I don’t even know where to start writing this update. Two weeks ago I was thrown under a relationship bus, forced to have feelings I wasn’t ready for and made to acknowledge these feelings not only publicly but to the very person who had inspired them. I was like a pinball being propelled from one grown up emotion to another and being expected to maintain my composure and protect myself mentally and emotionally in the process. The truth is, I am not even ready for the preliminaries of getting intimately involved with a man, let alone delving into the world of mature ever lasting relationships.
I have fucked up. I said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing or made my feelings known too soon or didn’t show enough of them and now its too late. I just don’t know. How does this shit work? Am I meant to call and nag the guy until he realises I like him and that he’s never going to get away and so he just gives in, or am I meant to be all elusive and blase and keep him guessing so he has something to chase? Why do I feel completely comfortable with his tongue in my mouth but not completely comfortable with dialling his damn phone number? All I want to do is hang out and fuck, why is that such a complicated relationship goal?
Of course, others may say that Mr.Surprise simply turned out to be another giant loser caught temporarily in the web of Lola’s disastrous dating life. This would be a fair assessment. To cut a long and tedious story short, Mr.Surprise and I seemed to be getting along fabulously. Great communication, great laughs, great sex, loads of that openness and mutual appreciation shit that people bounding towards happily ever after are supposed to have. It was all plodding along quite nicely. I was looking forward to seeing him, enjoying his company and there were butterflies in my stomach at the very thought of him. Little, tiny, unlikely to survive outside of the gut kind of butterflies, but butterflies nonetheless. I had thrown myself open to the idea of letting a man over 25, in full time employment and without any obvious mental health issues, into my life and I thought the risk was paying off. Then, Mr. Surprise disappeared.
I’m not being dramatic here. This isn’t a case of me texting him twenty minutes ago and still not receiving a reply. I mean, he disappeared off the god damn earth. There has been nothing. Zilch, zero, nada. The last I heard from him was on late Tuesday afternoon when he enthusiastically confirmed our plans for that evening. He never showed. He never explained why he didn’t show up and in fact he turned his phone off, so he never even saw my 3am text message of concern; He has a job that can get a little dangerous at times and I was completely justified in my concerns for his well being. I sat up all night, worrying, but I need not have bothered. Mr. Surprise is now on holiday for two weeks with his daughter. A holiday he had originally invited me to join them on. I have no idea what happened to make him completely shut down on me like this. And please, don’t offer up reasonable explanations for his absence. He is not dead, his dog did not die and I am damn sure there is nothing wrong with his phone. If he can update his Facebook status, which he has, then he can sure as hell text me to let me know he is still breathing and to apologise for standing me up. Dick.
Where Mr. Surprise has failed, however, other men have been prepared to pick up the slack. I mean, seriously, it is as if the male population can smell my monogamy. Weston is pulling out all the stops, or rather, pulling out his giant penis, to get my attention and as adorable as that is, I’m just not up for entertaining that idea right now. ‘He’s jealous,’ Blue keeps telling me, ‘Look at him! Listen to him huffing and puffing! He’s sooo jealous!’
Then there is the Mountie. Damn, there is always the Mountie. We’ve hung out a lot recently, in the most platonic ways possible, but he’s reaching a critical point in his frustrations to get back in my pants. Any minute now I am expecting him to throw a giant tantrum because I won’t sleep with him. It is almost as if he feels he has put in enough ‘platonic’ time to prove I’m not just a booty call and now I need to reward his efforts with plentiful pussy. Not going to happen.
The former students, Texter A and Texter B are still hot in pursuit, which is a mahoosive ego boost to this thirtysomething. Having not one, but two, hot twenty year olds vying for my attention has been just the confidence lift I needed, but dear Jemima is keeping me on a short leash when it comes to exploring this controversial avenue. Seriously, the bitch has got me on lockdown, ‘You are dating a grown up!’ she keeps telling me, ‘Do not fuck this up! Do not be ruled by your vagina!’ As obvious and helpful as this advice may be, the ‘grown up’ I am meant to be dating is currently playing in the World Hide ‘N’ Seek Championships, so I’m going to waive maturity and patient understanding in favour of biceps and cunnilingus. I may be able to hear Jemima in my head on a loop, ‘One man at a time Lola, one man at a time!’ but her little Jiminy Cricket voice is rapidly being drowned out by the crashing tidal wave of hot, dirty sex with men young enough to be my sons.But yes, there still will only be one man AT A TIME. Not even I, with my witty banter, speed typing skills and extensive vocabulary can entertain via social media more than one man at a time. I am a strong and capable worldly woman, but I am not superhuman.
Who am I kidding. This is just the talk of a wounded woman. I’m not going to squeeze into the most figure enhancing outfit I own and go party the night away with a bunch of toyboys. I’m not going to sneak into Weston’s room in the middle of the night, all stockings, suspenders and lustful cougar eyes and I’m certainly not going to let the Mountie rub his stubbly chin against my inner thighs. I’m going to sit here, eat carbohydrates and continue to come up with ridiculous and far fetched excuses for why Mr. Surprise has just deleted himself from my life, after such a valiant effort to put himself there in the first place. Dick. Fucking butterflies. Grrr.
Physical Health: Still breathing!
Mental Health: As above!