Oh God, What Was I Thinking

I have been putting off writing this next post, for two reasons: one; I’m genuinely not sure who was next. I have been racking my brains trying to figure it out, thinking about where I was working and living at the time, how events unfolded, and I have absolutely no clue. The next year or so in Newport really was a blur. One guy’s name has long since been forgotten too (did I even know it in the first place?).

The second reason is that one blog post in particular (the one you’re about to read) is something I do feel awfully awful about. I’ve already had one ex attempt to reach out and ask me not to write about them (we’ll cross that bridge in due course), and if the person in this post reads this, I’m fairly certain he would be mortified. I am mortified.

Here we go…

I was walking home with a friend after a night out. He offered to walk me home, but I think in reality I was walking him. I reckon I’d have been more use in a fight had we run into trouble, and his place was slightly closer, so we got there first.

I’d definitely had a few Piano Nans (a staple drink in the ‘Port), and was feeling a little flirty and confident, so…I kissed him. I dropped my bag on the floor, I looked him dead in the eye, I pulled him towards me, and I kissed him.

That was a big deal for me, considering it wasn’t all that long ago that the thought of kissing a guy filled me with nerves and dread (what if I was a terrible kisser??), and here I was making the first move like a badass. My ego was further boosted when, after finishing the kiss, he said “where did you get your skills?”.

No more worrying about being an embarrassingly terrible kisser, I was good at it. I picked up my bag, he went inside, and I carried on the walk home with a little more strut in my step than before.

THE END.

Oh, how I wish it had ended there…

The next day, he said, “So how long have you wanted to go out with me?”

Wait…WHAT??

Since when did one kiss mean that I wanted to jump into a relationship? I just felt flirty, and I kissed him. It didn’t mean anything. Naturally, I told him this, and he understood.

Did I fuck.

I don’t know why I was so incapable of being honest in situations like that. Incidentally, a very similar thing happened with #1, the intention being to kiss him (to get back at another boy), end of story. As such, we ended up dating for three years, and the Indiana Jones theme continues to haunt me to this day.

I could have said, “I’m so sorry if I’ve misled you in any way, I don’t want a relationship with you or with anybody right now, it was just a kiss”, to let him down gently, which was what my brain was saying. To my horror, the words which tumbled out of my mouth when he said, ‘How long have you wanted to go out with me?’ were “Oh, you know, quite a while”.

Fucking great. I had another boyfriend.

It wasn’t all bad, I suppose. He was very cute (I wouldn’t have kissed him otherwise). And very tall. As a 5’10” woman, I am rarely afforded the opportunity to be on tiptoes while kissing. So, soon after our initial kiss, I found myself back at his place. In his bedroom. Admiring his Avril Lavigne posters.

Ok, this is the bit that I was dreading having to write about. The more I think about it, the less convinced I am that we technically slept together. He did, however, go down on me. How do I say this diplomatically? Let’s just say it wasn’t the earth-shattering experience I’d hoped for.

I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be that bad at it – something which has put me off ever wanting to sleep with a woman, because what if I went down on her and I was that bad too??? The irony of that statement will soon become apparent.

I couldn’t do it. I needed to wriggle out of this and call this mistaken relationship off.

I did what anyone would do in that situation: I told him I was a lesbian.

He seemed to take it ok. I was safe. We were no longer a couple. He understood perfectly well that it wasn’t anything he’d done or could do anything about; I just wasn’t attracted to men. It wasn’t his fault. Peace had been restored. I’d gotten away with it.

At least I had until I jumped into bed with his housemate. His male housemate.

After #3, I really should have implemented a ‘no sleeping with other members of the same household’ rule, but no. The phoney claim of being a lesbian soon slipped away to reveal my true colours (which were not orange, white and pink) when I emerged from his friend’s bedroom. We never spoke again.

—

I’ve often thought about reliving various parts of this, and what I’d do differently now. Would I have gone in for the kiss? One hundred percent. But, the conversation that followed the next day would have gone more along the lines of “oh my dear sweet boy, I adored that kiss we shared last night, and I’m glad you did too. But I am a free spirit. I cannot be captured or tamed. We are two ships passing in the night.” And so on.

If we’d accidentally ended up indulging in bedroom activities, then rather than running away, it would have been perfectly ok to give gentle guidance and encouragement: “I like it when you do this”, “why don’t you try it like that”, “no sweetie, that’s my leg”. That sort of thing.

Not being able to say what I really think at the risk of hurting someone’s feelings is something I’ve been cursed with – perhaps even trained to do since I was a girl. Thankfully, as a 40-something year old woman, I’m less inclined to give a fuck. But I still feel bad about this one. About leading him on, about lying about being a lesbian (technically only a half-lie as I have always been attracted to women as well), and about jumping into bed with one of his friends.

I also appreciate how much skill and communication good head actually requires. At least he wasn’t humming Avril tunes while he was down there.