Tag Archives: love
Genuinely unique Valentine’s Day gifts
Amidst all this hate it can be tricky to remember that we’re supposed to be approaching the most loving day of the year. Valentine’s Day: when everyone who has someone is urged to go and blow a load of money to prove how deep their love is. Or just to show that they’re able to remember an arbitrary date. Or because there was a 2-for-1 offer on heart-shaped chocolates and they simply couldn’t resist. In my line of work, I’m generally expected to write something Valentines-y, ideally with a selection of unique Valentine’s Day gifts with which to surprise your loved ones.
However…
How do I know if you’re my boyfriend?
Relationships are often full of uncertainty. We meet someone we like, we fall for them, and we wonder – what exactly are they to me? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Fuck buddy? Lover? Person-I’m-dating-temporarily? The good people – the ones who are decent and kind and open and trustworthy – will either know what you are or they’ll help you work it out. You’ll have those giggling deep conversations over a bottle of wine or a pot of coffee at 8 am, and you’ll say:
“What are we, exactly? Lovers, fuck buddies, boyfriends or…?”
You don’t sniff my knickers anymore
“Remember how you used to sniff my knickers while you had a wank?”
“Yep.”
“Do you still do that?”
“Nope.”
And thus my heart was broken.
Relationship insecurity: why are you with me?
If I’m certain of anything about myself it’s this: I am a fucking nightmare. Anxiety means I am constantly examining every detail to see what might be right and wrong with my life. No – scratch that – every detail of what might be wrong. What’s right gets dumped on the ‘finished’ pile, and rarely given more time than a cursory ‘hooray’ before it’s time to move onto the next thing. Leaving my brain free to focus on unpaid bills, people I may have offended, and a mountain of relationship insecurity on the side.
The ones that got away
Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.
Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.
I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.