A Woman

‘When I hear women talking about how their wedding is going to be/was the best day of their lives, I can’t help but think, you just haven’t taken enough MDMA in a field at 3am, love’.

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If you’re a woman, I strongly urge you to read this book…especially if you’re a British woman over 30 as the pop culture references alone will make you smile. Caitlin Moran’s ‘How To Be A Woman’ highlights the pros and cons of 21st century feminism while taking you on a humorous and sometimes brutally honest journey through Moran’s own ascent to womanhood. I related to her story on so many levels that it was as if she was looking into my very soul…and taking the piss out of me the entire time!

I wish I’d read this book sooner. It’s laugh out loud funny while still enforcing the importance of feminism and how our struggle as women has only just begun, yet unlike other books promoting female self awareness this one doesn’t patronise or overwhelm you with academic bullshit. It’s raw and real, like sitting down with your girlfriends over coffee and discussing the night before! An absolute must read!

A Blast From The Past

About 18 months ago, I met a man. He wasn’t a particularly special man. He didn’t resurrect chivalry and romance from a pile of ash and dimly glowing embers in order to sweep me off my feet. He was just a man. A cute man with lovely tattoos, who occasionally made me laugh, brought me drinks and kissed me as if I was the incarnation of Aphrodite herself. He turned my head, this man, but before I even had time to kick myself in the shins for being such a fool, he was gone. Back to his own town, back to his girlfriend.

I held no malice towards him for it. He was working away from home, met me (a complete nutcase who was up for anything as long as mature, sensible people would disapprove) and our mild flirtations and odd drunken snogs eased his boredom. I was, however, a little peeved.

I thought it was rude of him to pick me up and drop me out whenever he felt like it. I thought it was rude to ignore me when he was around certain work colleagues. I felt it was rude not to say goodbye.

Back then my only outlet for emotional grievances and irritations was to scribble them down on bits of paper and burn them. After a while my ego didn’t like destroying what was, in my opinion, some damn good writing, so I decided to post them online. I chose Tumblr. I chose to make it completely private and visible to only me. For the record, Tumblr is only good if you want to post loads of random pictures or self made memes, or are a depressed teenager with self harming issues.

A month later, I found WordPress. It was the light at the end of my tunnel. I found a platform where my ups and downs, my sorrows and my occasional man-hating, could be expressed without fear of reprimand or judgement. Dating Dramas of a Thirtysomething, and Lola, were born.

Today, I walked into my local pub and there he was. An unexpected blast from my past. Just a man, that man, sitting in a garden, drinking a cold beer after work. He’s back. He’s just a man. Just a cute man with nice tattoos who I let get a little too close when he definitely didn’t deserve it. But hey, we shouldn’t be hard on him. If it weren’t for him I may never have found myself here, sharing my shenanigans with you lot. He, and all those that followed, would just be specks of grey ash and a bitter after taste.

They’re just men. Just men who can make you feel like you’re walking on air one minute, then picking the shredded carcass of your dignity from the gutter the next. But damn can these men inspire a good story!

Weekly Update #58

Late again!

…Although thankfully only late with a weekly update and not my period, otherwise I really would have something to worry about!

As the summer month of June draws to an end, the days get shorter and the nights draw in faster. This very much reflects my mood of late. I struggle to keep hold of my inner sunshine and find the darkness to be strangely comforting. Alas, the last of the British summer tempts me outside more often than not and I have yet to succumb to the ever lurking dulldrums.

This past week has seen me spending quality time with the most gorgeous young man on the planet, my godson. Jemima and Perry foolishly officially made me his godmother at the christening on Sunday and, although Perry’s family were less than impressed that Samson and I were given godparenting duties, the day went off without much of a hitch. Of course, my usually chirpy godson decided the church would be the best place to practise his little sod wailing banshee impression, but I’d expect nothing less from a child under my influence!

As for the other, lesser, men in my life, all is really rather quiet. The Mountie was somewhat offended when I declined his offer of ‘some fun in the sun’ but I’m still very much into the whole ‘calling men on their bullshit’ thing and he is no exception to the rule.

Fairground Guy was full of charm and compliments this week, but luckily I didn’t fall for his nonsense and quickly identified his niceties as a ploy to crash on my sofa during a recent bout of temporary homelessness. Of course I’d happily help out a pal in need, but disguising a cry for help as an attempt to woo me is pretty low.

I received a Whatsapp message from a friendly, balding gentleman, offering to take me for a drink upon his return from Glastonbury festival. I’ve obviously conversed with this man at some point, presumably after an OkStupid encounter, but I cannot for the life of me remember who he is or what his name is! That date is going to be interesting!

Sex: 0

Drugs: 0

Alcohol: 0

Physical Health: I’ve spent a few days in bed this week with excruciating back pain…no, its not old age, but my kidneys actively protesting my naughty behaviour of late. Consider my lesson learnt.

Mental Health: 60mg of prozac a day ensure I keep breathing!

The Boy With The Neck Tattoo

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Since selling my car I have been a slave to the great British public transport system. I know its got a bad reputation in this country, but as someone who doesn’t have to do long arsed commutes every day, I actually find the experience quite enjoyable. Not least because of the boy with the neck tattoo.

I don’t know where he’s coming from or where he’s going to, but more often than not, he’s there. Stood on the train platform come rain or shine, he casually smokes his cigarette from the corner of his mouth while playing around with the music on his ipod. He’s always oblivious to the other travellers around him. He doesn’t need to constantly check train arrival times. He’s a seasoned commuter with his own little ways to make the trip as painless as possible.

He makes my trip painless. As I steal glances at his chiselled jawline and long, dark eyelashes, I wonder who gets to curl up in those beautifully painted, toned arms. I wonder who gets to nuzzle into that neck, run their fingers through that light brown beard. It’s no secret that I find tattoos attractive, but I also have some strange liking for men’s necks. I like how the veins slightly protrude, the dip just below the Adam’s apple, those little whiskers of coarse hair. I like how much stronger they seem when compared to women’s. Ours were obviously built to carry light jewels, men’s upon which to carry their days labour. Take this often overlooked part of the male anatomy, team it with the creative vision of a true artist and Boom! It’s lust in its purest, most unbridled form!

The boy with the neck tattoo could easily be a model. Maybe he is, although I like to imagine he works in a field a little less pretentious. Maybe he’s a carer for disadvantaged adults. Maybe he’s a hospital porter. Maybe he’s a chef in a busy hotel kitchen. Maybe he solders circuit boards, I really don’t care. All I know is that somehow, during our very separate lives, our paths have crossed on this grey, windy train platform.

The Boy With The Neck Tattoo is one of my life’s small pleasures and, as is the case with all the beautiful things that Mother Nature provides, I’ve found that it is best to just stand back and appreciate it in all it’s glory!