Cherry Blossom Madness

On Beauty

2012-01-22T14:48:00.002Z

I've wanted to write this post for a while - or at least, I know I've had some very strong feelings about the issue recently, where certain emotions have welled up inside me as I'm getting ready to go out or glanced at myself in the mirror.

The country that I live in - and its society - has eyes only for beauty, especially if you're female. Yes, you may have done well at school and received a degree from x University, but are you pretty? Are you slender? Is your hair done the way it should be? Is your skin crystal clear, and yet, are you wearing makeup? If not, well - that's a disappointment. But there's always time to learn.

And yes, I know it's rich of me to be grousing about this when I'm in the PR business where, of all things, appearance and presentation are key. But what frustrates me is that there is a very set way of presenting oneself here that I certainly can't seem to get right: no glasses, for instance, a tiny angular face (can't really get any help there), dead straight or princess-curled hair (usually dyed), and a full face of fairly obvious makeup.

It makes me miss the European way of dressing and presenting oneself - and I don't mean in a hyper-plastic WAG sort of way, which is actually what it's often like here - but in a relaxed, easy way, where makeup (if any) is gentle, where non-conformity is celebrated instead of frowned upon, where people are allowed to be themselves a little bit more and to let their individuality shine through.

Every morning, I clean my face and apply tinted moisturiser, then dust my face with some powder. That's it. If I have an event later, I might apply some nude eyeshadow and black eyeliner, and if it's very formal, I'll whip out the heavier foundation, an eyebrow pencil, and the blusher. Nothing more than that, false eyelashes be damned.

I feel more comfortable in my own skin than in a full face of professionally-applied makeup. I had it done twice last year, and although I felt great at the time, I now look back at the photos and wonder who's in them. It might be me, but I don't know my own face. And while I certainly don't claim to have better makeup skills than a pro, taking my own maquillage one slow, comfortable step at a time feels more natural and less contrived. It is not a mask: it is me, accentuated.

I really got the hump last week when I was at an event - a rather depressing one, to be honest, because it was trying to be so much grander than it really was, and everyone knew it but pretended to have an ah-may-zing time schmoozing and boozing - and a colleague implied that I looked plainfaced when I'd actually taken the time to go home, bathe and do my makeup. Then later, she remarked: "Oh, nice shoes! I was wondering why your dress was so plain at first, and then I saw your shoes and was like, ohhhhh."

The shoes in question were nude, sparkly little party pieces on a stiletto heel. No use pairing it with an elaborate dress, had been my reasoning, so I'd gone for a well-cut, clingy LBD. Both of my colleague's comments, while unintentionally tactless as opposed to maliciously worded, rubbed me up the wrong way, though. It's all very well for her to say that when she somehow manages to look siren-esque in a cheap velvet bodycon dress; she's the kind of girl who's blessed in the looks department, with an exotic sort of look that has men crawling at her feet all the time.

As for me, well - Gerente never came back, and that's been it. While there's been interest from another party, it certainly hasn't been returned from my side; in fact, I've done my darndest to stamp it out, because it's making me uncomfortable. There has to be something wrong with me when great conversation, a shared interest in the same music, a genuinely nice, thoughtful character, and a bouquet of flowers delivered to my office still aren't enough to tip the scale, simply because the aesthetics just aren't there, right?

In comparison, Gerente was a complete arse for most of the time that we spent together, and yet I still chose to sleep with him, just because I thought he was better-looking. It all goes against logic, and yet, there is a side of me that feels there is nothing wrong in wanting beauty. I look back at the boys I've slept with, and I'm pretty sure I've got a good track record, especially from my university days. I think of TA, I think of #20, I think of Will - they were all beautiful.

When I told my colleagues why exactly I wasn't keen on this new Mr Keen, some of them said they agreed that looks were an important (but not an overriding) factor, while one said: "What's wrong with him? He has two eyes, a nose and a mouth, doesn't he?" Well, yes, I wanted to say, but aren't I entitled to better standards than that?

It brings me back to this discomfort with the difference between here and there, where I used to be. I've written before that over there, I was unusual and exotic. Here, I feel like I'm close to the scrapings at the bottom of the barrel because I don't 'look' a certain way, I sound different, I'm a strange cultural anomaly, and I wonder if it scares people. I don't want to sound arrogant or ungrateful, but this combination of Gerente disposing of me as quickly as possible and Mr Keen lolloping after me and expecting me to be interested has been faintly depressing. It's nice to be wanted by people who you in turn want, and that hasn't happened for a while.

I don't want to go back to those pre-university days of staring at myself in the mirror and hating what I saw. It was a horrible, horrible time; I could barely look at myself because I just despised the sight of it. Once I got to uni, it was just so much better: I got thinner, boys liked me, my taste in clothing got a little better, my confidence soared. Now, I'm scared that it's all returning to square one: I am back in a place which makes me feel unhappy about myself, and where I start to hate myself a little more every day.

I am finding it hard to stay thin. I can grab rolls of fat around my belly and waist. My skin is greasy. My hair is flat and shapeless. You see? It's so easy to start the self-loathing process. Part of the reason I heroine-worship my boss is that she's incredibly gorgeous in a refreshing, unconventional way. How does she do it? I want to be just like her. I want to be thin and fine boned and well-groomed. But on my own terms.

I want to be comfortable and happy with myself. I want beauty. But I don't know if I can muster the energy to make self-comfort and beauty meet.

2011-11-22T14:30:00.003Z

A few days later, when I was driving back home from work, it hit me: what if I didn't want to see Gerente again? What if I didn't need to?

Alright, sure - the fact that it meant I wouldn't have access to regular sex was mildly annoying, but not devastating. The attention, well. I would miss that a little more - the goodnight texts, the Facebook chats, our little text conversations throughout the day. It's always nice to have that playful dynamic going on with a guy.

On the flip side, it also meant that I didn't have to get so damn nervous about which restaurants to take him to. Because sooner or later, we were going to run out of Asian restaurants that were clean enough for his standards and kind enough to his tastebuds, since he didn't take well to spicy food.

Earlier on this blog, I wrote, "Of course I'd let him fuck me; that is, if there were no consequences and no future implications." So essentially, I got what I wanted - or so I thought I did. What did I want, really? For all my bravado about how I'm not going to let Gerente upset me, I suppose I am a little disappointed that we couldn't keep this 'friendship' of sorts going, even with arrangements on the side.

There was always the question of whether I actually enjoyed his company. Really, it swung between two extremes: he could be playful over texts and sometimes sarcastically, snarkily funny. At his most maddening and infuriating, he could be downright arrogant and utterly dull as he talked nonstop about work. So perhaps it was a mixed bag there, too.

In Sex and the City, Miranda says: "Some of the best sex I've had is with people I can't stand!" Goodness, I still don't know quite how that works. It sounds exhausting.

2011-11-16T16:11:00.004Z

By this afternoon, I still hadn't heard from Gerente, up until one of my colleagues asked me to enquire about booking the restaurant he works in for an event. Well, if it's for work... I texted him a fairly innocuous message relating only to business - cool, calm and professional, I hoped.

Three hours later, he replied: "Hi, sorry for the silence, I know it's not right and I apologise for that. I should be able to arrange the brunch for your company." And that was it. Well, I thought, if you know it's not right, then why are you being like this? Why?

All of yesterday, I wondered what was so wrong with me, so repulsive about me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning after I'd showered; I looked slim - slight, even. One of my most opinionated colleagues came up to me and told me I'd lost weight, then begged me, "Please don't go anorexic.' Being in the industry that I am, I was flattered, of course. This is not a bad body.

Did the problem lie in bed, then? But I hadn't heard him complain, unless I'd accidentally bitten him, at which point I assume he would have protested loudly. I remember him being extremely eager - he was the one who carried me to the bedroom, took my hand and placed it on the bulge of his jeans, waved away my excuse that I hadn't had a bikini wax. Those weren't the actions of someone who was reluctant to sleep with me.

Had he seen me crying? I didn't think he had - after all, he'd kept going until he had (I assume) finished. Like Boy #24, he didn't come with any fanfare, but abruptly and quietly. Afterwards, I couldn't read him at all, like a book in a foreign language: what was he feeling? Was it guilt, regret, loathing, exasperation? Did he have girls on the side? Was he thinking about the fact that he'd fucked the same girl as Cantinero?

I am bewildered and frustrated. Perhaps he'll tell me, but for now, I can only speculate unnecessarily.

25/8

2011-11-14T16:53:00.004Z

If a boy doesn't walk you home or to your car after you've fucked, is it a bad sign? I thought about this as I tried to catch a lift back downstairs from Gerente's apartment. He hadn't seemed particularly inclined to give me a passionate goodbye: just a kiss on the cheek, the forehead, a (reluctant?) one on my lips when I raised my face to his. No word of 'I'll call you' or 'see you soon'.

Christ, was that a stupid thing of me to do? Where on earth am I going to get good tapas? I thought during the drive back home. At the same time, the prospect of us fucking had seemed inevitable - his suggestion of dinner at his apartment, for starters, and once I saw the lighting the moment I stepped inside... No one keeps their lights that dim unless they have bodies hidden in a corner of the room or if the possibility of sex is on the cards.

All through dinner, during which he plied me with plenty of Spanish rosé, I thought touch me touch me touch me. It took ages; it took an extended discussion of Italian politics before we clasped hands. I laid my head on his shoulder, and slowly, we kissed. From then on, he had his foot on the pedal: the strap of my bra slid down over my shoulder, he nipped at my breasts, then picked me up and carried me into his bedroom, and threw me onto his bed.

It hurt. It hurt as it always hurts. I cried, unable to form the words 'stop' with my mouth. I felt the tears being mashed between my skin and his. I placed my palm to his chest - the lightest of touches - but he kept going until he was finished.

We lay there in darkness. He was near-motionless, while I was restless. I stared up at the ceiling fan, with the blades chopping through the air. Whirl whirl whirl whirl whirl, it went.

It was hard to gauge the atmosphere, and I found myself unable to read him - or perhaps I didn't want to, in case I saw coldness and indifference underneath. Where would we go from here? Had he gone through all those dinners, just for fifteen minutes of this? Or had he simply decided that I wasn't worth a second fuck?

I struggled to keep myself to myself; all I wanted was his touch to reassure me of some warmth, but I felt very little. I told myself - my darling, you've been through this before, so walk with your head held high. No mention of Cantinero either, I might add.

2011-10-25T21:20:00.003+01:00

Adele's song, 'Someone Like You', has been on the charts and airwaves for, what, ages? It doesn't help that the radio stations here play it relentlessly between Bruno Mars (horrors) and The Band Perry (blegh), and that one of our interns who sits next to me has a penchant for singing it rather loudly, apparently unconsciously.

'Bah, I thought, it's soundtrack fodder and nothing compared to 19.' I still feel that 21 doesn't reach out and catch you unawares with its charm - instead of being startling, I've found the album to be more of the same tried-and-tested formula.

Lately though, when I've been sitting in the car and waiting to ease out of the traffic jam in front of me, that song - that particular song - gets me, and I get it. There are certain notes when I think I hear true, raw human emotion in Adele's voice, that make me want to sob. And the words. Of course I think about the words.

I think about Will Turner. I have been doing that for these two years, wondering how he is, dreaming of him, wanting to see him in the boys I've met - everything I've written about in this blog. Within me, there is this hope, this belief that I will meet him again one day. I want to. I want to see him and feel that disbelief, that delight, that curiosity. And if he is happy and settled when I find him, then, as Adele says, nevermind, I'll find someone like you.

In truth, I've already started looking. At a club this evening, where local girls and boys tarted up to the nines danced in front of unconvincing 18th century French paintings, I sipped my whisky and cast my eyes glumly over the crowd. Yes, there were some cute, attractive guys, but it was clear that they were all taken, judging by the number of possessive hands laid on them.

And what was I in all of this? Just another plain local girl. A dime-a-dozen we were, with girls who had long long legs and not an inch of fat on them. Then I looked at the boys, and my heart sank. Had my student days been like this? I mean, at least I had stood out a little more, and I had some chance of labeling myself as an exotic being from the Orient.

I waited until 1am, and then decided to leave. As I was walking out, trying not to let my heels fall through the wooden slats of the walkway, I saw two boys approaching the club. Out of the corner of my eye, one really wasn't bad looking at all. I tried not to stare - and then, to my surprise, they approached me, asking me whether the party had been good.

Having explained to them that it was a members-only event tonight, I took pity on them and got one of my colleagues to get them past the guestlist girls. The boys went in, thanked us, and we waved goodbye and turned away. As I was leaving, I sighed, 'Damn, I wish I could have stayed with them!'

My colleague turned to me. 'Oh my God, go back there, they're so hot!' I needed no further encouragement. Cut from them buying me a tequila shot to me driving them back to his flat. I wondered what was going to happen, my stomach beginning to get increasingly queasy from the tequila. Surely there wasn't going to be any - oh come on, surely not. Not with two of them. No way.

And no, there wasn't anything that went on. We just sat on the sofa and talked, but the more I looked at him, the more I saw Will. Not in personality, but in terms of appearance, he was a close match and almost the same age. In truth, Will, I am forgetting your face.

2011-09-06T17:04:00.001+01:00

Why do I feel so low and so tired and so ugly and so disconnected

when I should be happy and chirpy and laughing and unanxious and patient and glad?

Frustration

2011-09-03T17:43:00.002+01:00

One of the things that kept me sane and gave me a little perspective after my fling with #24 was Gerente's presence. It helped that he started chatted with me on Facebook while I was struggling with a mixture of pride, guilt and panic over my behaviour, and just after I'd returned from Europe too. 'Let me know when you're free for dinner,' he wrote.

It's the knowledge that I have an alternative, that there's someone else to turn to, that has always made me feel safer and more secure. I like having options - and as you already know, I like having as many cakes as I can help myself to.

But he went quiet after that for two weeks, which didn't bother me particularly, since I had plenty of things to sort out after getting back. Plus, I had also accepted an invitation to lunch by a newspaper columnist with the same aspirations as me to be part of the indie-elite - but that's best left for another blog entry.

So, I was pleasantly surprised when I got a text from Gerente asking if I was free for dinner before the weekend. It was up to me to choose the venue (again), so I chose another Spanish restaurant that I'd been introduced to by a PR contact, which produced cooking that I thought was rather interesting and inventive. Perhaps it would be interesting for him, too.

I think about my decision now, and I wonder again whether it was an ill-judged decision. He works in the F&B industry, so he knows exactly what he's getting - or not getting, as the case may be (and usually is). I suspected that he wouldn't leave feeling particularly threatened by the other restaurant, but I had only humorously considered the possibility that he would behave as if the food on our plates insulted him to the very core of his Spanish heritage.

That is, unfortunately, exactly how he reacted. It started after we sat down at the table, when he picked up his wine glass and stared long and hard at it, and the criticism never stopped coming after that. The wine was served too cold. The starter needed more salt. The staff hadn't asked me how I wanted my chuletillas done. The bean stew was too acidic.

I felt terrible at first - Christ, why had I chosen to take him there in the first place? It was like the time I took Boy #1, who is Jewish, to watch Kingdom of Heaven. No good could have come of both those things, and it was all down to my insensitivity. I could sense Gerente's growing disapproval and winced every time he found fault with the food; clearly, I didn't know how to eat, despite thinking that I did.

What was even worse was that he took it upon himself to point out the flaws in my food, too. This was partly because his portion of bean stew had been so meager that I, out of guilt, had passed him large chunks of my lamb. Did that placate him? Certainly not. The meat was too fatty, and the vegetables accompanying it were either raw or seriously undercooked. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't ordered a starter, although I took the risk of ordering crema catalana so that I could console myself with dessert, only to be informed by him that it was also not cooked enough.

I tried repeatedly to steer the conversation elsewhere: what book was he reading? How had his own holiday been? Had he ever considered becoming a food critic? I only met with temporary success, because once the next course arrived, we'd arrive right back to the topic I was trying to get him away from. I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. If he wasn't having a good time, then I sure as hell wasn't, either.

I'd also like to add that he barely asked me a single question, other than 'How has your day been?' when we first saw each other. It was exhausting having to listen while I talked continuously, but I'll admit that it wasn't the first time that had happened - aside from the first time that we met up, the quality of conversation between us had been rapidly deteriorating.

Gerente's main problem, really, is that he cannot stop talking about his work. There's a scene in the movie Hot Fuzz where Cate Blanchett hisses at Simon Pegg's character, 'You just can't switch off, Nicholas!' That's exactly Gerente's problem, too: wherever he goes, wherever he eats, it's just like work to him.

I excused myself, headed off to the bathroom and texted IG: 'This is so bad. I'm having a horrendous dinner. I might as well have thrown up on the table and told him to eat it.' By now, I was getting angry. To say that you're unhappy with the food is perfectly acceptable, but to keep making such a point of it - surely that's just bad manners. And why was I being so bloody apologetic, anyway? I glanced moodily in the mirror as I washed my hands; my eyeliner had smudged on my upper lid a little. Damn.

When I returned to the table, I discovered (to my even greater surprise) that he'd paid the bill. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved that I hadn't had to pay for what was turning out to be one of the most uncomfortable dates I'd ever been on, and also slightly outraged that he'd made such a fuss about the food, only to martyr himself by picking up the cheque. 'I don't think we need to worry about this particular rival,' he smiled wryly, smirking to himself with the slightest hint of a curled lip.

I drove him home. There was no question about it - since he'd paid for the meal, I owed him that much, I suppose, because it hadn't been cheap. I wondered whether he was going to kiss me, or if there was any chance that we'd sleep together that night. Would I even let that happen, considering his behaviour? I didn't feel particularly inclined to let anything happen.

I needn't have worried. It was the standard two kisses on each cheek before I dropped him off outside his apartment and drove away, feeling exhausted, disappointed and increasingly inclined to believe that I should start placing more stock in men's personalities, as opposed to their appearances.

24/7

2011-08-15T11:37:00.006+01:00

I knew he was there when I woke up. It wasn't one of those mornings where you roll over to find, horrified, someone next to you and you have no idea what transpired between the two of you the night before. (I haven't had to go through that yet.) Yes, there had been drinking - rather a lot, actually - but I remembered exactly what had happened.

Was it a cliché? On holiday, on my own in a hotel, out to celebrate a friend's engagement party? The seating had been excellent, and I'd found myself next to the rather cute friend-of-my-friend's-fiancé. He was an interesting sort: half-Bulgarian and half-Cambodian, working for his father's business in importing clothing.

I wasn't feeling at my most confident or attractive during the party. My makeup was flaking, my eyeliner shaky, and my eyebrows crooked. It really did look as if a ten-year-old child had done my makeup for me, and I felt even worse once I came face-to-poreless-face with the other female guests, all of whom were working the Eastern European glamour look, armed to the teeth with Chanel 2.55s, strapless dresses and Louboutins.

As the night progressed, however, the vodka shots took their toll, and what started as polite conversation between him and myself slid into definite flirting on the dance floor. Who took whose hand first? I don't remember, but I think it was him. There are hazy memories of doing the Twist with him, smiling over at the happy couple as they did the same.

At some point, between sharing more vodka and chatting to other friends, he took my hand and led me out into the forest that surrounded the restaurant. Amid jokes about mad axe murderers and getting lost, that's when we suddenly started kissing, and I was so drunk that I didn't even have a chance to gauge whether this was a wise decision or not, and whether it was appropriate behaviour at such an occasion.

We made our excuses and left, after I asked him to come back to my hotel with me. Where was all this coming from? I wonder now - I'm not usually one for one night stands, or at least that's what I've told myself, but then it seems that it's happened a few times now. Or perhaps it's more that I want something with no strings attached, but again, haven't I always come off the worse for wear afterwards?

'I hear they have see-through showers in your hotel,' he whispered to me in the back of the taxi. I purred - in the shower? I might not be in the Club rooms, but the idea still appealed to me. Getting the taxi to stop off for protection and another bottle of vodka, we slipped past the reception area (no one was there, thank God) and made it up to my room, where we fell on each other. 'Unzip me?' I asked, turning round. 'Wow,' he breathed, as I took off my dress.

The rest of it, unfortunately, was rather lacklustre and isn't really worth mentioning. I remember catching our reflection in the TV as he climbed up behind me, how he had a strange fascination with using my face powder brush as a titillating bedroom accessory, and his enthusiasm for finding out my ticklish spots (why does it always give boys such a kick?).

So, I return to the moment where I woke up at 6am, feeling queasy from the aftereffects of mixing copious amounts of vodka and wine. I tiptoed into the bathroom, ignoring the slumbering mass under the duvet. I took out my contact lenses, scrubbed away the dregs of my dreadful makeup, and took a hot shower. That was better - I looked prettier and felt properly presentable now.

Despite blow-drying my hair in the bathroom, he was still asleep when I came out of the bathroom. I slid into bed and dozed off for a little while - anything from fifteen minutes to half an hour, as I was terrified of oversleeping and missing my flight, which was due to leave at midday.

When he did eventually wake up, I whispered, 'Hi...' and he rolled over towards me. We kissed, and I almost felt desire stir in me, but I simply couldn't manage it. I wondered if he'd thought we'd had good sex last night; I hoped he thought that I was better in the sack than I thought he was. Off came my bra and my knickers. He went down on me, and I leant against the headboard while I was perched on top of him, pretending to enjoy myself.

He grabbed a condom and took it out of its wrapper, so I quickly set to finish him off by returning the favour. Despite all these months of wanting to fuck someone, I couldn't face a second round in the morning. 'If you keep doing that, I won't...' he trailed off, and I heard him inhale sharply as I went right the way down to the base of him.

He came quietly, calmly - there was no fanfare, no swearing, no gasping, quite different from all the other boys I'd been with before. 'Aaah,' he sighed, 'You really are the next level.' I swallowed, licked my lips and smiled sweetly.

The most peculiar thing was that I just wanted him out of the room. I've never seen myself as being someone who is happy going through with one night stands; isn't part of the joy of having sex with someone to do with the possibility of having sex with them again in the future? It is for me, anyway.

But here I was, with the concept of swapping numbers and Facebook messaging the absolute furthest thing from my mind. I didn't even bother to correct him when he got my name wrong. I was more concerned about packing my stuff and checking out - oh, and being typically Asian, I was also worried that I was going to get charged for having another person in my room overnight Frankly, at that point, I was terrified that the hotel staff were going to yell, 'Slut!' as I walked over to the reception desk.

He was tender while we lay in bed. That was the loveliest part, where we wrapped ourselves around each other, with my lips pressed lightly against his forehead as I gazed at a mole on his temple. We talked about my work, riots, and his friends who were planning to go travelling in Cambodia. It struck me as being so peculiar how two people who, twenty-four hours ago, weren't even aware of each other's existence, could slide into such a state of intimacy.

A strange morning. It was as if I'd woken up with my face in a page of Erica Jong's Fear of Flying - the zipless fuck, and all that. 'Goodbye,' I said, kissing him on the cheek before I shut the door on him as he was on his way out. (I caught sight of a member of the housekeeping staff in the adjoining corridor and had to convince myself later that she wasn't judging me.) 'Maybe see you next time.'

And that was that.

2011-08-02T19:46:00.003+01:00

About to return, and you're still with me. You've always been with me, even if no trace remains of your existence on the Internet - just that single photograph as a reminder that you were real.

My love, you're a ghost. You're in bed with me when I'm fucking someone who isn't you, and his hands are not your hands, his kisses are not your kisses, and they never will be.

I'll reason with myself: 'If he'd wanted to stay in touch, he would have contacted me.' But you were always shy, and when I didn't reply to your open-hearted text, why would you have bothered to pursue?

I once said to Ethan, in cryptic phrases, that I'd dream about you apologising to me, and the bitter realisation that I would never, ever hear your apology in reality. And now, I do not even get to dream about you.

2011-07-10T16:26:00.002+01:00

I was idling away a Sunday afternoon with Ethan, still a little giddy from my evening with Gerente. He'd been texting me quite a bit ever since last Friday, and every time I thought about him, the butterflies beat their wings.

We were in a second-hand bookstore; it was dusty and disorganised, just the way I like it. The best way to discover something or someone new to read, I've found, is to let your eyes roam over random titles in no particular order. That being said, I headed straight for the Women's Studies section; there's nothing more tempting in a bookstore than the possibility of some cut-price feminist literature.

After scanning the shelves, I was in the process of walking towards the Children's Fiction shelves, when I heard Ethan whisper, 'Psst!'

I looked at him and mouthed, 'What?' He motioned for me to come towards him, back to the Women's Studies section again. I was about to walk over and ask what the problem was, when he held up his hand and murmured: 'Take two steps back, and choose a title.'

Puzzled, I did as I was told. It was only then that I realised he had a vintage camera in his hands. I wondered if he meant to capture me against the light; there were some wide (if slightly grubby) windows behind me.

I stood there for what seemed like a long time, wondering whether to look pensively at the book I had tipped out of the shelf in front of me, and occasionally glancing over at him with a bemused smile.

I felt myself tremble a little under his gaze. Why me? Why not that mysterious girlfriend of his? I heard the shutter click, and hoped I'd given him as good a shot as I could.

2011-07-08T17:52:00.002+01:00

Alright. This is weird - even by my standards, and you know I can't resist a bit of drama in my life.

In fact, I was thinking about this as I was driving up to the restaurant, and asking myself why exactly I'd agreed to meet up with him and why I'd been entertaining his emails. Was it because I liked him? Was it out of boredom and curiousity? Or was it simply because I love having a good story to tell? I imagine the latter two were most likely.

The man in questions was, in fact, Cantinero's friend, ex-colleague, and former flatmate, Gerente. The one who, when I slept with Cantinero for the first time, was in the next room as I tried not to cry out too loudly. And he knows about Cantinero - I swear he must know. Boys talk, don't they? After all, Gerente saw me give my 'coordinates' to him, although I suppose that might not necessarily mean that he knows I slept with Cantinero.

It started innocently enough when I emailed the restaurant to ask if they were able to host an event. Gerente himself replied, and then it just grew from there, even after I realised that he was playing a very similar game to the one that Cantinero played with me via our emails. But it wasn't flirtatious, just friendly - well, until he asked me if I might be free to meet him for a drink, at which point, I panicked a little.

What does he want? I wanted to know. Does he think I'm easy because Cantinero told him I was? (On the positive side, that must mean that Cantinero was quite complimentary about my bedroom skills.) Has he always been attracted to me from the beginning, like Cantinero was, or is this a new thing? Or is he just picking up from where his friend left off?

That, I suppose, is the big issue for me. Friends. Two friends. Two boys who are friends. Is it alright for them to see the same girl, to fuck the same girl? I doubt it would be so easy for two girls; for my part, I would think very strongly about going after a boy who had dated one of my friends. But apparently, boys are not quite as particular (or discerning).

'Just meet up for a friendly drink,' one colleague counseled me, 'A harmless, friendly drink.' Harmless? By the middle of the evening, I was looking across the table at him, letting my eyes flicker down from his own eyes to the swell of his almost-pouted lips. Physically, he was quite different to Cantinero, but not unattractive at all.

Would I let him fuck me? I pondered. A quick glance around the room reminded me of where I was: in a country where attractive young men are hard to come by, and women more beautiful than me come a dime-a-dozen. Of course I'd let him fuck me; that is, if there were no consequences and no future implications.

Worse still, I am a shameless flirt. If I am having a drink with a boy who could potentially have asked me to meet him because he likes me, then I won't feel satisfied unless he leaves wanting more. To me, that's a job well done. Call it insecurity, call it a pathetic little power trip, but that's how it is with me.

The talk was fine, the food disappointing. But we stayed at the restaurant until the staff turned the lights off, and he paid for dinner, despite my rather weak protests. It was then that I thought, 'This isn't harmless anymore.' (My second thought was that it might just be his Spanish masculinity that insisted on paying.) We spent ages talking near the taxi stand about politics, and by the time I reached home, it was already midnight.

Later, I got a text: 'Thanks again for the evening. It was truly a pleasure to finally have the time to sit down with you and have a nice chat. Buenas noches, and I hope to see you soon.'

Just a friendly drink? I find it hard to believe.

2011-05-22T12:22:00.003+01:00

I don't know why I haven't written about Ethan before. After all, I've known him since I was, what - thirteen? Our families know each other, and we'd meet up occasionally and get on well. Aside from that, there'd be very little contact between us.

Then, after we'd both graduated and were back at home, I remember he came over to me after a family get-together one evening and asked if I wanted to go for dinner - just the two of us, as opposed to bringing our parents along.

Of course, I told myself to be sensible about it. Here was a boy who'd just asked me out to dinner - so what? We were just friends. But then, I remember sitting by a fountain with him and eating ice cream while he sketched a picture of me (he's keen on his art, you see).

And then, when put him in touch with some contacts of mine for an apprenticeship he was interested in, he came over to my house one day with a necklace for me - a piece selected with a good deal of thought involved. It was the first time I'd received jewellery from a boy I wasn't going out with. I suppose that - and a few other comments he made - got me wondering whether he was interested in me, and it's been like that ever since. I've been guessing and guessing.

I left for the UK and returned six months later. We met at a wine bar and he told me he had a girlfriend. Goddammit, I hadn't been expecting that. And yet we still continued going on shopping trips together, to the cinema, for lunch. Couple-y things that he should surely have been doing with her (and perhaps he does). Other people always mistook us for a couple, and many still do. It's because, on paper, we would make the perfect couple. We're from the same background, the same education system, on the same level intellectually.

I can't figure him out. He rarely talks about his girlfriend and I never ask. Perhaps I read into his actions far too much, but picture this: we were sitting in a late-night cafe last night, with nowhere else to go, talking late into the night. He was telling me about an idea for a movie he had, about a man and a woman who kept dancing around each other for years before finally getting it together.

I found it hard to look him in the eye at that point. Why was he telling me this? I know his work is very personal. It was hard not to put ourselves in the place of his characters - were we already dancing around each other, or was I simply seeing something I wanted to see?

2011-05-05T18:39:00.003+01:00

"Eat. You've lost weight," he said.

I beamed. "That's always a good thing in my industry," I replied. He disagreed.

After a rushed and anxiety-filled day at work, I was looking forward to a drink with YW. He'd been busy, I'd been busy. We hadn't seen each other in - what? - two months, and even since then, I had barely said more than a few sentences to him.

He's still brilliant. I'm less starstruck by him than I used to be, but when I talk to him, everything that at first seemed off-kilter now comes clear. The way things work, the corruption of the system, how to be wise and quick and clever. If I ever had a guru, a teacher or a go-to guy, it's him.

The whiskey took its toll quite quickly. First I told him about my job, how frustrating it was at the moment, and how I was still planning to spend two years here. How I wasn't sure what to study next.

After dinner, more things spilled out of me. How my personal life was so barren. Cantinero. The incident with Will that I cannot write about here. YW was the first man I've ever told.

He looked and my palm and told me I was attractive, in that calm, direct way of his (and slightly drunk, too). My life line, he told me, was short, while my love line had diverging paths. I told him I wanted two things at the same time: a string of lovers, each man more beautiful than the next, and to find a partner who I could communicate with on every level.

"Are you lonely?" YW asked me, in a tone purely without judgement. I had to think about that one.

Am I? I thought about how starved I was when Cantinero swept me up, if only briefly. I admitted grudgingly that I was, even if I didn't believe my confession. Am I withdrawn, as YW says I am? Of course, he speaks from the position of someone who embraces being withdrawn.

Am I lonely? Am I?

2011-04-28T17:03:00.002+01:00

"I think you will find your happiness with someone else here," he told me, as we knelt against each other on the bed. His hands were stroking my breasts, my waist, my thighs.

I smiled wryly. How would he know what makes me happy? I thought. And however could he tell that it would be here?

2011-04-27T16:33:00.002+01:00

As I type this, Cantinero is leaving the country in just over two hours. I doubt he'll be coming back.

I snuck away from work to see him before he was due to leave his flat. It's very fortunate that I was able to get away - ordinarily, I wouldn't be allowed to leave my desk, but as luck would have it, I was working on an outside project at the time.

He seemed pleased to see me after his five-day island trip, and affectionate, too. In no time at all, he was kissing me, lifting me up and carrying me into his bedroom, in that effortless manner that tall men seem to possess.

The sex was better. Not entirely successful - again, neither of us finished - but we still enjoyed ourselves, I think, and it didn't hurt so much this time. It rained outside and lightning flashed, but I was barely paying attention to it. My mind strayed back to what I was supposed to be doing: oh, please don't let my boss call now...

He was tender, I was tender. He spoke, mostly about himself. About how he'd enjoy a good paella once he arrived back home. I smiled and let my mind wander, while I ran my hands over him. Was I bored already? Probably. The language barrier was harder than I thought it would be, and if he talked so much about himself, then I thought myself capable of letting him go. "I hate condoms," he told me. Go, I thought.

And yet, I'm hurting. I thought my life would be one long, dry desert, a chaste exile - but then there was rain. It's the sweetness of it, the fact that he looked out for me and liked me, and I didn't even know it. I really wish he'd made his move sooner, and perhaps I should have told him that today. Why am I always struggling for more time?

Now that I've had a taste of what I thought I'd never get, it feels horrible to cut it off like this. That hope, that sense of completeness in the air, of being able to look up to the moon and wonder what the evening will bring.

"I was speaking to my brother," he said, "And he's just met this girl who he really likes, but now, he's going away for an internship to Germany. I told him if it's meant to be, they'll manage it. But I don't really believe in doing it. I've tried it, and it's never worked out. You really have to love each other if it's going to work, you know?"

I knew. Or rather, I knew what he was trying to tell me. I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes - I mean, senor, did you really have to spell it out for me like that? I'm not stupid. Despite all the shit you said about wanting to be a good father and not wanting to seduce a girl then leave her, I knew it wasn't a great, great love that we had here.

"Entiendo," I muttered, pulling on my jeans coolly. "I hope you're not offended?" he asked. "No," I shook my head, even if I was a little.

He kissed me goodbye in the flat, in the lift, by the car, and then he blew me a kiss as I drove away. I smiled and vowed to myself that I would never cry over a man. Turned up the volume of the stereo and let Amy Winehouse sing her raw, raw lyrics to me: "Wish I could say it breaks my heart, like you did in the beginning. It's not that we grew apart - a nightingale no longer singing."

He will not make me cry. He will not make me cry, I told myself.

Sweet bites. A tiny interlude of pleasure.

2011-04-19T18:35:00.002+01:00

It seems I've forgotten several things after not having slept with anyone in two years - well, one year, if you count that aborted little tryst in Rome that I still haven't written about.

The first is that I think I've forgotten how to please - how to work for it and work for it, how to get it right, until he's begging under your hands.

The second is that a person becomes different once his clothes come off. I can't remember what Cantinero looked like when I first got to know him in passing. Polite, sweet? Yes, he was, but there was something more aggressive in him - something darker that I didn't want to touch.

The third is that I still cry.

The fourth is that Will is still in bed with me. I thought of him when I looked over at Cantinero. No, I don't think we had the same fizz. And I think I'm broken. It leaves me feeling dead and ill.

The new thing I learned is what it feels like to drive away after being in bed with someone where it didn't go well. Fucking hell. Will it never go right? I felt bitter - far more bitter than I've been when I've slept in my lonely little bed.

And then the fifth thing that I'd forgotten was the smell: that sour smell that stays on the hands, that clings to your skin, miserable as failure.

2011-04-17T18:53:00.003+01:00

I should be in a very good mood, but unfortunately, I am just coming off the end of a huge hysteria spike. Still, perhaps that will ebb away and leave me with what I should be feeling: satisfied, a little tired, and really very flattered.

A little over two weeks ago, I was in the bar section of a restaurant that my parents are quite fond of - the food is superb - although I had brought Elynna with me instead, as we wanted to do the girly thing of taking tea with our gossip.

The Spanish bartender, who has always been incredibly friendly to my parents and myself, came over. "It's good to see you here again," he greeted me, so I - in a rather odd, stagey kind of way - responded, "Yes, it's good to be here", as if I was being interviewed by E! on the red carpet of an awards ceremony. "You won't see me after next week," he told me, "Because I'm going back home after this."

"Oh no!" I exclaimed, and I was genuinely sad. After all, he had always been cheerful and a very welcome presence in our dining experience. "Well, I'll tell my mother. She'll be very upset. And I'll try and come back for dinner before you leave."

He walked away, at which point Elynna turned to me, raised and eyebrow and asked, "So... No potential there?" That took me by surprise; I had never looked at him in that way. Okay, so he was certainly a lot more attractive than most local guys lurching their way around on the street, but I had just assumed that he, like many others had done, thought I was fifteen and being towed around by my parents.

Still, I was intrigued. I ended up booking a table there for lunch the next Saturday (and this time, I brought the Parentals), but I wasn't feeling well at all. I'd had a horrible stomach bug (the details of which are best kept from this blog, but needless to say, it was not an enjoyable experience) and could barely eat anything without being ill. I couldn't even manage dessert and had to bolt for my car, but before that, I went over to the bartender.

"I'm afraid I have to go now, so I thought I'd wish you good luck. And do come back to visit, if you can," I said - although probably not quite so smoothly.

"Perhaps we can keep in touch," he suggested. "If you give me your coordinates, I can contact you." Coordinates? I thought - º22´ North of the Equator and 103º48´ East of Greenwich? I gave him my email address and hoped we wouldn't have to communicate via Morse Code or Semaphone as well.

Oddly, I sort of forgot that he had asked me for my details. It's certainly not every day that someone asks me for my contact details (or 'coordinates' - hah!), but I had more pressing things on my mind that day, like getting flirty with a man who juggles bottles of fire for a living - but that's another story entirely.

So, that Sunday, I received an email from him - Cantinero - which I initially mistook for spam, but soon, we were emailing each other every day. The emails, and then the texts, grew warmer and more flirtatious.

I met him tonight, and I liked the evening. He was sweet, he was (fairly) easy to understand, and it didn't feel as if either of us were playing games, or that he was out to get anything. In fact, I later questioned my own attitude towards him - for some reason, I suppose because he's leaving soon, it did occur to me that we might end up in bed on the first date. And you know how well that turned out the last time, right?

After I had driven him home, we were parked in an unfamiliar, much less affluent area, and the last thing I was about to do was park the car, take my attention off the road, and lean in for a long-awaited snog. The idea had also been drowned out by the fact that my normally trusty GPS wasn't turning on; how the fuck was I going to get out of there? So when he leaned in to give me two kisses on the cheek, I was barely paying attention to him.

I had a scary time finding my way out of that area. I drove past cafes full of boys with motorcycles, through industrial settlements with battered cars. It was past midnight. I was a woman, and I was driving alone. It wasn't a good place for me to be.

But I trusted myself, and told myself to be intelligent about it. I found my way back, even if it did involve a detour through the city centre. But as I was driving along and trying to calm myself down, I suddenly wondered: why had I been so convinced that we were going to sleep together tonight? Why had I been waiting for him to kiss me on the lips at the end of it?

It's as if I've forgotten that by the time I left university, my relationships were taking a much slower pace. It took me - what - four dates with Will Turner to actually kiss him properly?

Then again, what is this? Is this supposed to be a holiday romance, or something more than that? He seemed to be making it clear that he wanted something long-term, but then again, boys are also capable of sending mixed signals. And all humans are fickle.

Still, I smile when I recall the conversation we had in an empty bar, when he had his arm casually draped around the back of my chair: "I had wanted to approach you, but you were always with your parents until you came in with your friend. I was glad that you did, otherwise I wouldn't have had the chance to ask you," he said. (Besides, he explained, he couldn't have done it under the eagle eyes of the manager; it would have looked unprofessional.)

I laughed and said I was glad too. I don't think it would have occurred to me at all that he liked me. I was really quite blind to it, partly because it's never quite happened before, being the focus of someone's secret crush. I am still surprised and a little bemused.

2011-02-19T15:04:00.003Z

In the run-up to Valentine's Day, amidst work, friends and some unfortunate toe-related problems, I opened Time Out to find that a Lock & Key party was taking place at a nearby bar. So, having convinced some of my friends to come with me (I certainly wasn't going to go on my own), that Saturday saw me mingling with a variety of singletons, ranging from some perfectly nice young men to ageing wannabe-lotharios who we all tried to avoid being cornered by.

My lock, unfortunately, proved to be rather fussy and difficult to open. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't trying very hard to find me, and neither was I, frankly. Still, I was far from bored. 'Excuse me, mademoiselle," came a voice behind me, "May I try your lock?" I turned to find an older but not unattractive Frenchman bending down towards me.

Delighted, I began speaking with him in French, although I had to struggle to understand him since the background music was so loud. Still, it must have made an impression on him, since he did say say to me after an unsuccessful attempt at opening my lock, "Perhaps we can practise speaking French a little later on?" The girls around me all oohed in amusement, while I stared at the table and blushed in the dim light.

The next hour was spent fending off the advances of a friend-of-a-friend, who inexplicably leads the life of a playboy - goodness knows why, I can't see it myself. He really isn't my type, even if the attention was mildly flattering, so I ended up chatting with a nice young photographer's assistant from Hackney until said playboy got the message that I wasn't interested.

The Frenchman had returned to try my lock a third time (one of my girlfriends had kindly informed me that he had stopped her while she was on her way to the loo to ask her, "Your friend - is she still there with you?", despite the fact that he was talking to a women with "a huge pair of boobs") and was giving me advice on driving in Paris (summary: don't), when someone finally unlocked my lock.

It was a guy who'd tried my lock before and stopped me later on my way back from the powder room. "Hi, I'm Dan," he'd said, holding out his hand. At that point, I wasn't particularly in any mood to be friendly, especially since I was with one of my rather more attractive girlfriends, so I assumed he would probably aim for her instead. But he kept turning his attention back to me and he had a bit of trouble pronouncing my name, so when he finally did get it right, I'd said rather sarcastically, "Well done," and promptly excused myself.

This time, when we went off to collect our lucky draw tickets, I was tired enough and ready to talk to him. We talked and talked and talked - so much so that one of my other girlfriends had to come looking for me ("I thought you'd fainted in the toilet!" she exclaimed once she'd found me). I got his business card and bid him goodnight. Would I contact him? I wondered. Not likely. I couldn't be bothered, I thought.

And then - most unexpectedly of all - he contacted me.

2010-12-16T13:38:00.002Z

Dear Will --- There you were again in my dreams last night. We didn't fall into each other's arms again this time. We were a little more hesitant, and we never made it to the final act after you complained, which made me think 'Well, after the way you acted, why am I not surprised?'

But how lovely it felt to hold you and stretch my hands over your skin, to press you to me, to clasp you. Did we speak about Fleet Foxes? I remember we both ducked into the tiny shower and drew the curtain, and then I heard a voice outside my bedroom and woke up.

I felt sad, thinking about you in the car on the way home. This is so hard, not knowing what's happened to you. I should know why I'm thinking of you - the reasons are all there - but I cannot understand why I cannot let you go, after what you did. I should hate you, but I can't. You felt so right for me. You're only an email away, but I can never go back to you.

A guide to wearing maxi dresses

2010-12-12T11:05:00.002Z

For first-time wearers like myself, who don't usually come across maxi dresses that are cut to an appropriate length for tiny people under 6ft 8" (seemingly standard height for most maxi dress manufacturers).

I know, so totally appropriate for those of you in the UK at the moment.

You will need:

A good pedicure
A nice pair of sandals or slippers. Think special edition sparkly Havaianas, not clunky Birkenstocks - the more delicate, the better
Good shoulders and toned upper arms

Why wear them?

They're floaty and make you feel like a princess
Perfect for hot weather, because they shade your legs from the sun and keep you cool
They're also very useful if you haven't shaved your legs and need an elegant cover-up for summer
Can be dressed up and dressed down - the perennial excuse for buying yet another dress

On the downside...

You have to make sure you don't accidentally shut your dress in a car door
The same goes for being careful around lifts, escalators, and revolving doors
Make sure you lift your skirt to avoid tripping on it when walking up a flight of stairs
Make sure you lift your skirt to prevent other people from tripping on it when you're going down a flight of stairs
If you live in a conservative country like I do where cleavage and bare arms are a no-no, you'll have to find a lightweight cardi that doesn't look too mumsy, which can be annoying.

2010-11-18T14:51:00.004Z

Last night, I had a dream that I tried to kill myself. I slashed at my left arm with a razorblade, clumsily and with not enough force to get the blood flowing properly, so that it took a while for a friend to notice me bleeding before she dragged me off to hospital. Once I was there, the nurses had to stitch me up and refused to give me any sort of anaesthetic. I got the impression they didn't think I deserved one.

Each time they approached me with the needle, I flinched and covered my arm. It wasn't my suicide attempt that scared me; it was the idea of having to endure that needle being poked through my skin again and again. That wasn't what I had survived for. I steeled myself again, the nurses came at me with the needle - and then I woke up, shaken and very late for work.

So here I am again. Back in my home country and living the sort of live that I had run away from for so long - back with the parents, no social life of my own, and certainly nothing to do with boys. I try not to resent the Parentals; it certainly isn't their fault for what I've chosen to do, and in fact, it's very kind of them to take me in. But every time I read back through this blog and look at what I used to do, and God, I want to claw at the walls and scream and turn wild and run away, run back to the UK.

At the advice of a colleague - I did mention that I'm working now, didn't I? - I sought the meaning of my dreams in an online dream dictionary. So what, exactly, did a suicide attempt in my dreams mean?

"To dream that you commit suicide, represents your desperate desire to escape from your waking life."

Well, perhaps that stems from my wanting to claw the walls down every Saturday night.

"Alternatively, the dream suggests that you are saying good-bye to one aspect of yourself and hello to a whole new you. It is symbolic of a personal transformation or a new stage in your life."

It's true. This is a new stage in my life. I am now working in the job that I used to dream of doing when I was eleven. Of course, when I was eleven, I was under the impression that I'd be able to move out into an apartment that I shared with my best friend, and on the sort of salary I have, that's certainly not going to be possible for a while. Still, mustn't grumble - I do realise that I wouldn't have been able to secure this job if I'd spent a year making tea, scrubbing the floors and licking boots for any high profile company in London. Here, the job practically fell into my lap.

I suppose that now I'm here, I made the conscious decision to surrender (if temporarily) my personal life for my career. It could be argued that it wasn't much of a personal life to begin with, seeing as much of it involved ships that passed in the night, or on a regular basis if I was lucky, but at least I had a chance of that happening when I was over there. Not here. I am very much alone here, and yes, I am lonely. Lonely for affection, even though I will admit it to no one but this blog.

It helped that last week, I had a surprise conversation on Facebook with A, who unexpectedly appeared after what must have been over a year. That was nice. And then there was the boy in Rome on my birthday, who - well, perhaps I'll leave that story for later. And Will. No, no news about him. There never will be, but I still think about him. How could I forget something so short, so wonderful, and so painful?

Funny, isn't it, what the mind and body refuse to forget? I think of him in the car, going to and from work, allowing myself tiny, delicious snippets of the past. And then, when the traffic lights turn green, I step on the accelerator and push myself into my present life.

2010-06-30T17:36:00.002+01:00

The weather had turned hot and I was wearing a light, summery turquoise dress. I grabbed a Scarlet, a Company and Vogue off the magazine racks and headed over to the small counter - the one with the cigarettes behind it - to pay.

The man - young man? - behind it didn't exactly catch my eye, but looked sweet in an owlish, round glasses sort of way. He stared down at my choice of glossies while I wondered why I had chosen to put Scarlet at the top of the pile, especially since I knew its unapologetic slogan was 'The magazine that turns women on'.

He stared down and traced a finger over Lady Gaga's triangular skirt, where on the cover, her hips appeared to jut out like Marie Antoinette's wedding dress. 'That dress...' he murmured. 'I'm sorry?' I said, not quite hearing the rest of what he said.

'Just looking at her dress,' he repeated. 'Oh,' I said, 'Well, you certainly couldn't get on a bus with it.' It's true. She'd get stuck in the doors, and London bus drivers aren't exactly sympathetic.

'Are you in fashion?' he asked. I was taken aback by the question but rather thrilled at the same time, as you can guess. Not that I was wearing anything particularly 'fashion-y' at the time. Must have been all those magazines.

'I'd like to be,' I replied. 'I'm looking for that sort of work at the moment - internships, stuff like that.' And I wanted to ask him - how about you? What are your dreams? What do you want to be instead of standing here at this Tesco counter?

'Well, good luck,' he said kindly, and I felt as if there was more we should have said, more that I should have said.

2010-05-19T14:12:00.002+01:00

Sometimes, he appears in front of me. I see it flickering in the eyes of someone who isn't him and yet, is so like him. See this? It has to be the most racy, sexually-charged ballet I've ever seen. It smokes and it smoulders.

That moment at 1:43, where Rudolf pulls down Mary Vetsera's dress and gazes at her: that's the look that Will gave me, every time. The look of a madman who wanted to devour me. When I watch them dance, I'm back there in his room, playing with fire.

Lesson one that night,
breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem.
I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for
what little girl doesn't dearly love a wolf?
- 'Little Red Cap', Carol Ann Duffy

2010-05-06T13:32:00.002+01:00

Oh bother. It's coming to that time of year again - summer - when appropriate footwear has to be found. No more boots, no more trainers; it's time for the sandals and ballet pumps to come out, to be worn with teeny-tiny shorts and floaty cotton dresses.

The frustrating thing is that out of a mountain of cheap and cheerful ballet flats, only a handful are properly lined with soft material (preferably leather) and won't take an age to break in. I've had four pairs that I've loved so dearly I've worn them to holes: the first were the pattern of a Bonne Maman lid and saw me through my A-Levels. The second were found in New Look, black lace over a nude-pink satin outer - I wore them to countless dates, even though they were beer-soaked and club-ruined. The third were red and white striped, a nostalgic throwback to my first pair, and I would slip them on if I had to leave the house quickly, the most memorable occasion being TA's 4am call. The fourth, which are still going strong, were a surprise find. You know that saying, that love will only come for you when you're not looking for it? It's the same with shoes. I was only looking at handbags in a shop when I saw them, tried them on, and loved them instantly. They're the only pair of ballet flats to never need breaking in.

Unfortunately, I left pair #4 across the ocean, so I have to look for a new pair now, and in a hurry. Frankly, I think it would be easier to go looking for a man than to find a new, comfortable pair of flats in that timeframe.

The Ten Most Delicious (Edible) Things in My World

2010-04-23T18:13:00.007+01:00

I was watching Sophie Dahl's 'The Delicious Miss Dahl: Escapism' a few days ago, in which she described Mexican-style hot chocolate chilli as "possibly one of the ten most delicious things in the world". Do I agree? Well, I like chocolate (Green & Black's dark chocolate with cherries is my favourite chocolate bar), but I don't crave it like a crazy woman. I'd much rather go shopping than eat chocolate, but this is mainly because I associate not eating chocolate with being good and watching my weight.

Her statement got me thinking. I love food; it's up there with sex and shopping - hang that - it's so much better than sex, in so many ways. It's far more fulfilling, it's easy to obtain, an incredibly versatile way of expressing one's feelings, and it often gives me so much more pleasure. All the pleasure, with none (or certainly, so much less) of the emotional turmoil and awkward goodbyes afterwards.

So, here is my list: The Ten Most Delicious Things in the World, According to Cherry

A tender, juicy rib-eye steak, cooked medium-rare. The blood should ooze - not gush - out of the meat. I prefer the sauce to be subtle and to enhance the flavour, the sheer sweetness of the meat, rather than mask it.
Oysters: I'm not so expert a consumer that I have a particular type (breed?) that I prefer, but so long as it's fresh and served raw with several lemon wedges and a little bottle of Tabasco sauce, I'm happy. I get angry when I see oysters that have been a) cooked or b) covered with cheese/thick sauce (quelle horreur!) because it's such a waste of a good thing. Boy #2 once said they tasted of the sea, and he was right - and you're only able to taste that wonderful brininess, the tang of the salt spray on your tongue, if you eat it raw and quivering.
I was once served a sliced tomato salad in Australia that was so utterly gorgeous, so firm and crisp and tart, that I honestly never knew tomatoes could taste that way. I've never tasted any like them since, but that memory of their utter sweetness is branded on my tongue.
Scallops: There's something very special about fresh scallop meat - it's like biting into pure muscle, with no trace of fat or flab, and with a sublime sweetness to the flesh. I like them pan-fried with plenty of butter and garlic, although if they've been roasted in their shell, I won't say no to that either.
Gordon Ramsay's chilled cucumber consommé at Claridges: Again, I'll probably never have anything like it again, but it was a wonderful, summery soup with flavours that sparkled in my mouth. It must be so difficult to distil the subtle taste of a cucumber into liquid and make it genuinely delicious, but somehow, they managed it at Claridges.
Ladureé's rose petal cream: This was piped into a Religieuse a la Rose when I was lucky enough to be treated to a pastry at the famous French pattiserie. One mouthful was decadence itself - the richness of the cream the delicacy of its rose scent.
Butter: I love butter. I love tasting it in the flakes of a croissant, and I love spreading good-quality, salty butter onto a crusty bread roll - that feeling of having warm bread and fridge-cold butter in your mouth is such a simple pleasure but so, so tasty.
The Chinese, or perhaps more accurately, the Cantonese, make these nourishing broths called tong yuen. My favourite soup comes in a hollowed-out melon and has bamboo pith, Yunan ham, chicken or pork, and mushrooms; when you drink it, it warms you up as if you've swallowed hot coals. While I like Western soups too, I still feel that few of them offer the comfort of a clear, pure broth, especially when I'm ill.
Maguro: My favourite sashima has got to be tuna. I know that they're being overfished and I am all for letting them breed properly in the ocean and responsible fishing, especially because I would hate not to be able to eat it in the future. I once had a tuna sashimi 'bowl' for breakfast, with maguro and salmon roe laid across rice. The fish was impeccably fresh and, with lashings of wasabi, it made one of the best breakfasts I've ever had.
If I'm feeling naughty and in need of a bit of luxury, I'll buy asparagus, boil it lightly, and then grill it with some olive oil. On top of that goes a poached egg, more olive oil, ground black pepper and Maldon sea salt flakes. Oh, what a dinner that makes.

2010-03-24T07:03:00.002Z

Summer in London, on the Central Line. The heat and the Saturday crowds made the experience all the more stifling and claustrophobic. I can't remember at what point we boarded the train; I do remember we went to Liberty that day and I had wished myself back three months to that healing, blissful evening in the city.

Onto the carriage I rushed, trying to wind my way around other similarly insistent, selfish people. I was gradually shunted towards the other side of the carriage, my parents lost amongst the crush of commuters with bags of shopping. In that swaying, unsteady sea of people, I reached up to cling onto the bar overhead, stretching my toes and cursing my lack of height.

He was standing very close to me, or perhaps instead, I was pressed close to him. He was wearing - of all things - a black wool coat. In the summer. I could only see him from the corner of my eye, but I knew who he reminded me of. That longish brown hair and his height and his slim frame and what I imagined were the same soft brown eyes gazing down at me - it was as if TA was there with me, right next to me.

What if he was TA? Ah, but then we would have recognised each other - after all, we had run into each other often enough before, and in far more dimly-lit places too. I wondered if this boy, whoever he was, might be looking at me too. Was he glancing down? The humid, sweaty air of the carriage made the heat flush through my face. How self-conscious I felt. And really, the absurdity of it all, feeling dizzy because of someone whose face I couldn't even see, but who resembled someone who meant so much to me.

I never got to see what his face properly looked like; to have stared him full in the face would have been rude and awkward. He got out at Notting Hill Gate, and that was that.

2010-03-24T04:03:00.002Z

Watching 'Women, Weddings, Wars and Me' on BBC3 reminded me that it's worth continuing the fight for women's rights.

'When the self-esteem of half a population depends on the control and humiliation of the other half, you have a recipe for a monumentally screwed-up society.'

2010-01-10T17:29:00.002Z

So you're still alive, and so is the project you mentioned all those months ago. I'm glad for you, glad that it's all working out. I'm thinking - what would happen if, when it's all done up, I go and visit on a random day and you're there and we look up and see each other and what sort of moment would occur, what sort of emotions would flash through the two of us.

I'm wondering if you've found someone else, and maybe it's for the better, because wasn't I getting bored? Wasn't I? But now I'm clinging to an old life, a gone life that's like a piece of driftwood, something barely keeping me afloat and I'm sinking sinking sinking in the current now.

Home is so unfriendly and I don't have a proper home to go to anymore. I'll be living off peoples' mercy soon, and I'm scared. I'm so terrified. I know I should count myself lucky - no, fuck that, I should have done more, but I didn't.

You wouldn't have saved me. I know. But it was fun while it lasted, up until the last two minutes.

2010-01-05T10:04:00.002Z

I don't want to lose the beauty of my youth. I don't want to see my body ageing. The cherry blossom chooses to die in one night. I want to do the same.

- Japanese girl's suicide note in '20 Fragments of a Ravenous Youth', Xiaolu Guo

2010-01-04T20:16:00.002Z

Catherine Townsend, putting grey areas into perspective:

'If I cooked a romantic gourmet meal for Peter, and he decided that he wasn't hungry after the appetisers, I would not force feed him foie gras until he vomited, and blame him because he sat at the table.'

So much fun!

2010-01-04T17:42:00.002Z

*Re-blogged from The S Spot.

Which Sex Country would you live in?

I pretty much have a permanent residence in the Land of Mundania, but frequently commute to a dacha past the Great Barrier Mountains in the county of Writing. However, I might not be averse to a brief trip through the Land of D/s if the chance ever arises...

2009-12-07T13:13:00.002Z

What I didn't say was that I can't live here anymore. I can't. I want my old life back. I need it back. I want the life where I used to have friends, I used to fuck beautiful boys, I used to have fun whenever I wanted and I didn't have to account for it, I didn't have to report back home at a certain time. I want to be in a place where I don't have to worry so much about being attacked on the street. I want to be allowed to go wherever I want on my own two feet, and I don't have to worry that I'll bump into something and crash and damage.

Know what else hurt? Having to admit that I haven't done what I was expected to have done. But can't you see that I'm scared and I don't know which direction to go in, and I've been waiting, waiting for someone to show me in the right direction but they haven't, and I'm beginning to think I should have figured it out by myself and I knew that all along but I didn't do anything about it.

I am going to go fucking insane if I have to stay here. Once, I lived, but now I'm nothing.

2009-12-01T03:12:00.002Z

Dear Will Turner --- last night, I dreamt that we fell back into bed together again, no questions asked and no accusations made. The feeling of pressing our bodies against each other, your weight on top of me, having you bite me in exactly the right places once again, felt as right and inevitable as the crashing of waves against a rock.

Oh, how sweet and wonderful it was to be with you again. I'm terrified now - I'm scared that fucking any other boy will never feel as delicious as it was with you that first time, when I could only respond in open-mouthed delight as I discovered that you thought exactly the way I did in bed.

I woke up hungry for you and aching, realising that our time together was almost definitely over, largely by my hand but then again, also because of yours. Yes, I miss you too. I miss the Will I knew before you cut off my breathing. I miss the scrape of stubble across my stomach and against my thigh. I miss the Will who would kiss not only my lips but my wrists and forehead, and I miss the way you would look at me with those wolfish grey eyes to tell me that you really, really meant business and that you were either going to kill me or fuck me into next week.

I would like to think that our minds still work in tandem, and that across the world where you're lying in bed right now, you're dreaming about us too.

2009-11-25T16:52:00.003Z

Shay's excellent S-Spot blog, which I read fairly often and highly recommend, just put up an article about The Sexiest Smells, or smells that turn you on. It's an interesting topic, and one that I haven't really dwelt on very much, but it plays such an important role in my memories of boys I've been with.

After all, I go crazy for perfume. Crazy. I could wander around the Perfume department of Selfridges all day, and I can think of three scents I would happily bathe in. All of those three have an element of vanilla, which greatly appeals to me because it's slightly musky, and ever so slightly exotic while being comfortingly familiar at the same time. It's a versatile element in a perfume, too: for the perfume that I go really, really mad for, the vanilla is mixed with smoky undertones and heady - but not heavy - floral notes. If I put it on, I feel utterly sexy.

My other favourite perfume is French, and smells of vanilla, pears and musk. I put it on if I feel like something sumptuous, a little touch of luxury to lift my mood. I'll wear it for a first date, or to meet friends. A special occasion. But enough about me - the boys now.

For the boys, it seems to be about smoke. My overriding memory of Boy #1 is of the second time we kissed. We were at a party, and people had been smoking spliffs; I remember how the smell of the smoke clung to his clean hair, and how I had loved the greenness of the smell, that peculiar lilt to it.

Boy #2 sometimes used Chanel's Allure Homme, but it was really when he wore Kenzo Homme that stirred me. I remembered it when we met each other after that two-year gap, and breathed him in again, Kenzo plus the smell of fresh smoke from his cigarettes. It suited him. Sometimes, if I'm shopping or if I'm in the duty-free section in an airport, I'll pick up a bottle and sniff it hopefully, as if it could bring us to life again.

As for Boy #3 - meh. I know all boys use Lynx, but he used it so often that it was virtually his calling card. And for the real 'special occasions', he'd spray on some sort of generic cologne that was synthetic and inoffensive - or rather, plain boring. I know that sounds snobbish, and I do realise that not ever boy can afford a personalised scent designed for him specially by Serge Lutens. Scents that don't bear a designer name are not automatically tacky and horrible - not at all. As a child, I used to use solid lotus perfume from Nepal, scraped from anonymous little copper jars. The smell of a particular Body Shop perfume is still the only scent that will stop me dead in the street, because that smell is of my mother. But I want a boy who wears something with texture, with a little more soul to it than something that's so blatantly mass-marketed.

TA smelt of hair conditioner - his hair usually had a tropical, holiday-y sort of scent that was unapologetically artificial. It was pleasant, though. And most of the time, I didn't get to pause and think about what sort of cologne he wore, since we were busy removing each other from our clothes.

I can't quite remember exactly how Will Turner smelt, but I know it made me hungry for him. I know I saw a bottle of Paco Rabanne somewhere in his living room, although it could have belonged to one of his housemates. I have a feeling that it was him that I smelt - the essence of him, the faint and not-unpleasant smell of sweat, and then that night that he'd stood near a bonfire.

Back it goes to smoke, and it has all gone up in smoke now.

2009-11-02T16:37:00.003Z

Dark thoughts again. I tell myself, over and over:

It was not the way I wanted it to be. It was not how I wanted it. It was not what I wanted - not like that.

2009-10-30T16:41:00.002Z

I've never bought any sort of personal massage device, ever. I've been to Ann Summers parties (where the sales promoters have enthusiastically suggested testing a vibrator's power on the tip of your nose) and I once went into a pretty hardcore sex shop when I was in university, but that was really to buy my dance pole.

All of a sudden, I've become very attracted to the idea of glass. To me, it doesn't seem monstrous or sleazy, but in fact, rather beautiful; plus, quite a few reviews on the Internet have remarked - raved, even - at how smooth its surface is compared to ordinary silicone. It's not the stuff of farce, is glass. I see it as an artistic toy, a work of art I can have fun with.

Although a few vibrating glass toys have been invented, I'm not really interested in what it can do so much as what it looks like. Is that superficial? For instance, LoveHoney sells one, and it's a clever idea that allows its user to chop and change, depending on their mood.

That pales in comparison, however, to Bondara's glass selection. I am literally in love with their pink Hera. It is so, so gorgeous. It's pink without being patronisingly kitsch, and those curves are incredibly appealing. It's on sale now, and by goodness, I wish I'd discovered this when I was still living in the UK. I reckon I'd have had quite a ball, although getting it back to my home country would have been quite a nightmare.

The whole glass toy range at Bondara is fantastic. I really like the fact that they've named their toys after Greek deities, since I've always loved Greek mythology and it gives the toys an air of elegant debauchery, rather than just giving them tacky titles such as 'The Thruster' or 'Monster Cock', or whatever they're naming adult toys these days.

My other favourite is Hyperion, which is definitely quite a good idea for a toy and is probably very entertaining to use in front of a partner, but for personal satisfaction (not that I'm an expert), the shape looks a bit too basic compared to my first choice. Selene also looks like it would make an enjoyable toy, but I must highlight Artemis as the prettiest plug I've ever seen. I doubt I'd buy it, and I'm wondering whether the goddess herself would be so pleased if she knew how her name was being used, but its transparent, crystalline quality is charming.

While Bondara do overseas delivery for £4.99, I'm very tempted to risk it, but then the post here is so unreliable, and they already rifle through the parcels for valuables. Tut, tut.

2009-10-19T13:51:00.000+01:00

Dammit! Why didn't I think of this?!?!

2009-10-16T13:52:00.003+01:00

Sitting in the car this evening, waiting for the rush-hour traffic to finish its crawl, I wondered if it would have been better off if I'd gone ahead and let it happen anyway. After it first happened, I mean.

Perhaps I might as well have done it - as I found out all those months afterward, it would have been safe, and don't they say it feels so much better? And then we might still be speaking and writing to each other now, and I might have something to look forward to. I wouldn't be wondering, every night, who he's met in Metropolis now and if he ever thinks of me and understands what he did.

But at the time, after I breathed again and everything inside me had turned to ice, I told myself to stick to my guns and say no. The temptation was there, and I did consider it for a second, but I knew - I knew I would be betraying myself and everything I stood for. That I would never play the fool, and that I would always look after myself. What if creation defied everything I threw at it and grew into life? I wouldn't let myself be so stupid, and I'm glad.

So I got my wish.

2009-09-29T16:22:00.000+01:00

"I have known the violent side of men, the side that can destroy another human being because of their own desires." - Tori Amos

2009-09-14T18:39:00.002+01:00

Fantasy #38: Slow-dancing in a floaty, ditzy flower print dress with a boy I like, and the Arctic Monkeys' 'Cornerstone' in the background. Because it tugs at my heartstrings and makes me want someone to hold my hand as I turn, lower my eyes, smile, and flirt coyly.

2009-09-12T18:53:00.003+01:00

So. Shall I write about how I made love with a boy while I still had the bruises left by another on my body?

All made out of more love, of course, not violence. Or if not love, then desire. And afterwards, I kissed Will goodbye - perhaps for the last time, I thought - and headed to brunch, then dinner. I had to cover the bruises with makeup in case anyone noticed; that's how bad they were. I looked like I'd been mauled. (Which I had, I suppose. In a good way.)

After dinner, TA cancelled on me. Then phoned later, as I was scouring shower tiles, to ask if I could go round before he left for home. I went, of course.

I thought he just wanted to talk, so when he leaned in and kissed me, I asked: 'Are you sure you've got time for this?' He murmured he did. Off went the lights, our clothes - or was it the other way round?

In the dark, we ran our hands over each other, tasted each other. 'I'll miss this,' I said. By that, I meant I'd miss him. I doubted I'd ever find such beauty again. His favourite CD played in the background, and after all, he'd always had good taste in music (amongst other things). And when we finally were, it was different - better. Slower. More gentle, less for show. At last, fucking that wasn't self-conscious on his part. Oh, why couldn't he have done it this way from the start?

If we weren't kissing, our faces were only inches apart. I could feel him breathing, hear him, hear us giving little gasps, little moans as we moved together. The sound of us against the silence. It was the closest I'd ever come to making love with him properly. And then, slightly sour, I wondered who'd taught him to be less frantic in bed. I doubted he'd suddenly had some sort of sexual revelation.

It was over too soon. He had to leave, I had boxes to pack and a guilty conscience to ignore. Walking back home later, I would realise it had been just sixteen hours since I'd been in bed with someone else.

I got dressed with the lights on while he stared up at me from the bed, lying there in just his boxers. I'd forgotten how his eyes had that look - still had it - that could make me fall in love with him again and again, and melt me, melt me. Now I wonder if he saw the marks on my shoulder - I'd forgotten about them - because even with foundation dusted across the bites, you could still see them slightly. Careless of me, but maybe he wouldn't really have cared. I'm sure he had other lovers, and I certainly had mine.

At the door, I wished him luck. He told me a Boy Lie. I kissed him and left, and when I was halfway back to my house, I realised I had only seen him for half an hour, tops. So much in so little time.

2009-09-11T14:12:00.002+01:00

I suddenly remembered that second dinner - or was it the first? - when you asked me if we should make lightning. How you poured a little milk into a glass, put a light bulb in it, then turned the microwave on.

When I watched the same experiment in Physics class all those years back, I swear I'd seen the bulb turn purple. This time, it shot fine threads of light around the metal interior, as if you were some kind of Zeus-figure. What shame, what a shame I turned out to be your Leda.

2009-09-03T11:57:00.003+01:00

And so time and time again I would surrender my love to you -
Who'd have known that in a moment you'd leave me behind?
Since we are now poles apart, east and west,
How much better if, from the start, we had never met?

- Song of Everlasting Resentment, Wang Jiaoluan

I wished for a man
With a single heart,
That we should not part
When our hair turned white,
Not a bamboo rod,
Swayed by the tail
Of any wriggling fish.
A man with a steady will
Cannot be had for money.

- A Song of White Hair, Zhuo Wenjun

2009-06-16T04:13:00.001+01:00

But in the end, it wasn't Will Turner who would be my last in this city. It was none other than TA.

And I actually rather liked it, I think.

2009-06-15T11:18:00.002+01:00

Lying in bed with Will Turner after making the beast for the second time, I was stroking his hair as his hands drifted over my body. I felt better than the morning before, even though there were still bloodstains that needed to be hidden, because things had gone much better the third time round.

'I wish I could have met you earlier,' I whispered. He nodded. Then we would have had more time together.

But then, perhaps things would be different - as I said to RM, perhaps I'd become neurotic about whether our relationship had just become based on sex alone, as so many of my relationships often are, or dreading having to meet his friends and engage in existentialist discussion. Non, merci.

It's these nights and mornings in bed that I hold out for.

2009-06-13T14:06:00.001+01:00

And I do like to play with fire. The excitement: unmatchable. It is only when something catches alight and the flames grow out of control that I leave the scene, and someone else has to clear the debris.

2009-06-11T13:45:00.004+01:00

Message received from Will Turner at Metropolis, 23:47:

About to go to sleep. My bed is a lot less welcoming without your sexy body in it. x

My reply - time unknown.

Oh shame, I thought you were coming out? All the while I was away, I kept thinking back to that night and checking my bite marks. x

*Edit:
And then his message the next evening:

I wish I had. I would have loved to have given you more bite marks, especially in that particular place. x

So, not so shy anymore, perhaps...

2009-06-10T16:11:00.001+01:00

Fuck, I feel stressed. It almost makes me want to take up smoking again.

2009-06-08T05:52:00.005+01:00

In one of Sex and the City's episodes, Carrie says something along the lines of 'A girl will always remember the first time she has sex; the first time she has good sex...' - and I don't remember the rest.

But I think last night was it, with Will Turner. Good sex, I mean. Or at least, the best I've had so far. Sure, it took a while to actually get to - he went on and on about postmodernism to the extent that I came very close to whacking him about the head with an art house cinema DVD, but I finally grabbed the bull by the horns and we ended up getting very heated on the couch.

Things started off slow and slightly awkwardly, and I remember thinking, 'Oh brilliant, he's so shy that he's probably going to stop after he's undone my top button,' but suddenly my bra was on the floor and we were heading upstairs.

After shooing the cat off the bed, he quickly finished making the bed while I casually examined his CD collection, then stroked my arm and murmured, 'Now didn't I leave you more undressed than you are now?' And woah.

I quickly discovered that we have very similar preferences in terms of where we like to be touched - ears and neck. Only Boy #2 has ever gone for the ear thing, but he was never so responsive as Will Turner. Even stroking his ears and running my fingers along his neck - never mind touching below the waistline - was enough to seriously distract him from any discussion of surrealist sculpture. 'So it's the ears and neck that do it for you, then?' I whispered. 'Would you not agree?' he asked. 'Yes,' I replied, 'Oh, yes.'

The way he touched me was marvellous too - happy to go down on me for ages and ages, although disconcertingly, very into his 69s. And he'd do those little kisses along the length of my arms, on the base of my wrists where my pulse beat, on the skin of my thighs, all those touches that I realised I've taught myself not to expect from boys anymore.

There was that moment where I asked him if he had protection and he looked at me apologetically, and said, 'Ah... I don't think so. It's just that I haven't had a girlfriend in a long time.' Which implies that he either sleeps around without protection (sound familiar, Boy #3?) or is fairly discerning about who he gets with. Hard to guess these things, I suppose. Anyhow, I had slipped one in my purse just in case, so we were alright.

Possibly the most surprising moment was when I was waiting for him to just jump in there like most boys have done in the past, usually with minimal concern for my own comfort or pleasure, but he continued to touch me. When I pressed him to go, he told me gently, 'No, no, you can't rush these things.' Oh my God - a man who finally 'takes his time and does everything right', as Salt 'n' Pepa would say. Hallelujah.

When he did, it was pretty good. The only thing stopping me enjoying myself was myself, really, but nothing I can help at the moment. Size wise, near perfect - not too massive, not microscopically small. Even when I started crying, as I often do, he proved himself to be the only boy who has ever asked me - with genuine concern, too - 'I'm not hurting you, am I?'

Amazing night. Amazing. I can't stop feeling like I want to tell every single person (parents and relatives excluded, of course) just how fucking fantastic we are in bed together. Perhaps it will wear off - I hope not - but for now, I'm beaming.

N.B. After quite a lot of searching, I finally found the specific SATC quote: 'In a single gal's life, there are three important firsts. The first time you have sex; the first time you have good sex; and the first time you see a guy-you-just-started-dating's apartment.' (Carrie, The Perfect Present) I personally don't know about the third 'first time' being that important at all, but then again, apart from Boy #2's apartment - or rather, his parents' apartment, but it was still so unbelievably amazing that when we broke up, I was more upset about not being able to go back than the death of the relationship - it has mainly been a rented student room.

2009-06-07T17:46:00.003+01:00

Funny how a day can pivot on its axis and do a complete turnaround. I was feeling so down in the early afternoon that I was listening to Billie Holiday and weeping a bit. It was grey and dreary, and it seemed that summer was well and truly gone.

Then I started watching the French Open, and was trying to stop hyperventilating when I suddenly noticed that TA - of all people! - had tried to Facebook chat with me fifteen minutes ago. So, I picked up the thread, and we had a decent conversation, albeit a fairly distracted one:

TA
what u doing over summer?

Cherry

going back home

it's the end of my course now, so i'm moving out of the UK

TA

when u going?

Cherry

very soon :(

TA

gotta make sure i see u before u go

Oh, TA. I swore I wouldn't. I was thinking of texting you goodbye, but even that seemed like a bad idea. I don't know if you know how much I love you. I reckon you certainly have no idea that knowing you has enabled me to write two of my most important pieces of writing. And no boy has ever given me that same thrill, that rush that I felt when our eyes met the second time round. I count myself lucky to have been able to experience that.

And I promised myself the third time would be the last time. But if you want it, I think I do too. Sleeping with Boy #20 means nothing in this light. But with you, it can never be so easily dismissed.

And Will Turner has invited me round to dinner again tonight. Time to primp, I suppose.

2009-06-03T00:37:00.002+01:00

Today (or rather, looking at the time, yesterday), I did two things I never thought I'd do.

The first was at a pole class, where I rather half-heartedly attempted to do a Shoulder Mount - not thinking that there was much point as I have never really managed to get it - and actually did it! It was a really weird moment where I felt completely out of control of my own body, but in a good way - as in, 'You mean I can do that?!?' Such an exhilarating feeling, to realise my body is more powerful than I thought it was. Capable of almost infinite possibilities. And yet limited - as I shall proceed to explain.

Because the second unbelievable thing I did was to fuck on the first date. Oh yes. Remember Boy #20? After a hell of a lot of fussing about, during which I thought he'd basically unloaded a heap of bullshit about re-enacting the lake scene of The Notebook - actually, in retrospect, I really should have seen that one coming, but I was plastered when I met him - we finally managed to meet up for a drink.

By a drink, I mean two double gin and cranberrys on an empty stomach, and apparently that is all it takes to get me into bed. One minute, we were making jokes about skinny dipping and I was laughing coyly when he said, 'Ah, you've got all night. So have I. Perhaps we'll sleep together?', and then we really were.

But... I just couldn't enjoy it somehow. Yes, he was good looking, tall, strong, could carry me and fuck me at the same time, but it didn't work for me. Because the lights were out, I could sob and sob silently, and the tears kept coming, and I just kept wondering when he'd finish. I think I might have hated it.

I liked him better once he'd finished and the light was on. I saw he had a tattoo of a dragon on his left shoulder - a sign? Although, perhaps, whether it was a good sign or not is certainly debatable. I told him he didn't have to feel obligated to call me. A stupid thing to say, but I was tired - tired from the day, from the fucking, from the goodbyes, from not knowing what I'm doing with myself, and from those boys who say they will but never do.

Once he left, I thought - TA is not the last boy to have fucked me now. And then, the moment that nearly made me cry again: Will Turner texts, 'Hey, what are you up to? x'

2009-05-30T02:37:00.003+01:00

An average night out at Crowbar - although I did give someone my number. Eerily, he had the first name of No. #20 and the last name of No. #18. Just a leetle beetle odd there.

Not interested, though. Granted, he was older than me and knew a fair amount about my home country, but just... Thank you, flattered, but no.

On a completely different note, I am beginning to find Pete Doherty strangely attractive. Wtf? I am not usually drawn to boys with baby faces, and certainly not to heroin addicts - Russell Brand excepted, of course - so I can't understand why I've suddenly taken a liking to him. My only explanation is that he's a modern-day poet of sorts.

Time for bed, I suppose. Ugh.

2009-05-27T19:39:00.002+01:00

In a sour mood, possibly due to low blood sugar level, plus increasingly late nights. And boy trouble. Or rather, lack of boys. That's the trouble.

Or else, the ones I don't want keep coming back, and the ones I want can't seem to wait to get rid of me. And bombshells being dropped oh so casually.

Oh baby, what a shambles.

Oh and I'll never...
Sever the ties
And fuck forever
If you don't mind
See I'm stuck forever
I'm stuck in your mind, your mind, your mind, your mind.
- 'Fuck Forever', Babyshambles

20!

2009-05-20T03:28:00.002+01:00

So was not expecting that. I'm having a quiet art-deco bar glide with a close girlfriend, when suddenly, he's wearing my hat and buying me a Sailor Jerry's with lime, and then I'm outside in the cold, wearing his jacket and kissing him in a doorway.

And to think I only came out for a bit of a dance...

2009-05-19T01:34:00.000+01:00

Yes, the more I think about it... I suppose I would like to have you as a lover.

2009-05-19T01:28:00.002+01:00

Best media meeting conversation I have had in a long time:

Aspiring Music Journalist: I hope they start the meeting soon. I have laundry to do.

Me: I know, I have a roast in the oven right now. If it hits forty-past, I'm out the door.

2009-05-18T20:34:00.003+01:00

Fuck. Why hasn't Will Turner been texting me?

Bollocks. See, this is what happens once a boy cooks you dinner - you get all dependent and start thinking that it's going to be love forever, then they don't text you and the world starts to fall apart.

I am now desperate enough to text No. 18.

Perhaps I'm just a bit tired after my all-nighter last night.

There's a horrible suspicion in the back of my mind - that during my conversation with Maisy, he was in the same cafe and overheard everything I said. Just....

FUCK!!!!

2009-05-15T16:49:00.003+01:00

Over breakfast with Maisy, of indiscreet conversations:

Me: ...So the invitation was there, but I couldn't take it up, of course. Not with the painters in and all that.

Maisy: That would have been so embarrassing.

Me: I know.

Maisy: You don't really sound that keen on him, you know.

Me: Really? I suppose --- I suppose I do like him, but I just don't want to get into anything serious. Not now.

Maisy: When you're about to leave.

Me: Exactly. I'm just not feeling that inclined to commit. It's such bad timing. A couple of months back, and I'd have jumped at the chance.

Maisy: Well, try not to pick up anymore guys at Metropolis.

Hmph. She has a point, I suppose.

Did I mention I have a) a hangover from last night's half-bottle of wine and b) cramps? I am feeling rather shite.

A text from No. #18: 'I'm heading home this weekend, but if your still around next month, it would be great to meet up when I get back. Xx'

Shit. How to turn him down gently, and graciously? I really must stop giving my number out so flippantly. I've basically been deleting all of his texts. If they're not there, technically he doesn't exist, and I never pulled him.

2009-05-15T02:57:00.002+01:00

Feeling rather shamefaced from last night, having made my apologies to the various parties involved - my housemates, for opening my bedroom door with the delicacy of a SWAT team; FB, for being a spanner in the works of the boys' night out; Indie Queen, for texting her at what-time-do-you-call-this? o'clock - I went to Will Turner's house for dinner.

He very sweetly went to the trouble of cooking me a three course meal: tiny portions of risotto stuffed into a butternut squash, roast pork with all the trimmings (including stuffing, mange tout, potatoes, gravy, and more), then upside-down pineapple cake to finish. I was really touched by his effort.

I think it's only been Boy #3 who's cooked for me before - cottage pie, when we were just starting our relationship, and then lamb chops with buttery mashed potatoes and courgettes. The latter meal stays closest to my heart because I was under pressure to write an essay, and he came to my rescue by cooking dinner that evening while I worked. That was when Boy #3 was still my dependable Aidan. How things changed after that summer.

After dinner, I looked at some of his work, and then we watched a film. The usual routine, I suppose. I'll admit, I was clock-watching the entire way through. Plus, it didn't help that the boy I'd pulled last night - No. #18 - kept bloody texting me throughout the film. I lied and said that one of my housemates had food poisoning, but the ease with which I can lie is really quite disturbing.

I suppose I managed to smooth over my guilt about kissing another boy. It's not the first time - of course it's not - that I've done this, but I really don't want to hurt Will. It's just that I was so drunk at the time that, really... I wasn't thinking. Will actually asked me whether I'd been in Metropolis recently, so I gave him a very abbreviated version of my night. 'You didn't miss much,' I told him. Just, you know, me getting very giggly with my ex-boyfriend's best friend and then my pulling a Mancunian with a good haircut.

There was that awkward moment where I had to decide between staying at his or going home. He did say to me, 'You can stay here, if you like.' An invitation, I suppose. I was always going to choose to go home, especially when wearing contact lenses.

He walked me home, like a gentleman. I think we were running out of words, or I was, at least. But still, we talked. And then it came to that even more awkward moment where we said goodbye and goodnight. I wondered if it would be that tentative peck on the cheek, or maybe the lips, at a push.

It almost was. But then I reached out to him - put my hand lightly on his shoulder and drew him towards me, very gently. And finally, he kissed me. Tenderly, and softly - far cry from No. #18, which pretty much required me to extract myself from the grip of a steel vice. And then he reached up and tucked my hair behind my left ear. Oh. Boy, oh, don't you know that's a weakness of mine? Oh.

At last. I think it was worth the wait.

2009-05-14T03:33:00.003+01:00

Okay, I have basically:

Pulled # 18 - is it #18? I'm trying my very best to count accurately after three doubles. He was, um... I might regret it in the morning. Nice hair, though.
Talked/flirted with Boy #2's best friend. Oh, fuck off - why shouldn't I?
Left FB to wander off by himself.
Um, I have dinner with Will Turner tonight. Oooops.

2009-05-03T01:17:00.003+01:00

After dinner at a Female Half's house tonight, I left her house at about quarter past 11. I hugged her by the door and stepped out into the street - it was chilly, but mercifully dry.

A few steps away from the door, I heard a kissy-kissy noise and turned around, thinking it was Female Half joking around - although it seemed like an odd joke for her to make. I couldn't see her, but it was so dark, I assumed she was standing in the doorway. I walked on.

Another few steps, and the kissy-kissy noise came again. Once more, I turned around and finally spotted a figure standing in the porch of a house a little further away. Seeing that they had my attention, they waved, at which point I quickly started walking away, cursing my own stupidity and muttering something along the lines of 'Fucking idiot...' (This time referring to him, not me.)

I kept walking, but instinctively, I could sense that I was still being watched. I looked behind me, and sure enough, whoever the person was - definitely male - had now stepped into the street and was walking in my direction.

Fuck. Fuck. Was I being followed, or was he simply walking in the same street because he needed to go somewhere? Oh God. I could feel myself becoming more alarmed, and I rummaged in my bag for my phone. I thought about who to call - maybe a coursemate who lived nearby, Female Half, one of my housemates, Will Turner...

I looked back again. Now he was speeding up, picking up the pace to run towards me. I still didn't open my phone to call someone, but as his footsteps got closer, I switched to the other side of the road. There was someone else in the street, another man; the fact that there was someone there calmed me slightly - surely the person running after me wouldn't try to harrass me in front of a potential witness.

He caught up to where I was on the street, just on the opposite pavement. We were separated only by the strip of road. He didn't actually seem to be paying any attention to me. Perhaps he had just been heading in the same direction I was. No justified reason for the kissing noises, though. Then ---

'Excuse me, madamoiselle, madamoiselle,' he called. I kept my eyes down and walked forward, ignoring him. If he walked towards me, I'd scream at him to fuck off, tell him to stop following me, ring someone on my phone - or all three simultaneously. Or maybe I'd dropped something? What did he want???

And then he suddenly just gave up: 'Okay, goodbye.' He turned a corner into another street and was gone. That was it - I didn't see him again though I kept checking constantly, even once I'd reached the main road.

I had to call Female Half; my voice was trembling as I told her what happened. I suppose he might have been trying to be friendly, but I refuse to acknowledge that I actively encouraged him to follow me - at what point did I ask him to walk with me, to follow me? I simply checked to see where the noise was coming from. How dare he.

And the thing is, it could have been worse. I have heard stories. Women need to be safe, to feel safe. To reclaim the night.

2009-04-30T02:01:00.004+01:00

Received today, while having a very late lunch with the (definitely platonic) Occasional Housemate and Housemates #1 and #2:

'The thought of you still really, really turns me on. X - A1'

2009-04-27T22:58:00.003+01:00

If I didn't know better, I'd say I was exchanging near-flirtatious texts with the Occasional Housemate. Oh, come on. He's just a platonic friend. I have this disgusting tendency to assume that every man in the world is secretly in love with me.

Still, it's a pretty amusing conversation we're having, particularly when he said:

'You're practically weightless and incredibly flexible, and you pole dance! I can't understand why guys aren't buying into that - think of the possibilities!'

Yeah, neither can I, actually. I went down south this weekend to attend an uncle's wedding anniversary, and began to wonder (rather narcissistically) whether I'm just destined not to have much luck romantically. I mean, it's not that I've had horrendously bad luck, and I'm very grateful for that, but I have girlfriends who have ended up with really, really good guys. I suppose I'm starting to wonder why it hasn't happened to me.

Then Occasional Housemate makes a reference to our larking about in Wavelength and mentions the fact that I probably won't be seeing much of him after this month, and says he'll 'make the most of it' when he next sees me. I tell him I'll tuck my top into my trousers, as last time, I was in danger of exposing my bra to all and sundry once he'd turned me upside down.

He replies:

'Wear whatever you'd like. If I throw you around, I'll make sure it's somewhere private.'

Hmmm. Will Turner, meanwhile, keeps offering to distract me from work. Rather like A, he has been afflicted by a sporting injury. What is it with the boys I see and black eyes?

2009-04-24T02:06:00.002+01:00

Big l0l!11!one - Housemate #1 heard me zipping up my suitcase and thought I was packing an overnight bag for a dirty stopout. As if!

I don't pack for a dirty stopout, anyway. That time TA called at four in the morning, I remember throwing my phone into a bag and stumbling out the door as quietly as possible. (Plus keys, of course. Forgetting them would have been disastrous.)

However, if I did choose to take an overnight bag along with me, this is what I'd include:

Condoms, or some other form of protection. Diaphragm, femidom, spermicide - girls, the world is much more our oyster than it was fifty years ago. I'm not too keen on the Morning After pill, though. I'd use it, and I'm all in favour of it being made available at pharmacies and clinics as Emergency Contraception if anything goes wrong, but ideally, you should already be using some sort of protection beforehand.
Lip balm - chapped lips really are hell on earth. And if you'd like to see your rendez-vous partner again, a sweet and tender kiss might certainly go some way to setting that up, while a scratchy, crusty goodbye probably won't.
A hairbrush - woah! Bed hair! But don't bring the whole kit - straighteners, gel, curlers, hairdryer, mobile standing steamer - in case the boy thinks you're about to move in with him.
Breath mints, to cope with the morning kiss (and possibly Round #2/3/4/72). Or you can bring
A toothbrush and toothpaste, but if you've ever seen the depths to which a boys' bathroom hygiene standards can plummet, you won't even feel safe touching the taps, let alone resting your toothbrush against the rim of the sink. Best to stick with the mints.
An extra pair of knickers as you never know when they'll come in handy. Remember not to leave the other pair behind, especially if they're a favourite pair of yours. Agent Provocateur G-strings don't grow on trees, you know.
Sunglasses, to be worn while beating a hasty retreat. Optional, though. In a student neighbourhood, you'll just look pretentious - more so if it's in the middle of winter. Why not try
A change of morning clothes instead? A hoodie and jeans will do the trick, and will allow you to keep on feeling smug without having your dignity evaporate the minute you make your walk home in a spangly dress and six-inch heels amongst a sea of students in... hoodies and jeans.
Money for a taxi, if you're really far away from home. If he's a gentleman, he might pay, but it's never a good idea to be financially dependent on the other person in a relationship, however brief.
Phone - the most important thing. So you can get help if he's a psycho, briefly let your friend(s) know where you are, and text aforementioned friend(s) about what's just happened once the boy has gone off for a shower. Well, I did, anyway...

2009-04-23T17:31:00.002+01:00

I am currently eating a snack that would probably be termed by most health professionals as very unhealthy indeed: smoked Bavarian cheese, shortbread, and dark chocolate with cherries. But fuck it - it's tasty, and I like it.

Here is a list of more things I do that I really shouldn't, but do anyway:

Boys who I'm not in a serious relationship with
Poledance for fun
Leave academic assignments until the last minute
Use semicolons without knowing the rules
eBay relentlessly - often for the same thing (e.g. I have been searching for 'topshop lace' for the past year)
Continue to try eating cream-based products when I am fully aware of the knowledge that I'm cream/lactose-intolerant
Play songs that I like over and over and over again. And then once more, just for the hell of it
Write silly blog entries when I have lots of things to do.

2009-04-22T23:54:00.002+01:00

I'm so fucking frustrated. Fuck. I don't know what it is exactly that I'm not doing right.

I invite Will over; I get him up to my bedroom as quickly as I can without my housemates seeing. We talk and talk this agonizing conversation that we always hold, and I'm waiting for something to happen, waiting for him to reach out to me and touch me like I think I want him to touch me.

He doesn't. Even when I sit next to him in the bed in the least expectant way possible, he keeps his eyes down or straight ahead. I sigh, show him some of my work. Wonder how to wrap this up before I get bored. Decide that I probably don't want it anyway.

Eventually, he picks up his bag and heads off. I open the door and see him out. I see something in his eyes, or at least, I think I do - the potential of something, clouded with hesitation. We both lean in and we do kiss, but it's the swiftest brushing of lips, nervous and so, so not passionate. Not what I think I want.

I back off, smiling coyly. Then I shut the door, wondering what the hell that was. That does not count, I think. And I miss the passion of the boys I knew who made it clear what they wanted. This is not so easy, I think. Not easy at all.

2009-04-21T23:27:00.002+01:00

In the past few days, I have been called...

Beloved wild child - my parents, being lovely. Mind you, I probably am a bit.
A lovely young girl - by a very charming (straight, but taken, alas) hairdresser who had just trimmed my hair. I was telling him about how I didn't feel safe walking down the street, to which his equally cute assistant chipped in with, 'Well, there are a lot of Turks around here...', and my new hairdresser added, '...So it does get a bit leery. It doesn't really bother us, but a lovely young girl such as yourself might feel a bit uncomfortable.' 'Smooth,' snickered the cute assistant, which rather spoiled the whole charm of the conversation. Best to come to terms with the fact that it's all flattery, I suppose. (Still, they were right - two-thirds up the road, I was crossing at a set of traffic lights when some boy muttered, 'Hello gaw-jus.' I walked on, needless to say. I was probably hearing things.)
Quiet girl - Will, being sweet, I think. Then again, I still have my reservations. Or am I just bitter and over-cautious?

2009-04-21T03:30:00.002+01:00

A quick note before I go to bed: I spent the afternoon in town doing frivolous things, such as trying on H&M's version of the Herve Leger bandage dress. It was, in my opinion, a perfect example of the difference between Designer and High Street - not that I'm one to snub the High Street.

God, no. I'm a Topshop whore, and I can't afford Designer anyway. But trying on H&M's bandage dress in what they must have deemed a 'safe' black, I came to the conclusion that they had just sewn several elastic bands together in a factory somewhere in the depths of Romania, then shoved them on the rack without any further thought.

As far as I know, the original bandage dress was designed purely with a Body Con aesthetic in mind, where it sucks in at the right places and flatters wherever flattering is required. Blame my height, my pale yellow colouring or even my lack of high heels, but frankly, I looked like one of those synthetic frankfurters squeezed into rather lumpy black pudding casing.

My bust was virtually nonexistent, trapped underneath the top ring of what was most definitely a wide elastic band, while the rest of the dress failed to make me look anything near streamlined or sleek. At the hem, the material flared out (possibly inadvertantly), skewing what I first saw as the elegant line of the dress. Clearly, it was constructed for women who a) have no hips and b) have thighs the width of pins. Body Con, my arse.

No, when it comes to a bandage dress, H&M are going to have to do better. Oasis' version looked much more promising and well structured - although if you're going to pay £80 for it, perhaps you might as well go the whole hog and buy the original designer.

On my wishlist:

Melanie - because it's fun to wear nude things, as people have to look twice to check if you're naked

Rainbow - even if I'd never actually wear it, what life it would bring to a wardrobe...

Bandage Tank - probably the most realistic piece to wear, in a lovely colour as well. Could unfortunately be mistaken for a High Street copy, though.

2009-04-19T02:21:00.002+01:00

That's it. I give in. I am officially in love with Zac Efron.

I don't quite know at what point my resolve started to cave in (I still refuse to watch the High School Musical series, probably because I'm a snob), but it was probably after seeing this picture of him doing a pole dance move called 'The Flag'. I also love Perez Hilton's coverage/stalkerage of Zac Efron because he refuses to acknowledge Vanessa Hudgens' existence. Works for me.

Thinking about it, Boy #2 does have the potential - read, the hair - to look like Zac Efron, as long as he wears a massive pair of aviators. Mind you, once the sunglasses come off, FAIL.

On a completely different note, Will Turner has offered to come round to mine yet again at half two in the morning. Given that I a) have got my period, b) haven't washed my hair in three days, c) haven't tidied my room so that it is an absolute state, and d) have only known him for about a week, I think it screams disaster. Why exactly is he so eager to come round?!?

Shades of TA, if you ask me.

2009-04-18T01:33:00.003+01:00

Feeling absolutely exhausted today. Fuck knows why. Probably because I didn't have dinner until midnight. Bleh.

This was mainly due to the fact that Will Turner invited me to a film premiere - although, as it turned out, not the red carpet kind where Angelina Jolie sashayed past me, but a very low-budget indie flick in a cold town hall, with chairs that had been unstacked about ten minutes before the premiere started. Oh yes, and there were about five people there.

Still, everyone there was nice; very friendly, interesting to talk to. As we watched the film, I wondered what Will thought of it, what he was seeing that my untrained eye couldn't pick up. Personally, I found the film quite confusing and hard to follow, although a few people seemed to feel the same way as well.

We spent the best part of an hour there before heading off to a cafe down the road, which we found out becomes a jazz bar in the evening. I couldn't work out whether we were struggling to talk over the music, or just struggling to talk. Maybe it was me feeling tired. Or perhaps Will really does just talk too much about his work. I don't know, but as we walked back, I just felt like I didn't have the energy or the willpower to carry on and keep track of the conversation.

I got back, and made dinner, fucking it up by putting it on too low a shelf height. Bollocks. A text came through: 'Hey, if you work hard tonight, I can come round and keep you company tomorrow.' Um... okay, talk about inviting yourself over. For the second time.

I just feel that I have to know the guy really well before I invite him over to mine. Just thinking about the boys who have made it up to my room - certainly not A1, for example, despite the fact that I went to bed with him, but only Boy #3, Boy #2 and TA have had the honour so far. (Not counting GD, who only came up to watch C.S.I. when his laptop was broken. Creep.) I haven't even kissed Will yet - unusual for me, I know - so it doesn't feel right that he'll be coming into my room before anything happens.

On the bright side, I don't feel upset about missing that aforementioned party - I took a look at the photos, and a) there was no sign of the rumoured celebrity guest and b) there seemed to have been about ten people on the dance floor, tops.

Oh lord, TA just called me. Well, the call was from TA's phone, with lovely D on the line. 'Come out and party with us. Come and disco with us,' he said to me, above the wild whooping in the background. And then said something about him and TA coming over to mine to party - I think. Not flipping likely! 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm working on a deadline right now. It's just not good for me.' (Besides, I have my period and I look like shit.) The phone was passed to TA: 'I'll call you back,' he said.

Yeah, whatever.

2009-04-15T01:48:00.001+01:00

Bollocks. I should be where the party is, even if it wouldn't do me any good.

2009-04-14T22:00:00.004+01:00

Amid all the fuss generated by TA, I forgot to mention - was afraid to mention - that at Metropolis last week, I gave my number to a guy who I'd seen there before, even spoken to before, but never gone further than that. But that night, he stayed near me on the dance floor. I kept wondering why he never actually approached me, and assumed he was simply drunk or sans friends. Occasionally, I smiled at him - partly for fun, and partly because I thought he seemed like an interesting sort, and also because FB's sister once described him as looking like Will Turner from Pirates of the Caribbean. That is quite true, actually - he did look somewhat like a grizzled Orlando Bloom.

After a very long time, he started dancing closer and closer to me, and I'd look up at him and smile, then shy away. After all, FB was there, and I never like flirting with boys in front of him. It would be cruel to. At one point, Will Turner leant over to me whether FB was 'just a friend'. 'He's just a friend,' I assured him, 'Only a friend. That's all.' He came closer, even pushing away (gently) a couple who came between us, too wrapped up in their kisses to notice us.

Suddenly, one of our party of three decided she was too tired to keep dancing, so we agreed to head home. I turned to Will: 'See you at the next Metropolis,' I said. Then I headed to one of the bars in the back to look for Errol (Boy #2's best friend), couldn't find him, then turned around to find Will standing there.

'Can I at least get a name?' he asked.

'Cherry,' I smiled.

He motioned pressing buttons on a phone. 'A number?' So I entered my number into his phone, kissed him on the cheek and told him it was lovely to have met him, then left the club. (Not before running into a very drunk Errol and telling him to keep in touch.)

The next day, he texted me. I found out he was an Arts student like myself. Eloquent; knowledgeable; elegantly tall; knew what Postmodernism was; liked world cinema; seemed to be several years older than me; told me he was sure I'd look beautiful in a new dress I'd just bought.

We met this afternoon for drinks. And I have to say, I enjoyed myself. We talked for hours - almost four hours. We only left when the cafe began to close for the day.

At first, I wasn't sure if he was that pleased to see me - right now, I think I look worse in daylight. I noticed that he wasn't one to make eye contact, and hoped things wouldn't remain that way. It took a while - a cappuccino and a cup of tea for me, and two double espressos plus a herbal tea for him - but eventually, his body language started changing and he was looking up at me more, turning his chair towards me when we decided to move inside from the patio to the seats inside, even offering to share his tea with me.

I found him interesting, but whether I found myself attracted to him... I think so. I'll be the first to admit that I find intelligence - humble intelligence - very attractive. I've never been able to discuss things that we talked about with any other boys I've been on dates with - which, by the way, it was, because he paid for the drinks at the end. Nice of him.

I try and imagine discussing Mike Leigh with Boy #2, post-structuralism with Boy #3, or my fear of harsh criticism with TA. It's impossible to do so. So the talk was enjoyable, just as finding out that he is incredibly adventurous with food. I mean, he was delighted to hear that I enjoyed eating escargots - what are the chances?

He walked me home, and as we neared my house, I wasn't quite sure what to do. Was I supposed to kiss him? Invite him in? Show him some of my work? I thanked him, and kissed him on the cheek. Best to take things slowly, I think.

2009-04-12T18:50:00.004+01:00

The bed is a freeze-frame of what took place ten minutes ago. The pillows are dented, the duvet twisted in waves, the sheets rumpled.

His scent, his cologne, lingers on me and in the house. Already, I'm forgetting it and hardening my heart. Extracting myself from what I've done. It was momentary. It was fun, and it is over.

I'm glad it happened. I never thought it would. Not again. He must be getting desperate, to come back to me. I've taken what he offers, have been thankful for it. Liked it.

And now, to work.

2009-04-11T23:30:00.004+01:00

Dear lord, I have actually got to be one of the most stupid, gullible girls on the planet.

Over the past three days, I have become a human doormat. Feminism? Self-assertion? A backbone? What are they?

I was minding my own business on Facebook - oh, alright, I did see TA's Chat icon and whine, 'Oh, talk to me, talk to me' melodramatically, and then he actually did. Woah, bit of a surprise there. Last time I saw him, he was doing his best to ignore me in Crowbar with his hands around some FHM-aspiring twit (I'm not being bitchy; I had this from a very reputable source). A increasingly flirtatious chat ensued:

TA
hey u ok?

17:41 Cherry

heya i'm good thanks. how's you?

17:41 TA

yeah, i'm good. you okay?

i'm sorry if i was rude in crowbar

17:41 Cherry

no, you weren't - no worries <--- whopping big lie, of course

17:59 TA

i was looking at photos on my phone the other day and i still have that one you sent me ages ago

18:00 Cherry

oh yes, that one...

18:00 TA

it's a good photo

18:00 Cherry

thank you

18:00 TA

want to send me another photo?

18:01 Cherry

maybe ;) would i get one back?

And surprisingly, he agreed. I had a fun for the best part of the early evening posing in front of my webcam, photographing myself in a sepia tone. I've never been able to do the whole 'legs apart, bum-in-yer-face' shot. I'm more of a 'show a little here, show a little there' girl, which for me seems much sexier. Why offer it all up in one go?

In fact, it proved to be a very effective area of negotiation, because as soon as TA saw it, he swiftly sent me the shirtless picture of himself that he'd promised in exchange for a topless picture of me. And whew - I'm glad I demanded a fair exchange, because what came through to my Inbox was something I wanted to sink my teeth into, or at the very least, run my hands over. Woof.

He then asked me for one more picture, fully topless, without the book in the way. No, I told him, that's as far as I'll go. If you want it, you'll have to have it in person. Alright, he said, are you free tonight? I, surprised, said yes.

Fast-forward to just before midnight. He cancelled, claiming to be too tired. Fine, whatever.

Then the next afternoon, he texted me very unexpectedly asking if I wanted to 'meet up now', and after I'd agreed, raced to the bathroom to pop in my contact lenses and do some seriously speedy makeup, then swiftly cancelled on me with the excuse that he had a family gathering to get to. It was by this point that I started to wonder whether he was doing this deliberately to take the piss out of me, to see how far he could push me.

Late on Saturday afternoon, just when I've decided that I'll never hear hide nor hair from TA again, I get yet another text suggesting we meet up later. Fair enough, I thought, and decided to take things by asking him to come over just before midnight. To my surprise, he accepted, so I spent the rest of the evening getting ready - rather as a courtesan might, I suppose.

But do men really have any idea of just how much trouble women go to when they're expecting a lover at their place? Helen Fielding, aka Bridget Jones, illustrates the exhausting flurry of activity typically generated in preparation for the sheer possibility of sex:

Since leaving work I have nearly slipped a disc wheezing through a step aerobics class, scratched my naked body for seven minutes with a stiff brush; smeared myself with, effectively, salad dressing; cleaned the flat; filled the fridge; plucked my eyebrows; skimmed the papers and the Ultimate Sex Guide; put the washing in and waxed my own legs, since it was too late to book an appointment. Ended up kneeling on a towel trying to pull off a wax strip firmly stuck to the back of my calf whilst watching Newsnight. My back hurts, my head aches and my legs are bright red and covered in lumps of wax.

It's a truly draining business. All of a sudden, we're supposed to be this perfect domestic goddess who's always, always ready to jump into bed within a minute of getting a text. As if.

In the shower, I waited for TA to text me, to tell me he couldn't make it. The text never came. The clock crept up to the forty-five minute mark, so I sat at my desk, trying to pretend that it was just a typical Saturday evening - which, in retrospect, is simply grim. At about quarter past eleven, he rang me: 'Hey, I'm not coming round tonight. I'm not feeling well, sorry.'

I rolled my eyes and grimaced. What a fucking joke. 'Look, TA, if you don't want to see me, just tell me. Just say it.'

'No, no, it's not like that. I'm sorry to mess you around, I'm being a prick, but I'm just not feeling well.'

'Okay,' I sighed. 'Well, I hope you feel better soon, and... see you soon.' Ha. Not fucking likely.

The minute I shut my phone, I took off with relief the scratchy 3/4 cup bra from La Senza that I'd worn specially for the occasion. So, Bridget Jones writes:

I can't take the pressure. I am going to cancel and spend the evening eating doughnuts in a cardigan with egg on it.

Me too, Bridge. Me too.

2009-04-02T13:56:00.004+01:00

Oh shit, what have I done? God, I'm ashamed of myself. Abort, abort.

Really embarrassed. Anyway, can't be reversed. It can only be subverted.

Edit: I spelt 'of' as 'off'. Now I can really confirm that I wasn't in the right state of mind when I did what I did.

2009-04-01T03:05:00.002+01:00

I had the most awful weekend, and a lovely one. Awful because it involved phoning an ambulance, and being charged an extra £30 on my way back home on the train. Lovely because I got to wander through magical department stores. Oh yes. Oh yes.

And then once I was back, I headed out to Crowbar for a friend's birthday - someone I knew in my first year. My, how we've grown. We were so young back then.

I saw TA. I saw him with another girl, but that's alright. I didn't see him kiss her, but by the way he spoke to me, I knew he wasn't interested anymore. That's fine. But then don't text me; just tell me you're fucking her, and I'll go.

The good points:

One of TA's friends, who I've never met, said to me, 'You're like, really attractive.' I smiled, my lips stained pink with VK Cherry, and replied, 'Thank you. How lovely of you to say so.' That was certainly reassuring.
TA's other friend, D, who I've met on a few occasions and is incredibly charming - tonight, he kept kissing my hand - has actually read an article of mine that I was quite reluctant to publicize, and mentioned something about a blogroll. I'm amazed he remembered my name, let alone being able to link the article back to me. Anyway, a Facebook Friend Request is in the pipeline.

2009-03-24T03:37:00.003Z

Oh my word. I don't think I'll ever be able to show my face in Wavelength again - which, to be quite frank, is fine by me as I think it is hell on earth. (Perhaps somewhat of an exaggeration, as there are a number of places in the world which offer some pretty stiff competition, but bear with me.)

Anyway, I had a fantastic time being picked up and dropped into headstands by the Occasional Housemate, to the amusement of all who were watching. It was funny at the time, and I quite fancy our chances as the next Torvill and Dean , for whom I have a new appreciation for. Seriously, how sexy is that rumba?

I was also told that I have 'very strong thighs'. Oh yeah, pole dancing pays off!!!

2009-03-20T23:58:00.002Z

I was finishing a late-night shopping trip with the Housies and headed for the nearest till. The cashier was a young blonde man, a little like a youthful Eminem.

'Hey, you alright?' he greeted me, smiling.

'Yeah, okay thanks,' I replied. Always nice to have a bit of friendly banter.

I was concentrating on packing my shopping as neatly as possible when, weighing a large comb of bananas, he asked: 'Yewuni?'

'Er, sorry?' I said, flummoxed.

'Yewuni?'

'Pardon?'

'Yewuni? Yes, no?'

Oh lord. When puzzled, just say no.

'Um... no.'

'Ah right, thought you looked like one of them uni people.'

He was asking me if I was a student - aargh! I quickly paid, thanked him, and sped off, then told my housemates what had happened.

Housemate #2 turned to Housemate #1: 'See? Told you there'd been flirting going on when I saw her smiling.'

2009-03-19T01:25:00.003Z

I should keep this quick - the light is terrible. The bulb of my desk lamp blew yesterday, and I haven't got any spares (I ordered them off eBay - glorious, glorious eBay - and I'm praying they'll pop through the door tomorrow). I am writing from my bed, where for the first time ever, the light is better. Ugh.

Spookily, with pinpoint-precise timing, any chances of a comfortable liason with A1 have been ruined. I knew it was going to happen. Pity, it could have been fun.

2009-03-14T23:25:00.002Z

I rather like eating dried nectarines, but I hadn't had any in so long that I completely forgot they stink of dead dog. Still, here I am, eating as I type one-handed.

Spoke to both parents today. We're a globally divided family at the moment: one in Asia, one in Europe, and one in North America. Mum sounded unexpectedly cheerful, which I was glad about, but also made me worry that it was a false front to mask the fact that she's having trouble coping. It wouldn't be the first time she's done something like that.

'And of course, there are some enormously fat people here,' she said as she chopped beans for the dog's dinner. Lucky dog. Mum hardly cooks for me these days, so I hope it appreciates her fine hand at cooking. '...Anyhow, I'd better go off for dinner now.'

'I love you,' I said.

'I --- oh goodness, what's he doing?! He's humping the mattress! The dog is humping the bed!' she exclaimed.

'Bye Mum. Love you and love you.'

Cheese, Six o'Clock!

2009-03-13T18:18:00.002Z

From A, 6:08pm:

i'm still massively horny for you by the way

i need you

no1 else, but you

Well, cheers.

2009-03-12T23:28:00.003Z

Yesterday, I tried again. This time, Boy #2's phone rang, but he did not pick up. Again.

So that was that. I lay in bed and couldn't, as usual, no matter how much I tried, stop thinking about what had happened. I searched my memory of that last Valentine's date to find out what I'd done wrong. Then I wondered why I always automatically assumed that it was my fault that he wasn't calling. I thought about the next time we might meet, how I'd brush him off, cool as Effy, and seethe silently afterwards after I'd seen him with a girl on his arm. Well, that's how the routine has been played out in the past.

I woke up late the next morning, feeling useless. I keep having visions, small ones, that flash through my head - it's of using a scarf, a towel as a noose and --- do you get the picture? Perhaps you do. Because this is such a hopeless time for me. The kick of the stool, and the last image. Far too glamorous, of course. Foolish thoughts.

I woke up late. There was a text message. 'Hey im sorry i missed ur calls my batter[y] went dead! Everything ok? X'

Instead of relief, I felt disappointed. It meant I'd have to stretch out this emotional hell, this mindfuck that I just have no time for. I consulted Female Half, and followed her advice, texting back: 'Heya, I'm fine thanks. Would you mind giving me a call when you've got a spare minute? I just wanted a chat. x cherry'

He didn't call until - I knew it would happen like this - I was in the middle of a consultation with a lecturer. I walked out of the ladies', checked my phone, and cursed. I tried to call him back; no answer. I wondered how long this ping-pong system of communication was going to last. Or perhaps he wasn't ever going to try again.

Half an hour later, he called. Heart quaking, feeling queasy, I picked up.

And I don't want to remember what was really said. He sounded friendly, although I had trouble hearing him over the roar of the cafe I was in. I rushed out to an empty corridor. '...haven't been avoiding you or anything...meet up soon...been really busy with a photoshoot, that's all. Sorry I haven't been in touch.'

I felt like a nagging, neurotic girl from the start. In that pathetic position, powerless, desperate for his gaze and his words. I couldn't say anything strong, kept repeating myself. That same sad plea: 'I just wanted to know, I mean, are things okay... are things alright... with you?' I cringe now, thinking about it. Fuck,

I couldn't bring myself to tell him it was alright, because it wasn't. I don't know if I'll ever have the guts to tell him how awful I've been feeling because of his silence. It's like being dragged over rocks and having salt poured over what remains. It fucking stings, and you just want it to be over.

Whether he calls me or not, I don't care. I really just don't. I'm so exhausted. I'm exhausted.

2009-03-10T22:31:00.002Z

'Apart from one stingy little text a while back, I've heard fuck all from Boy #2,' I moaned to Female Half and Novelista as we trudged through the rain on a very damp birthday celebration for a mutual friend.

'Well, call him. Not tonight, but call him - he can't just cut you off like that,' Female Half advised me. She's very wise, is Female Half; not only did she tame a gorgeous man who was unable to walk through a club without exiting with a bucketful of women's numbers, but she's managed to keep the relationship going for years. I don't know how she does it, but I take my pillbox hat off to her.

So I called him today, feeling sick and nervous - basically the same feeling I had when I was waiting for him at the top of the stairs on Valentine's Day, which seems so very long ago. It immediately went to voicemail.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and one of disappointment too, then texted Female Half to let her know what had happened. What to think though? It was only ten thirty in the evening, for goodness' sake. Unless the boy lives like a Benedictine monk (which I very much doubt he does), surely he can't be asleep?

Then, as my paranoid imagination gets to work, other possibilities emerge:

He is currently shagging someone and has turned off his phone
He has lost his phone, which is why he hasn't texted me for two weeks
He has left his phone in his workplace and it has run out of battery
He has blocked my number, in which case, he's even more of a pathetic twat than I thought he was
He has left his phone in his car
He's an utter pillock who's not worth bothering about.

Out of all of those, I think I like the last one best.

2009-03-05T01:06:00.002Z

Once, I fell in love with a boy, and I couldn't let him go.

I had to, of course - physically; once the dawn arrived, he'd rise, bathe, dry his hair while I regretted the night before, and then he'd offer to drive me home. I always accepted, fearful of having to walk home in a short dress and yesterday's makeup.

But I kept him clutched to my heart, even if I was continents away. I suppose we would never have been good together, but I loved him. I desired him as I've never desired any other boy. He could hurt me, and I wouldn't have turned away. It was a terrible position to be in, but I felt privileged to be in it anyway.

We don't speak anymore, but I love him. I still do. And that is the way it will always be.

2009-02-28T02:25:00.003Z

There are times, dark times, when I feel that I've been abandoned by every boy I've known: Boy #2 has gone silent, TA is never going to want me in his bed again, A1 has stopped trying. God. I just feel so low and bruised and unwanted.

2009-02-27T01:11:00.002Z

He's doing it to me again, Boy #2 - taking things for granted, taking his time to text me, not bothering to make any contact at all. He does this when he thinks he's got me eating out of the palm of his hand.

Then I'll contradict my suspicions and wonder if he's waiting for me to text him. But then again, I was neurotic on Sunday when he didn't reply to my text, and chased him last Wednesday, so I can't text him first a third time.

UGH.

I hate, hate, hate the way he plays these games - the long pauses, unbearable, when he puts whatever's going on between us on mute.

I don't want a relationship - not yet. What I want to do is to have that third date where I can finally drag him into bed and fuck someone other than TA. It's the possibility of fucking someone else that I actually desire, someone whose hands I really do want on me, someone whose lips and kisses I don't mind on my skin.

There was a miracle today, though. I thought that by tonight, I'd want to hang myself or less dramatically, scour my skin. None of that - a sense of relief, instead. Something more hopeful. A chance to redeem myself, in that field. A mercy.

2009-02-25T02:04:00.001Z

Note to self: when reviewing a gig, do not get so drunk that you can't remember the performance.

2009-02-20T01:02:00.004Z

With the house being commandeered by House Pet's nausea-inducing friends, I ignored my horrendous cold and phlegmy cough and fled to Metropolis with FB and several of his friends. Unfortunately, they were all boys.

It was rather like a dream that had turned into a nightmare - after all, I think I rather take after my grandmother and enjoy the company of men, but only when they're paying attention to me, rather than trying to pick a fight with a skinny-jeaned emo guy sitting on the end of our table or discussing computer programming. Ugh.

I perched on a cement bench next to FB, feeling entirely like a lemon, very out of place, and wished Boy #2 would walk into the club. No such luck - the fucker never showed up, although one boy wearing a white T-shirt looked a lot like him. Perhaps it was him, who knows. I also thought I saw the handsome sales assistant at the bar, but unfortunately, I lost him in the crowd before I had a chance to talk with him.

I was at the main bar trying to get a drink when I suddenly spotted Topshop Girl and her sister - avec girlfriend - and we exchanged looks of delighted disbelief and went up to greet each other. 'Do you come here every week?' she asked. 'I think I've seen you here every time I've come here.'

'No, every other week. Or every two weeks, something like that,' I said. 'How lovely to see you. I'm so glad you're here. I'm stuck with six boys, and I'm bored to tears.'

'Ah, well you can come and stick with us,' she said. I promised to buy her a drink later, and sure enough, about an hour afterwards, I saw them sit down at a nearby table.

'Hello,' I smiled, walking up to Topshop Girl at the bar. 'I can't believe they've taken so long to serve you; you've been standing at the bar for ages.' I was quite drunk - two double gins in. Feeling flirtatious, particularly after Boy #2's failure to text me back.

I think - I think - she didn't mind me being there. She bought me another drink, despite my pleas that it was time for me to buy her a drink instead, and we agreed to go and see Blood Red Shoes together sometime. After discussing Topshop, eBaying, and how each other's Christmas and New Year's were, we headed out to tear up the dancefloor.

We danced around to cheesy rock - not my favourite - but I was really too drunk to care. But at the same time, I was nervous: after all, seducing a boy is about as easy as putting on a dress without a zip (it can be tricky, but if you've done it before and know the ways to move and when to breathe in or out, it can certainly be accomplished), but I don't quite know how to respond to a girl. I could see FB and his friends dancing next to us, and unwisely, I blew FB two kisses.

Twice, she had a man hit on her, and twice, she took my arm and put it around her neck. Tipsy, emboldened, I stared back at him with a challenging glare. I suppose I understood a little of what Topshop Girl and her sister must have to go through - I definitely heard at least once the sound of guys sneering, 'Do you think they're gay?', and I suspect someone splashed a drink on us on purpose.

I twirled her round, she twirled me round, I occasionally put my hand on her shoulder. I was always aware of our bodies shifting to the music. Close. Closer than straight girls should be. Topshop Girl's lovely brown hair, her cute smile in the flashing lights. 'Do let me know if you'd like that drink,' I reminded her. 'I will,' she said.

We were all fanning ourselves and agreed it was too hot. Upstairs? the sisters gestured, and I nodded. Topshop Girl held out her hand, and I took it in mine. I wondered what we looked like to people. Just friends? More than?

Outside, they said they were going for food. I declined to follow them - I hated the cold, I said. I'll see you back here, I smiled, and kissed Topshop Girl on the cheek.

I never did see her again. But I have found her on Facebook, and am wondering whether to contact her.

What does it make me, exactly? Meeting her again opens up questions that I might not be prepared to really confront. I'm curious to know whether I could kiss her properly; but I don't think I could go further than that. The very idea of bringing her back to mine seems a little absurd - beside the fact that my housemates are ridiculously lesbaphobic, I just don't know if I could be so close to her.

In my mind, it is because I like the idea of being attractive to both men and women, alongside being curious about how far my other desires could extend. I was also angry at Boy #2 - drunkenly, I wrote in my phone 'See, this is what happens if you don't treat me well. You don't have any control over me', but had enough sense not to send it to him. It's true, though. If he doesn't watch out, I might walk. I liked her. She's incredibly cute, and we do look good together. But in the end, I can't help feeling that perhaps we'd be better off, and safer, as friends.

2009-02-16T12:29:00.002Z

I've just realised that Boy #2 is not the first boy to give me flowers.

I had completely forgotten that Boy #3, as were walking back into town from an appalling comedy gig, stopped to pick a flower for me that would have cost him an £80 fine if he had been caught. I kissed him as my heels sank into the soft ground underneath me, holding onto the flower all the way home.

I put it in a small glass when I got home, and it lasted for quite a few days - maybe more than a week. And there was me, thinking it was a sign that we'd last.

My rose is looking a little droopy at the moment.

2009-02-15T21:31:00.003Z

I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting. I could go back into my room and start doing the filing scattered across my bed (another alternative form of contraception, alongside my generally messy room), but chances were the car would pull up outside as soon as I was getting into the flow of things.

Downstairs in the living room, I shifted a few glasses into the sink, then dismissed the idea of washing up. Gloves make my hands smell odd. The phone rang: 'Hey, I'm outside,' Boy #2 said. I looked around. Cash, keys, wallet, phone, lipgloss - the Clarins one that he once said he liked the taste of. Hoping I looked better than I felt, I opened the door to the cold and walked out.

I got into his car as gracefully as possible, trying to slide onto the low leather seat without letting my skinny jeans slip down below my hips. Bum cleavage really isn't the thing for a sophisticated, elegant image. The scent of his cologne, familiar again, wove its way around me. 'This is for you,' he said, handing me something encased in a plastic tube.

A rose. A single red rose. Possibly the first time I've ever been given flowers by a boy, unless I've forgotten one of those sweet little moments I used to have with Boy #1, where he might have given me a tiny daisy plucked from a field. At that moment, the night seemed full of possibility. I felt myself warm to him, drawn to him. Wherever he was going to take me, it wouldn't matter - not after the rose.

We talked as we drove out of the jammed-up city. I'm always worried that we might have to sit in silence, but as he said himself, we can hold a good conversation, him and me. We ran into two friends of his as we entered the restaurant; I caught one of them staring at me as he talked to them. Over a glass of Rose and an overpriced buffet, we talked of steroids, whether either of us had received any other Valentines gifts (I neglected to mention A1's proposition), and tried on each others' jewellery. I kid you not.

We nipped into his place of work after a few rounds of snooker - the less said about that, the better (he scuffed the ball more times than me, but potted far more than I could) - and the image of us getting frisky on his desk suddenly flashed through my head. I told myself to be sensible; after all, his office is three-quarters a glass wall. I looked around, listening to the loud tapping of my kitten heels against the hard floor. He showed me a few of the things he was working on, and let's just say that I am better acquainted with the various parts of a camera now.

The drive home felt rather too quick, but by then, it was past midnight. We pulled up to the house, he turned the car light on - I wish he hadn't - and then he kissed me, and I don't think I cared about anything at that precise moment. His hand reached up to stroke my face, then linked fingers with my own hand. There was definite chemistry in this.

The rose sits on my windowsill, shedding dry leaves but still alive in a makeshift vase - really a plastic Bailey's cocktail shaker that I won on a promotion. A reminder of the best Valentine's Day to date.

2009-02-14T13:27:00.003Z

Roflmao - Housemate #2 comes up with another of her spleen-splitting comments.

I logged onto Facebook to find that Boy #1 had put up a picture of himself with his new girlfriend. They look lovely together - the same dark hair and pale skin. I do hope they're happy together; I don't hold any grudge against him, and certainly not after what Boy #1's been through. Not even the slightest twinge of jealousy either. I'm genuinely pleased to see him as part of what looks like a very well-matched couple.

Anyhow, Housemate #2 was sat next to me, so I showed her the picture of Boy #1 and his significant other. Her reaction? 'Oh please, tell me you didn't use to go out with that.' Ooof! 'He, er, looks better in person,' I said weekly. Funny how I used to think of him as the best-looking of all my boyfriends and conquests. That's certainly changed now.

Perhaps this is how I'm supposed to be spending Valentine's Day: feeling happy for my friends who are happily coupled up, and goodness knows, I've got a few of those!

Myself? I've lost my voice, but I'm hopefully going to see Boy #2 tonight, although we haven't mentioned Valentine's Day at all. That's fine with me.

And then there's the question of A1... Do I see him later tonight? I have little inclination to invite Boy #2 into my bed, but A1 - I am still curious to see what it might be like the second time round.

Foolish me, playing with fire.

You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
- 'Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing', Margaret Atwood

2009-02-14T01:04:00.002Z

A strange, quirky incident today: on my way home from a seminar, I could see three men - one young, two middle aged perhaps, not bad looking at all in a rough, rakish sort of way - standing in a car space fenced off by movable barriers.

I looked at them as they looked at me; I suppose I must have looked slightly puzzled or suspicious, because when I walked past, the one with the strong jaw and handsome face said to me, 'For you.'

'Excuse me?' I growled softly, still mindful of the incident on the train. I want very little to do with middle aged men at the moment.

'We saved this space for you.'

I relaxed a little, and smiled. 'Ah, thank you very much, but I'm afraid I don't have a car.' A last grin, and I walked off, wondering what all that had been about.

2009-02-10T23:32:00.002Z

I feel rather as if I've fallen off the blogging bandwagon recently. Perhaps it's because there's actually been so much that I've meant to blog about, then neglected to, and then felt the pressure (self-created, of course) of having a massive backlog of things to write about.

In a nutshell:

My coursemate confronted me about CEB. There was much tear-shedding on her part, a good deal of explaining and denial on mine, and rapid consumption of hot chocolates in a nearby pub to calm her down. I doubt I'll be heading down to Metropolis again anytime soon.
Spent a weekend out of town, but as I was trying to leave, I was followed by not one, but two crazies. The first was probably drunk, but scared the hell out of me by yelling nasty things which I tried not to hear and tailing me up and down the road. He probably scared me more in broad daylight than he might have at night. You just don't expect the crazies to emerge in the daytime, especially not at 11 in the morning.
The second crazy - thought slightly less of a threat - was on the train to the central station. He saw me get on, must have clocked me or something, and shifted to let me have the seat next to him. I didn't realise and sat down, glad to have a seat, then quickly suspected that he was looking at me a little too much more than I felt comfortable with.
Me: Cheers, thanks. (checking my phone)
Him: You are from where?
Me: Sorry?
Him: You are student here?
Me: Yes, in my final year.
Him: Your English, it is very good.
Me: Thank you - it's my first language, so...
Him: Me, I am from Greece. I come here, I work in cafe, to practise my English.
Me: Ah right, well, your English is very good.
Him: Can I get your phone number? Then we meet for coffee and talk.
Me: (fuuuuuuuck!) Um, yes, sure. (I promptly give him the Flirt Divert number. Thank you, Scott Mills)
Him: Okay, so next platform, I get off and I come with you, yes?
Me: (fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!) Er... Sorry, it might be a little awkward, because my boyfriend said he'd meet me at the platform, so...
He seemed to get the message as he nodded and looked slightly disappointed. At that moment, the train pulled into the station, and I practically bolted off the carriage, away from Mr Greek - hopefully never to see him again.
Boy #2 finally texted me after a week's silence - him and his bloody text games. So childish. He suggested we meet up sometime this week, so I told him I was free on Wednesday, but he opted for Saturday instead. This presents a little dilemma - instead of being alone on Valentine's Day (of which, admittedly, neither of us made any mention of), I now have to choose between Boy #2 and A1. Or I could just fit them in both, one after the other, but I just know that something will go wrong. To be honest, I think I'd be stupid if I didn't go for Boy #2 only. A1 hasn't done much to deserve a night with me.
Last night was RM's boyfriend's birthday. Almost exactly a year ago, I experienced a form of desire so shocking and amazing that I don't think I've ever been the same. I fell in love. That didn't repeat itself this year, but it was a fairly good night out all the same. I lined my eyes beautifully, sent a death threat to a close friend, flirted with Boy #3 (still fugly), drank a fair proportion of Bombay Sapphire, and got my beautiful new shift dress from eBay absolutely rainsoaked - not necessarily in that order. I wandered home by myself at half two, having decided that it really was time to go when the DJ started to lay into the indie cheese, but RM apparently suspected that I might have gone home with Boy #3. Please - as if! Getting back with one ex is enough; I certainly can't deal with two exes. At this rate, I might as well phone up Boy #1 and ask him over for a quick 'catch-up', but I hear he's recently not single. Hmmm.

Pretty big fuckin' nutshell.

2009-02-05T03:02:00.002Z

A dull night at Metropolis. You know when you have those nights out where in the middle of it all, you can't help but feel that you'd prefer to have stayed home after all? It stretches from the beginning of the evening as you're getting ready - when you fuck up the eyeshadow a little, or the eyeliner doesn't go on quite right - up until the end, as you walk home in the sleet and snow.

I spotted Cardigan Boy in the club fairly early on; we ignored each other. In fact, I'm not even sure if he remembered or recognised me. I must say, he is still fairly cute and has excellent taste in graphic tees, but he's such an incredibly shite conversationalist that any sort of emotional attachment was driven out of the window after the first few minutes of pulling him. He is, quite literally, just a pretty face.

Then I had to pretend to be the girlfriend of my Coursemate's Ex-Boyfriend - or rather, I volunteered my services - as he was being propositioned by an extremely cute but utterly deranged blonde. Leaning in to his body, taking his hand; it reminded me that I like his height. I like his humour. I like it that he's comfortable on the dance floor.

Of course, at the back of my mind was the knowledge that he's been on intimate terms with my coursemate, and I repeatedly told myself that his mouth had been on hers. That kept me from being tempted. I won't have sloppy seconds off someone I know.

In the bathroom, I had to get someone to kick the door in before I could get out. I do love girls sometimes. One girl, small and blonde, said to me: 'Oh, my friend fancies you.' I peered behind her as if her friend (male or female?) was going to pop up behind her, and when they didn't, suddenly drew the very wild conclusion that her friend must be a girl who was currently in one of the cubicles. Then I shook myself, smiled and asked what their friend's name was. 'He's called Tom...' I didn't catch the rest of it, largely because she slipped onto the bathroom floor drunkenly (nice) and was then ushered into another cubicle. I never did meet this Tom, but it was nice to know that someone appreciated me tonight.

Then CEB walked me home through the cold. We didn't really talk that easily, but we had a few laughs drawing on peoples' iced-up windows. Because I had forgotten my gloves, he took his hands out of his jumper sleeves and left them bare in the cutting air, claiming that it wasn't fair that only I should have cold hands. We got to the door and he gave me a hug. I went upstairs, looked at my smeared clown-eye makeup and decided that no boy could keep feeling something for me after seeing that.

Checked my Inbox.

An email from him.

It will lead to nothing, I promise.

2009-02-02T21:51:00.002Z

I had just picked up my pen to write a letter - rather a painful one - when my phone chimed:

'Hey Cherry, you okay? Sorry I didn't answer; I stayed at home because I watched the football and I left my phone in town. You okay? X'

Oh, how nice of him to apologise. Fucker.

Me being the fool I am, I texted him back - then regretted it instantly. I mean, come on. Look at the snow outside. What exactly is he going to do, invite me over tonight?

The painful, pathetic thing is that I still want him. I just want some intimacy, some closeness, some heat. The last boy I fucked is still him. I've heard nothing from Boy #2, and I'm not very sure I want to spend Valentine's Day with A1 at all.

Concentrate. Concentrate on work. Don't give a fuck about them. Don't care.

2009-02-02T00:38:00.001Z

And again, he disappoints me. Why am I not surprised?

2009-02-01T04:06:00.002Z

Well, hello again.

Surfing through a rather peculiar selection of websites at a peculiar hour, I dimly thought of going to bed, then surfed a little more. And a little more.

My phone chimed.

A text from home, obviously. They're only ones up at this time, anyway.

'Hey cherry, you ok? You have a good new years? What you up to? X'

Heartbeat - it stopped, frozen in shock at first, then thumpthumpthump. How long had it been since...? How did I look? I rushed to the bathroom mirror and groaned. I needed a hairwash, but I couldn't blow dry my hair at quarter to three in the morning, so I'd have to do without. But everything else would need attending to, and -

I stopped myself. Brush your teeth, but no more. No pre-emptive grooming. Look at what's happened everytime you've done that.

'Heya TA, I'm good thanks. My new year was spent at home, so it was quite fun. I'm in bed at the moment, how's you? x'

Washed my face and realised my eyebrows needed plucking/threading. Breathe. Don't shake. (I could feel it welling up in my limbs.)

No reply for a while. He'd probably passed out. Then, as I was brushing my molars:

'Sorry I woke you, just thought I would chuck you a text to see how you are. What you up to tomorrow? X'

I was a little taken aback at not having been summoned over in the middle of the night - well, morning. He'd done it before, and frankly, I was perfectly willing to do it. You see, still eager to let him fuck me over and break my heart.

'That's alright, I'm quite a light sleeper anyway. Haven't really got anything planned tomorrow, just brunch with a friend. You? x'

I sat down and started writing this blog entry. Again, I was pretty convinced he'd passed out, when:

'Not much. I'm going home for a bit, but you fancy doing something? X'

Haven't we been here before? Like, that time you stood me up?

And I wonder - do I take a chance like this again?

Of course.

2009-01-30T04:53:00.002Z

In the same mess, but not quite. It's not as bad, not as hopeless. I think.

I can nail this.

Nail it down, nail it down.

How many more words to go? How many more hours before I can sleep?

Boy #2, where are you? Have you given up on me? It's not breaking my heart. Not yet. At the moment, I'm only thinking of sleeping with you and leaving it there. Oh, I know it's a Pandora's box right there, but is it really worse than never knowing?

Back to the text now.

2009-01-28T00:40:00.002Z

There was laughter tonight - hysterical laughter. And then death. It felt wrong to laugh, but at the time, I couldn't breathe. I was laughing so much I could barely stand. That death... I never got to write about my love, and I wish I had.

Risky business here: I could feel it in my waters that he was going to try and chat with me. And how wrong it is that I keep encouraging. But that is my nature. It is the pattern I have always loved, flitting between two. So I stand to have my heart broken twice; or I have twice as much fun. It's all up in the air.

And so:

A

cherryyyyyyyyyy

11:57pm Cherry

hey!

11:58pm A

nice shoes

11:58pm Cherry

er... are you a little tipsy?

thank you :) what good taste you have

11:58pm A

no lol

i'm bloody shattered

how are u?

11:59pm Cherry

oh, what've you been doing that's shattered you?

i'm alright, just trying to get started on an overdue essay

11:59pm A

hangover, full day of lectures, rugby

12:00am Cherry

ah yes, how's the rugby going?

12:00am A

pretty good

concussion the other day but good

12:00am Cherry

which position are you playing?

12:00am A

hooker

12:00am Cherry

omg, again? i remember when you were sporting a black eye!

12:00am A

number 15

12:00am Cherry

ah, okay!

12:00am A

haha i remember that

i looked like a thug

12:01am Cherry

no, you didn't!

12:01am A

you're too kind

12:01am Cherry

i didn't actually notice it at first, it was only when you pointed it out that i saw the shadow

12:01am A

aha yeah u didnt see it at its worst

how's the old pole dancing going?

12:02am Cherry

ah, i haven't done it for ages!

12:02am A

why not?

12:02am Cherry

i'm probably out of practice :(

12:02am A

shocking

12:02am Cherry

one of my lectures clashes with the advanced class

:(:(

12:02am A

that's gay

12:02am Cherry

indeed.

and we've had people looking around the house, so i couldn't really have my pole up

'no, it doesn't come with the house!'

12:03am A

well i'm in town in 2 weeks so u better practice

12:03am Cherry

oh, is that so?

12:03am A

indeed
12:04am Cherry

lol, i shall schedule a few classes then

12:04am A

aha good :)

12:04am Cherry

where do you usually stay when you're in town? or are you just coming down for a night out?

12:05am A

i'll crash at my mates house

if i'm really struggling can i crash on your sofa? <---- hell, NO.

12:06am Cherry

lol, i don't know! you've seen my house, it's tiny and there's no privacy!

if you're not too drunk, maybe :):) <---- oh God, don't let him turn up here...

12:06am A

haha

you're too nice <---- at least he gets his punctuation right

12:07am Cherry

thank you

12:07am A

quite welcome

though i do insist on your company for some time when i'm up there

at least buy u some drinks

12:08am Cherry

well, if you're insisting, i can't say no!

12:08am A

i do insist

12:08am Cherry

okay then

12:08am A

good

u gona be out for the footy?

12:09am Cherry

ooh, i hadn't thought about that - when is it?

are you one of the lucky ones who got a ticket? *envy*

12:10am A

haha no

it's on valentine's day <----- AAAAAAARGH!

12:10am Cherry

ah, okay <---- AAAAAAARGH!

i might be out if it's not too insane in the city

rugby crowds + soppy couples = odd mix of people!

12:11am A

yeah i kno

well i'll be in town then

And then he asked:

12:15am A

well the question is sexy Cherry, will u spend some time with me on valentines night?

12:16am Cherry

i haven't got any plans for then <----- seriously panicking by this point

12:17am A

is that a yes?

12:17am Cherry

well, it kind of depends on why you really want to see me

i'm just going to say it straight - if you're only interested in spending the night with me and leaving it at that, i'm not really sure.

12:20am A

well i cant really commit to more than 1 night, as i'm not up there anymore. But i think you're referring to me just wanting to sleep with you, so no thats not the plan.

12:21am Cherry

okay. i'm sorry, i didn't mean for this to get awkward, but i have been in situations before where guys have tried to lead me on, so...

12:22am A

it's alright <----- yes, what the hell was I apologising for?

to be fair it's how it came across

12:23am Cherry

oh yes, i meant to ask - did you cut your hair? <--- because if he's shaved it off, there's no chance that i'm going to see him

12:23am A

hahaha

no!

it's very long

12:23am Cherry

okay yay :)

And he wanted to apologise - what is it with guys apologising to me?

12:27am A

i owe u an apology

12:27am Cherry

why?

12:28am A

because i told you i'd meet up with you later after the ball but i got drunk and passed out

12:28am Cherry

it was your last year anyway

12:28am A

and as a consequence didnt see u again

12:28am Cherry

it's fine, you can't not get drunk at the last summer ball!

12:29am A

well yeah i thought u had got the wrong impression because the last time i saw u we had slept together <--- oh God, to have it spelt out like this... *facepalm*

12:30am Cherry

it did make me kind of wonder where things were, but i wasn't upset about it <---- I was really quite pissed off. Secretly. Just a little. But then I had TA, so I cut my losses. You just don't know about it.

12:31am A

i see

i'm glad u were not upset

because it was such a nice night

(not the summer ball)

12:31am Cherry

yes, i was going to ask which night you were referring to!

12:32am A

haha

12:32am Cherry

well i enjoyed it too <---- a little, anyway. At the time, it just made me depressed that the last guy I'd fucked was Boy #3. Like, nine months ago. It had to be done.

(and it wasn't the summer ball either)

12:32am A

haha

i'm glad

12:35am A

anyway it's past my bedtime

12:35am Cherry

yes, mine too <---- time to start work!

12:35am A

i'll see you very soon miss cherry

12:35am Cherry

alright, number 15!

12:35am A

haha

12:35am Cherry

try and avoid concussing yourself too often...

12:35am A

i shall

practice the pole danceing please

i want a flawless display

12:36am Cherry

i'll do my best

the display is always flawless - you know me!

12:36am A

well it was last time :) <---- God, I love flirting through writing.

12:36am Cherry

thank you
12:36am A

goodnight my sexy girl

xx

12:36am Cherry

goodnight xx <---- whoops, should have just been an 'x'

Note how I never really answered him about Valentine's Day. It's just that... I don't know if I really want to do this. Yes, some intimacy would be nice, but - there is Boy #2. I've been hoping that he'd ask me out somewhere that night. Granted, parking will be hell, but I was hoping to be with him that night. Something I'll admit I've been looking forward to, or at least curious to experience. I won't lie about that.

Boy #2, do something. Act fast, before I stray.

2009-01-26T00:50:00.001Z

At this moment in time, I would like to stop Time for a week. I would give a lot to do that.

Or I would like to throw myself out of the window. Anything to stop time.

I will not survive the night. Or I will, but my academic career may now.

Cut me, kill me, stab me. Five hundred, five hundred, five hundred and one.

Don't tell my mother.