I’m declaring myself a ‘No Man Zone’ for a while. This week has seen me letdown and disappointed by several men. Nothing new there I suppose, but what has been poignant about all these mini-dramas is how much I have taken them to heart and my response to that. Usually I get high, get drunk and fuck something I shouldn’t, the classic self destruct mode of dealing with hurt and rejection, but this time is different. This time I’ve taken such an emotional battering in such a short space of time that I’ve just closed down. I’ve stopped feeling anything. I’m just numb, void, empty.
Samson: Why I bother still having conversations with this man is beyond me. Everytime I think he’s finally appreciating my friendship, he says or does something so thoughtless and cruel that I end up feeling like complete shit. This time the braindead moron is refusing to believe that I don’t want to fuck him. When I finally put him in his place he turned into a snarling, miserable git, disguising his attacks on me as ‘humour’. If bullying exists outside of the playground then that was exactly what he was doing.
Mr.Fail: Lord, give me the strength not to smack this numpty fuckwit in the mouth! For the third time in as many weeks, he has given me the long winded declaration of love. He’s admitted that he has remembered his previous confessions, despite his denials, and that he just panics about getting hurt and blah blah fucking blah! Three times now I’ve told him to man up, get over his shit and ask me out already. Three times he’s said he will and that he’ll call me the next day. Three times he’s let me down. I finally told him to leave me alone. I am definitely a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ kind of girl.
The Canadian Mountie: His patience is starting to wear thin! I have to give the man some credit, he’s been feigning interest in my life and abstained from any sexual references for several weeks now. He’s done well, but now the innuendos and naughty requests are creeping back into our conversations. If only he’d tried ‘fancy a drink?’ instead of ‘fancy a fuck?’
The Tattooed One: Been a while since that name got a mention, huh? Well, the last time we had contact I told him I thought we’d come to the end of our road. Sure he’s insanely hot, the sex is incredible and there is no-one on earth I feel more comfortable with than him, but a girl needs more than that. He never knew what he wanted or when and being used as his personal yo-yo was exhausting. I deleted his number and moved on. Apparently he didn’t delete mine, because I received a random ‘hey’ message at 4am. At first I was pleased to see him make the effort, even if it was only a one syllable three letter effort, but then I realised…it was wank o’clock! He’d probably had a night out, not pulled and was lying in bed, drunk and horny. In the height of his self satisfying he’d decided contacting me was a good idea. Post jizz, I didn’t mean fuck all to him. Number deleted again.
Billy: This one hurts the most. I never, ever expected to argue with Billy, let alone have such a confrontation that we stop speaking. A minor incident left me feeling rejected and abandoned by him but, instead of being a friend and reassuring me, he turned into a teenage girl and badmouthed me behind my back. I’m devastated. I’ve never had a bad word said about him, I will defend him even when he’s in the wrong and I always thought he’d do the same for me. It’s what gave me safety in our friendship. The pain of realising I was wrong is excruciating. I miss him already.
Sex: Yes. Satisfactory toyboy sex has been had, although I can sense a drought looming…
Drugs: I’m going to have to start charging the coke fairy rent!
Alcohol: I am officially turning against my Russian roots, much to my own disgust, and am abstaining from vodka. I’ve realised it makes me as mad as a box of frogs! I am now that really classy bird who drinks pints of lager on nights out!
Physical Health: Leukopenia Alert! A low white blood cell count has left me lethargic with a sore throat and more bruises than a BDSM porn actress!
Mental Health: I feel the disappointment, the rejection, the sadness, but I can’t cry. I can’t moan or vent. I can’t feel enough to create a reaction. I know my defenses are up dangerously high, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not sure I even want to. For now, the grey clouds and drizzling rain of the British weather are an accurate reflection of my mood. I think I may hibernate for a while.