I have forgotten how to date.
No, seriously. Living in my self-absorbed bubble, where the world revolves around me, my exams, and ultimately what I want, I’ve managed to create my own universe to the exclusion of just about everyone. Casual sex has been convenient in these dire times, as I haven’t the energy nor the spare minutes to invest in a relationship. Recently I’ve been in all sorts of relationships, but none of them fit the criteria of an actual romantic union. I have many different men in my life who play many different roles. The closest thing I’ve had to a boyfriend this year is someone who already had a girlfriend. Why, might you ask. Well probably because subconsciously there was no threat of that getting too serious, and when it did I hit the self-destruct button. I have friends who can fill in as pseudo-boyfriends whenever I like, going on dates with them, but not being involved physically with them. I have guys I can sleep with at my discretion, but with whom I have no monogamous agreement, nor any obligation to call or speak to. Then occasionally, like now, I meet someone who I want to put into all of those roles. Or so I think. How do you know with people you’ve just met really? And how to you choose which role to put them in first? Sleeping with them right away could potentially end the possibility of a relationship, but waiting too long could put you in ‘friend’ territory, ending your immediate possibilities of romance as well. In compartmentalising the men in my life to fill the immediate needs of the moment, while simultaneously extracting any kind of pressure to commit on my part, I’ve lost any and all sense of how an actual relationship should begin.
I can remember my first relationship as if it were yesterday. We saw each other every day and spent all of our time together at school. Collaborating on projects, sitting together at lunch. We were inseparable.
One day I was looking out through a window and I saw him outside. It was at that moment I knew that I wanted him. I walked out, marched right up to him and asked, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
“Okay,” he agreed without hesitation.
And so began the first of many love stories to come. We were four. I didn’t know what a boyfriend was meant for really, I just knew that I should have one. Puppy (the only name really appropriate for this boy) and I were together throughout all of nursery school before tragically being separated by our parents’ choice of location for our primary education. I still remember his name and his curly hair. Ah, young love.
If only dating were as easy as it was when I was four. You like me? Well I like you, let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend. Bosh. Put the kettle on. But, no. Now we have to over-analyse and over-think and over-discuss every minute detail of our prospective partners. When did the shift from ‘I want that, I’ll go and try to get it’ to ‘I want that, I wonder if it wants me. What if it doesn’t? What if I think I want it, but I really don’t? What if—’ etc … occur?
I met someone recently in college that I rather like. He’s cute, and funny, and we take the piss out of each other on a daily basis. The majority of our relationship has consisted of pub games in the JCR. Cute, funny, and we play games together at school … a bit of deja vu going on here, no? Granted, I don’t think there was alcohol or exams involved when I was four, but the general theme of the situation was fairly identical. Why, then, can I not take that next step that four year-old me took, without a second thought or hesitation, and just ask the guy out?
Ok well I did ask him out technically, but in a very casual, “Oh I heard about this thing, do you want to go?” kind of way. We went to an event in town, then to the pub, then to the JCR as we do. As we left we gave some more banter about each other’s pub sporting abilities before we parted ways towards our respective rooms. Alone. There was that awkward, “Well … bye …” at the end, before I quickly turned and retreated to my room. How is it that I’m more comfortable coming on to a stranger than I am to someone I’ve just spent an entire night with? This is the dangerous part of relationships, where you either make your move, or you become eternally cast as a friend. I know, because this is how Lad Boy and I began.
Lad Boy is very attractive, and I’m sure he knows it. We began spending a lot of time together in our first year, always in the JCR, until one night we decided to go to formal hall together. It had all the characteristics of a date, so I thought maybe this would be the night he made his move. He told me he would come get me at 7, which I assumed meant at least 7:05 in boy-time, but at 6:58, as I was still putting on makeup my phone rang.
It was Lad Boy. “I’m outside, are you ready?”
“Umm, yeah,” I lied, “I’ll be right out.” To this day, Lad boy is annoyingly early to everything. I, on the other hand, am habitually late to everything. We fight like a married couple about it.
At 7:03 I made my way outside, where he was waiting, wearing a suit and a ridiculous tie. “Hey,” he said and kissed me on the cheek.
“Hi … nice tie.”
“Yeah you like that?”
“It’s horrible … and yet amazing at the same time.”
“Yep, that’s what I was going for. Shall we?”
We spent dinner talking about nothing and everything. Something about our personalities clicked and we sat in our exclusive bubble, ignorant of everything around us, just enjoying each other’s company.
After dinner we went to the JCR to meet up with another lad who would ultimately become the third member of our trio, a lad so consumed with lad culture that the only appropriate name for him is Über Lad, or Übe for short. Other possible names I thought of: Hackett (because he looks like he just walked out of a Hackett advert); Banker Wanker (what his profession will ultimately be); or Captain Douche (because we call him things like that to his face quite often). Übe was discussing his summer plans which involved activities that no one under 30 would actually enjoy and were most likely fabricated to impress us, but Lad Boy and I sat waiting for his monologue of pretentious banter to end before taking the piss. Übe is actually quite lovely, despite his compulsive lying, and finally said, “Basically, I’m going to get lashed and hit on MILFs,” shrugging his shoulders.
“Good lad!” I said, patting him on the back. “Aren’t you going to work at all?”
He thought about it for a second (he usually needed a moment to get those wheels turning), “I might be a punter.”
Lad Boy and I almost choked on our beers, then started laughing. “Yeah RIGHT,” Lad Boy said. “When have you ever punted?”
“Mate,” Übe said, getting very serious, “They teach you how. I don’t need to know how to punt.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that may be the only criteria for the job,” I said. “Ten quid you fall in the first time you try.”
“Alright!” Übe said, getting defensive. “You guys don’t think I can punt?”
“If I paid to be punted along the river and got some knob who didn’t know how to punt I’d be well angry.” Lad Boy said, getting caught up in Übe’s agitation.
“Well I’d know how to punt by the time people were paying me, wouldn’t I?” Übe argued.
“Really? Are we really having this conversation?” I asked, but they were really having that conversation and having none of my attempts to change the subject.
“Why don’t you get a job doing something you know how to do? You know they give you money to donate sperm, you’re probably the master of wanking so that would be right up your alley.” Lad Boy suggested.
“Waheyyyy,” Übe said, sticking two fingers in the air at Lad Boy.
“Yep, nice one.” Lad Boy said, seeing off his drink. He tapped the bottle to his shoulder and recited, “E.G.” then turned to me. “Your round.”
“Yeah alright then.” I said, getting up. Lad Boy followed me to the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“Seeing as it’s your round, I’ll have a double whiskey.”
“Anything else? Crisps maybe? I could order you a take-away while I’m at it. Actually, here, just take my purse.”
He thought for a second, “Nah, just the whiskey, ta.” I’m not sure why he likes to talk like he is from South London. He most certainly isn’t. Übe is from somewhere around there and I felt like Lad Boy unconsciously mimicked his speech pattern. I, on the other hand, sound like a total twat if I attempt to speak like that. Then again I probably sound like a total twat no matter what.
“Hey bender!” I yelled to Übe, who looked up right away. Ah, bless him. “What do you want?”
“Whatevuh. Not bovered really,” he said scratching his head.
“Whiskey?”
“What? No way. Get me a cider will ya?” I smiled and laughed a bit. As much as Übe tried to come off as ‘well hard mate’, he was like a big goofy puppy that we liked to play with.
We sat there, me with a Stella, Lad Boy with his single-malt whiskey, and Übe with his Magners, and at that point I knew that I would never sleep with either of these lads, because I had just become their ladette. This has become more and more apparent over time, as I’m the one they go to for advice on birthday presents for girlfriends (who are rarely girlfriends for long), the one they have Sunday roasts with to divulge details of their exploits the night before, the one they call to go down to the pub, and so forth. I think I was even deemed ‘Honorary Lad’ at one point during a particularly drunk night when I beat Übe in a drinking competition.
Though I found both Lad Boy and Über Lad extremely attractive when I first met them, I now appreciate their appearance as I would appreciate fine art – as something nice to look at, but which you’re not allowed to touch. At one point or another people have thought I was dating Lad Boy or Übe due to the amount of time we all spend together. The truth is though, we passed “Shag-able Land” and moved straight to “Ladville” once we began telling each other every time we pulled. I have enough guys I can shag when I want to; a girl needs some boy friends as well.
Back to the situation at hand: new boy, who is in dangerous territory of becoming one of the lads. I can see it happening, even though right now it’s all flirty and ‘oh he might like me, and I think I might like him, but I’m not sure if I like him. Should I kiss him and see if I like him? Should I wait for him to kiss me? But what if I don’t actually like him and then he’s kissed me and—’ ugh! I just chundered at the sound of the desperation. This is why I don’t like dating. I don’t think it is an exclusively female trait to obsess, though we do it more often and more aggressively than men. I am trying the best that I can to not worry about what’s going to happen. In fact I’m not even going to give the new boy a name until I figure out if he’s going to be one of the boys or one of the lads.
I will say that this period of ‘courtship’, if you will, is rather exciting. Not knowing what’s going to happen. In some cases it’s ended very well, in others extremely well – as in the case of the Lads, who are two of my best friends despite/due to our romantic incompatibility. I may be crap at dating and figuring out whether or not someone is interested in me, but at least I can take solace in the thought that at the very least I’ll end up with another drinking buddy.
No, seriously. Living in my self-absorbed bubble, where the world revolves around me, my exams, and ultimately what I want, I’ve managed to create my own universe to the exclusion of just about everyone. Casual sex has been convenient in these dire times, as I haven’t the energy nor the spare minutes to invest in a relationship. Recently I’ve been in all sorts of relationships, but none of them fit the criteria of an actual romantic union. I have many different men in my life who play many different roles. The closest thing I’ve had to a boyfriend this year is someone who already had a girlfriend. Why, might you ask. Well probably because subconsciously there was no threat of that getting too serious, and when it did I hit the self-destruct button. I have friends who can fill in as pseudo-boyfriends whenever I like, going on dates with them, but not being involved physically with them. I have guys I can sleep with at my discretion, but with whom I have no monogamous agreement, nor any obligation to call or speak to. Then occasionally, like now, I meet someone who I want to put into all of those roles. Or so I think. How do you know with people you’ve just met really? And how to you choose which role to put them in first? Sleeping with them right away could potentially end the possibility of a relationship, but waiting too long could put you in ‘friend’ territory, ending your immediate possibilities of romance as well. In compartmentalising the men in my life to fill the immediate needs of the moment, while simultaneously extracting any kind of pressure to commit on my part, I’ve lost any and all sense of how an actual relationship should begin.
I can remember my first relationship as if it were yesterday. We saw each other every day and spent all of our time together at school. Collaborating on projects, sitting together at lunch. We were inseparable.
One day I was looking out through a window and I saw him outside. It was at that moment I knew that I wanted him. I walked out, marched right up to him and asked, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
“Okay,” he agreed without hesitation.
And so began the first of many love stories to come. We were four. I didn’t know what a boyfriend was meant for really, I just knew that I should have one. Puppy (the only name really appropriate for this boy) and I were together throughout all of nursery school before tragically being separated by our parents’ choice of location for our primary education. I still remember his name and his curly hair. Ah, young love.
If only dating were as easy as it was when I was four. You like me? Well I like you, let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend. Bosh. Put the kettle on. But, no. Now we have to over-analyse and over-think and over-discuss every minute detail of our prospective partners. When did the shift from ‘I want that, I’ll go and try to get it’ to ‘I want that, I wonder if it wants me. What if it doesn’t? What if I think I want it, but I really don’t? What if—’ etc … occur?
I met someone recently in college that I rather like. He’s cute, and funny, and we take the piss out of each other on a daily basis. The majority of our relationship has consisted of pub games in the JCR. Cute, funny, and we play games together at school … a bit of deja vu going on here, no? Granted, I don’t think there was alcohol or exams involved when I was four, but the general theme of the situation was fairly identical. Why, then, can I not take that next step that four year-old me took, without a second thought or hesitation, and just ask the guy out?
Ok well I did ask him out technically, but in a very casual, “Oh I heard about this thing, do you want to go?” kind of way. We went to an event in town, then to the pub, then to the JCR as we do. As we left we gave some more banter about each other’s pub sporting abilities before we parted ways towards our respective rooms. Alone. There was that awkward, “Well … bye …” at the end, before I quickly turned and retreated to my room. How is it that I’m more comfortable coming on to a stranger than I am to someone I’ve just spent an entire night with? This is the dangerous part of relationships, where you either make your move, or you become eternally cast as a friend. I know, because this is how Lad Boy and I began.
Lad Boy is very attractive, and I’m sure he knows it. We began spending a lot of time together in our first year, always in the JCR, until one night we decided to go to formal hall together. It had all the characteristics of a date, so I thought maybe this would be the night he made his move. He told me he would come get me at 7, which I assumed meant at least 7:05 in boy-time, but at 6:58, as I was still putting on makeup my phone rang.
It was Lad Boy. “I’m outside, are you ready?”
“Umm, yeah,” I lied, “I’ll be right out.” To this day, Lad boy is annoyingly early to everything. I, on the other hand, am habitually late to everything. We fight like a married couple about it.
At 7:03 I made my way outside, where he was waiting, wearing a suit and a ridiculous tie. “Hey,” he said and kissed me on the cheek.
“Hi … nice tie.”
“Yeah you like that?”
“It’s horrible … and yet amazing at the same time.”
“Yep, that’s what I was going for. Shall we?”
We spent dinner talking about nothing and everything. Something about our personalities clicked and we sat in our exclusive bubble, ignorant of everything around us, just enjoying each other’s company.
After dinner we went to the JCR to meet up with another lad who would ultimately become the third member of our trio, a lad so consumed with lad culture that the only appropriate name for him is Über Lad, or Übe for short. Other possible names I thought of: Hackett (because he looks like he just walked out of a Hackett advert); Banker Wanker (what his profession will ultimately be); or Captain Douche (because we call him things like that to his face quite often). Übe was discussing his summer plans which involved activities that no one under 30 would actually enjoy and were most likely fabricated to impress us, but Lad Boy and I sat waiting for his monologue of pretentious banter to end before taking the piss. Übe is actually quite lovely, despite his compulsive lying, and finally said, “Basically, I’m going to get lashed and hit on MILFs,” shrugging his shoulders.
“Good lad!” I said, patting him on the back. “Aren’t you going to work at all?”
He thought about it for a second (he usually needed a moment to get those wheels turning), “I might be a punter.”
Lad Boy and I almost choked on our beers, then started laughing. “Yeah RIGHT,” Lad Boy said. “When have you ever punted?”
“Mate,” Übe said, getting very serious, “They teach you how. I don’t need to know how to punt.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that may be the only criteria for the job,” I said. “Ten quid you fall in the first time you try.”
“Alright!” Übe said, getting defensive. “You guys don’t think I can punt?”
“If I paid to be punted along the river and got some knob who didn’t know how to punt I’d be well angry.” Lad Boy said, getting caught up in Übe’s agitation.
“Well I’d know how to punt by the time people were paying me, wouldn’t I?” Übe argued.
“Really? Are we really having this conversation?” I asked, but they were really having that conversation and having none of my attempts to change the subject.
“Why don’t you get a job doing something you know how to do? You know they give you money to donate sperm, you’re probably the master of wanking so that would be right up your alley.” Lad Boy suggested.
“Waheyyyy,” Übe said, sticking two fingers in the air at Lad Boy.
“Yep, nice one.” Lad Boy said, seeing off his drink. He tapped the bottle to his shoulder and recited, “E.G.” then turned to me. “Your round.”
“Yeah alright then.” I said, getting up. Lad Boy followed me to the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“Seeing as it’s your round, I’ll have a double whiskey.”
“Anything else? Crisps maybe? I could order you a take-away while I’m at it. Actually, here, just take my purse.”
He thought for a second, “Nah, just the whiskey, ta.” I’m not sure why he likes to talk like he is from South London. He most certainly isn’t. Übe is from somewhere around there and I felt like Lad Boy unconsciously mimicked his speech pattern. I, on the other hand, sound like a total twat if I attempt to speak like that. Then again I probably sound like a total twat no matter what.
“Hey bender!” I yelled to Übe, who looked up right away. Ah, bless him. “What do you want?”
“Whatevuh. Not bovered really,” he said scratching his head.
“Whiskey?”
“What? No way. Get me a cider will ya?” I smiled and laughed a bit. As much as Übe tried to come off as ‘well hard mate’, he was like a big goofy puppy that we liked to play with.
We sat there, me with a Stella, Lad Boy with his single-malt whiskey, and Übe with his Magners, and at that point I knew that I would never sleep with either of these lads, because I had just become their ladette. This has become more and more apparent over time, as I’m the one they go to for advice on birthday presents for girlfriends (who are rarely girlfriends for long), the one they have Sunday roasts with to divulge details of their exploits the night before, the one they call to go down to the pub, and so forth. I think I was even deemed ‘Honorary Lad’ at one point during a particularly drunk night when I beat Übe in a drinking competition.
Though I found both Lad Boy and Über Lad extremely attractive when I first met them, I now appreciate their appearance as I would appreciate fine art – as something nice to look at, but which you’re not allowed to touch. At one point or another people have thought I was dating Lad Boy or Übe due to the amount of time we all spend together. The truth is though, we passed “Shag-able Land” and moved straight to “Ladville” once we began telling each other every time we pulled. I have enough guys I can shag when I want to; a girl needs some boy friends as well.
Back to the situation at hand: new boy, who is in dangerous territory of becoming one of the lads. I can see it happening, even though right now it’s all flirty and ‘oh he might like me, and I think I might like him, but I’m not sure if I like him. Should I kiss him and see if I like him? Should I wait for him to kiss me? But what if I don’t actually like him and then he’s kissed me and—’ ugh! I just chundered at the sound of the desperation. This is why I don’t like dating. I don’t think it is an exclusively female trait to obsess, though we do it more often and more aggressively than men. I am trying the best that I can to not worry about what’s going to happen. In fact I’m not even going to give the new boy a name until I figure out if he’s going to be one of the boys or one of the lads.
I will say that this period of ‘courtship’, if you will, is rather exciting. Not knowing what’s going to happen. In some cases it’s ended very well, in others extremely well – as in the case of the Lads, who are two of my best friends despite/due to our romantic incompatibility. I may be crap at dating and figuring out whether or not someone is interested in me, but at least I can take solace in the thought that at the very least I’ll end up with another drinking buddy.
No comments:
Post a Comment