That Thursday Feeling

I haven’t been able to feel any true emotions in months. As a side effect of PTSD and depression I have subconsciously erected a barrier against feelings, against potential pain and hurt. If you don’t love anything or want anything, you can never be disappointed. It’s something that’s being addressed with my medical team at the moment, more so since my lack of emotions has seen me slip into anxiety filled delusions of not ‘being real’. I worry that my friends are too incredible to actually be real and that I’ve created them in my mind as this imaginary, but much needed, support system. I question everything and consequently my whole life, on occasion, doesn’t seem real. During these brief psychotic breaks I panic that I am in fact rocking backwards and forwards in some mental institution, lost to the real world and trapped in my own delusion. My only saving grace is that I am still fully aware how utterly batshit crazy this all sounds. It’s this realisation that keeps me grounded, but it doesn’t stop the panic attacks.

After a mini meltdown in my doctor’s office, I spent Thursday afternoon resting on the sofa in a bubble of temazepam induced bliss. I felt calm and relaxed for the first time in weeks. I still didn’t feel any emotions. As much as I love my son and friends, I no longer feel that gentle thump in my chest when they say or do something adorable. I don’t feel guilt or remorse, even though I know I sometimes should. I feel rejection and anger, but it is shallow and fleeting compared to how I used to be. I feel no passion. I can cope with being an emotional cripple for now. It’s probably safer than allowing all the bad feelings to come flooding back and suffocate me.

Robyn had been having a rough week too, so by Thursday evening we decided a trip to our local pub may do us some good. As we stepped into the bar, there he was. The One That Got Away. For nearly a decade I haven’t been able to look at that man without getting butterflies in my stomach, sweaty palms and a pulsating vagina. This time, for the first time, I felt nothing.

Robyn and I grabbed a couple of drinks and headed outside for a cigarette. Mr. Fail was there, looking at me with a pitiful expression on his face. I could see he was apprehensive about approaching me. Under normal circumstances I’d have thoroughly enjoyed his uneasiness and would have revelled in making him squirm some more, but the temazepam was doing its job and quite frankly, I didn’t give a fuck how Mr.Fail felt. I was polite and friendly, I acted as if I’d completely forgotten his lies and betrayl. This only served to make him more nervous and he soon scurried out of the pub and sought safety elsewhere.

The One That Got Away was playing pool with his friends. I could feel him looking at me, his eyes boring into my back as I tried to casually ignore all the little games he was playing to try and get my attention. Eventually I allowed him to catch my eye and he used this as his cue to approach the table where Robyn and I were sat. There was only one thing I wanted to talk to him about,

‘Why are you getting people to spit in my face?!’ I explained what Teeth had told me, how TOTGA was meant to have been bad mouthing me and was making vicious remarks, ‘that broke me,’ I said.

TOTGA protested his innocence and it wasn’t difficult to believe him. Part of me always knew he wouldn’t say such harsh things about me, but I guess I needed to hear it from him. He proceeded to question me about my involvement with his Uncle Teddy. I was hurt and disgusted that TOTGA would ever think anything could have happened between my grotesque stalker, Uncle Teddy, and I. It didn’t take me long to realise Teeth and his lies were responsible for this little drama too,

‘Look me in the eye and tell me something didn’t happen,’ TOTGA said.

I did as he asked and stared into the dark brown windows of his soul.

‘Now say it without smiling,’

‘I’m looking at you,’ I reassured him, ‘I can’t help but smile’.

‘Without smiling’.

I was offended that he doubted me, even for a second, but I know him. I know he gets jealous even when he knows he has no right to. I know he needs to feel wanted by me, that my affections for him somehow keep him going.

‘He could look like Ryan Gosling and I still wouldn’t go near him,’ I replied, my face bearing a dead pan expression, ‘he is your uncle and a heroin addict. He creeps me out. It’d never happen’.

TOTGA leant forward and, with his hand placed on top of mine, kissed me. The stubble on his lightly bearded face pricked at my skin, a stark contrast to the warm softness of his lips on mine. That brief kiss woke me. I felt the butterflies in my stomach, my palms getting sweaty and my vagina beginning to pulsate. More astonishingly, I felt my heart swell as if it was about to burst out of my chest. I love this man. Despite the hurdles that prevent us being together, despite the villians who try to keep us apart, despite our own insecurities fighting fate at every turn, I love him.

My barriers of self defence may be firmly in place, but The One That Got Away can always get through. Always. I am not emotionally dead. I can feel, sometimes, and therefore I can be better, one day.

Hey Jemima!

You have absolutely no idea how excited I am to make this little announcement…

My best girl Jemima has joined the wonderful world of WordPress! For those of you who read my Dating Dramas on a regular basis, you will know that Jemima features rather frequently in my tales, usually shaking her head disapprovingly at my antics while also laughing hysterically! Her blog, All’s Fair in Love and War, tells the story of her relationship with Perry, the joys of motherhood, her wacky friendships and every little bit of life in between. As I said, she’s new to all this blogging malarky, so I would consider it a personal favour if you’d all pop over to her site, say hi and make her feel welcome. She’s awesome, so you won’t regret it!

allsfairinloveandwaruk.wordpress.com

barbie kills 3

Weston

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I first met Weston 7 years ago at a beer and music festival I attended with The One That Got Away. Weston was only a teenager and, as the more hardened party-goers amongst us danced and joked into the early hours of the morning, I allowed Weston some sanctuary and a place to sleep in the backseat of my car.

Fast forward several years and Weston had become somewhat of a local celebrity. There was hardly a party he missed or a drug he wouldn’t take. However, unlike most men with the same reputation, you couldn’t help but love him. He was good hearted and honest, trustworthy and friendly to everyone. His difficult childhood combined with admirable personality traits meant people were always willing to cut him some slack when he passed out in a corner, off his face on ketamine,

‘Aww, bless Weston!’

In truth, anyone with a heart just wanted to look after the poor lad!

Recently, Weston has undergone something of a transformation. He’s no longer snorting enough horse tranquilisers to kill a herd of elephants and he seems to have gotten his life together. Tall, toned and sporting an aesthetically pleasing British tan, the young lad I gave refuge to all those years ago is now, quite frankly, damn hot!

And that, dear reader, leads us to this account of my Saturday evening.

Weston had called me Friday to see what my plans were that night, but feeling less than sociable I’d avoided inviting him round and chosen only to meet him for a quick joint on my way to Jemima’s house. On Saturday afternoon I bumped into Weston in the high street and again, he asked me what my plans were,

‘Pizza and playing xbox in my pants!’ I laughed, showing him the unhealthy contents of my shopping bag, ‘join me if you get bored’.

By 9pm, Weston was sat alongside Robyn and I in our dimly lit living room, playing computer games, smoking joints and drinking tequila.

‘I thought you were going to be in your pants?’ Weston whispered in my ear. I smiled, ‘I would be, but I’m not wearing any under this dress’.

Weston wasn’t planning on staying. He was going to get the last train home, but when Jiminy turned up with a craving for cocaine, all good intentions went out the window and the four of us settled down for a night of white powder and mindless chatter.

I don’t know what time Jiminy left. I don’t know what time Robyn went to bed. All I know is, that after a failed attempt to get Robyn and I to honour Weston with his first threesome, Weston and I were left alone on the sofa, high and watching movies.

‘Are you really not wearing anything under that dress?’

I laughed flirtatiously as Weston ran his long fingers up my leg and leant forward to steal a kiss. It wasn’t the forceful, desperate kiss of a man his age. I was pleasantly surprised by how gentle his lips felt on mine, how soft his tongue felt searching my mouth.

‘Oi!’ I giggled, pulling my legs out of his grasp, ‘I’m old enough to be your mother!’

I knew that our significant age gap wasn’t going to put him off. He’d already openly admitted to having something of a fetish for older, curvier women. He’d told Robyn and I that he wanted nothing more than to be used and abused by a group of such women,

‘You can do anything to me,’ he’d said, ‘whips, handcuffs, strap-ons, whatever you want!’

Remembering Weston’s submissive side, I told him I was far too old for him to touch me, but that he was more than welcome to watch. I lifted my long, black maxi dress above my knees, parted my legs and let my fingers run over my pussy. Weston dropped to his knees in front of me,

‘Let me lick you,’ he begged, ‘please let me taste you’.

I didn’t take much convincing. Being a dominating bitch may be my regular persona, but when it comes to sex I am wholeheartedly submissive. I couldn’t tease him any longer.

He seemed to have his head buried between my thighs for an eternity. He wasn’t just timidly flicking my clitoris with his tongue, he didn’t seem apprehensive or unsure. This man literally wanted to wear my pussy like a hockey mask and I was more than willing to let him. After bringing me to a delicious climax, I decided it was time I returned the favour.

I pulled Weston up by his hair and melted into his kisses as I undid his belt. I knew what was waiting for me. I’d seen Weston’s cock a year ago on a night out, in a purely innocent ‘oops, I looked at the wrong time’ scenario. I was impressed then. I was impressed now. One thing that had changed about his beautifully thick member in the last 12 months was the addition of a tattoo. ‘EAT ME’ ran vertically down his penis in large black lettering, like a warped, porn version of the cake in Alice in Wonderland. I didn’t know if eating this hunk of meat was going to make me bigger, smaller, or careering down a rabbit hole at lightening speed, but I was willing to do it anyway.

Weston and I spent the next hour writhing around my sitting room. I rode him slowly, teasing him with every thrust I controlled, savouring every inch of him inside me. He fucked me deep and hard on all fours, faster and faster until unloading a gush of warm, sticky cum. We collapsed alongside each other, naked and sweaty, our heavy breathing making our chests rise and sink in unison. For twenty minutes we said nothing. We shared a glass of water and a cigarette. We glanced at the movie still playing on the television screen. We sighed heavily and let out little giggles, but not a word was spoken until Weston finally broke our silence,

‘Ready for round two?’

‘Hell yes!’ I squealed, climbing on top of him once again.

And that, ladies and gents, is how I spent the early hours of my Sunday morning. Weston called me later that day and again on Monday, but as much as I want another trip to Wonderland, keeping him waiting is just too much fun!

Weekly Update #60

I write this from the relaxing, if incredibly untidy, confines of my bedroom. I’m exhausted. My quiet Saturday night turned into me, Robyn, Jiminy and Weston boshing a load of cocaine and playing computer games until 5am. It was a good night, a welcomed distraction from the pangs of rejection I’ve felt this week, courtesy of Samson and The Player.

I don’t want to call him The Player. That gives the impression of someone smooth and charismatic, well dressed and cock sure. He’s not like that, not at all. In truth, he’s nearly 40, starting to bald, is only an inch or so taller than me and is rocking the beginnings of an impressive beer belly. He tends to wear jeans and scruffy t-shirts and spends most of his spare time running up an enormous tab at the local pub. Jemima says he looks like a knackered old geography teacher. Robyn agrees.

I didn’t like him because of his appearance. I liked him because of how openly we could talk to each other, the interesting conversations and the shared sense of humour. ‘Be a grown up Lola,’ I thought, ‘go for someone your own age with shared interests’. Clearly that didn’t work out for me. Maybe I should just call him Mr. Fail.

Anyway, Jiminy and Weston’s visit cheered up both Robyn and I immensely. Jiminy purchased Robyn a ticket to see The Libertines, which has definitely put a spring in her step and Weston, well, Weston gave me a little something to perk me up too, but that story deserves its own post.

It’s safe to say that this week I learnt that being a mature, responsible adult isn’t all its cracked up to be. I tried, I failed and life rewarded me with a toned, tanned 20 year old…who am I to argue with the universe?!

Sex: :D

Drugs: Damn that naughty little fairy with her magic dust!

Alcohol: 0

Physical Health: All good.

Mental Health: All good.

Go F*** Yourself!

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Under what circumstances is it acceptable to return someone’s greeting or salutation with a giant ‘go fuck yourself!’ ?

I’ve been wanting to say that a lot this week.

To the gaggle of drunk girls climbing into the back of a blue Ford Fiesta at 1am this morning, who yelled a high pitched ‘hiyyyyaaaaaa’ at me as I walked home from Jemima’s house.

‘Go fuck yourself!’

To Samson, walking out of the pub, who looked at me as if I’d just caught him taking a big whiff of his mother’s knicker drawer,

‘Go fuck yourself!’

To The Player who had the nerve to ask me if I was ok, as he strutted down the high street with his latest conquest, a young girl with an uncanny resemblance to the child killer Myra Hindley, and whose vagina has entertained more men than the Superbowl,

‘Go fuck yourself!’

To all the men I never hear from until their dicks start twitching at 2 on a Saturday morning,

‘GO FUCK YOURSELF!’

Of course, I was raised with some basic understanding of human interaction and the concept of good manners, so instead of saying what I wanted, I just nodded and smiled politely.

I will not be drinking this evening, less the temptation to ‘drink and dial’ overwhelms me and I find myself yelling ‘ARSEHOLE! GO FUCK YOURSELF!’ into the receiver at the stroke of midnight.

I am going to stay home, alone, with a pizza and the PS3. It’s not my normal fun packed Saturday night, but its calm and subdued. It is the activity with the lowest risk factor. And as my eyes draw heavy, I will head to bed and pray to every higher power I’ve ever heard of that tomorrow, by glorious miracle, is International Go Fuck Yourself Day!

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.