Oh God, What Was I Thinking

It was months ago that I flicked open my laptop to write the next instalment of this blog (the one where I finally tell you about how bumping into a stranger in a Newport taxi rank led to an impromptu threesome). Paragraph after paragraph came tumbling out, and before long I found myself armpit-deep in an existential crisis about whether I actually enjoy spanking or if it’s all unresolved childhood attachment issues. This blog was supposed to be a fun, self-deprecating stroll down Why-Did-I-Do-That Avenue, and a cheaper alternative to therapy.

Instead, I’ve accidentally performed so much emotional archaeology on myself that I’m worried I may have ruined sex forever. So, before I write about the next man (or, man-and-plus-one in this case), I need to write about the woman who’s trying to write about him.

The Fuck-It-Why-Not-Era

Whilst geographically I’ve dubbed this segment ‘The Newport Era’, in hindsight I should have called it the ‘Fuck It, Why Not’ era instead. That seemed to be the mantra of my early twenties, and indeed why I ended up in some of these messy situations.  Revisiting some of these sordid escapades forced me to think long and hard about why and how these events happened. I won’t lie, I wanted to track down 22-year-old me, grab her by the shoulders and shout “WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU THINKING??” right in her freshly-pierced face. It does feel like looking back on a different version of myself though, and I can say with confidence that I’ve grown.

Writing it down felt heavy though. There’s no doubt that I felt a sense of shame with some of these tales, and unlike actual therapy where I’d be sharing these inner-most thoughts in confidence with a trained professional, I’d chosen to blast mine on a public blog on the internet. Perhaps I’ve not grown as much as I thought.

Forcing myself to analyse these behaviours and emerging patterns was eye-opening though. For example, I’ve never been able to explain why I got my first tattoo when I did. I’d always thought they were “cool”, and wanted to have one, so I got my first one at age 22. It’s only now, at age 42 that I’m rolling my eyes because I know damn well I got my first tattoo so guys like the Emo DJ would deem me attractive and therefore worthy of fucking. At least I can laugh out loud about that now (and I’ve since had several tattoos – and relationships – that were much better).

But I needed that pause before I wrote the next instalment. There was a part of me that wanted to abandon the blog altogether. Self-therapy in the form of creative writing is all well and good in theory, but in practical terms I had opened Pandora’s box – full of sin, lust, and an unexpected musical blowjob. There was no going back on what I’d already unpacked in my mind, let alone what I’d already published online. I felt ashamed by plenty of it. I still haven’t got to the one whose name I can’t remember. For nearly two decades that was merely a drunken anecdote. Now, I feel icky at the thought. I wouldn’t behave like that nowadays, but I can’t change the fact that it happened.

This isn’t a disclaimer though, or an attempt to excuse the actions of my former self. This is still the blog that I set out to write. Perhaps now I’ve got that off my chest, I can power through these awkward Newport Years with less shame, and more of a cheeky wink at that former version of me. That 22-year-old me who I wanted to shake by the shoulders with fury and dismay, who I now know probably needed one ginormous hug.

It’s comforting to know too that I’m no longer a person who’d get a tattoo to get noticed by a boy. I won’t even dress for the male gaze (I get compliments on my outfits all the time, but typically from older ladies or children under 7). My twenties, and much of my thirties, were a time of ‘please notice me’. My forties have seen me settle into a new age of ‘you’ll probably notice me, because I’m 6ft 2 in heels and wearing every colour of the rainbow, but I’m going to go about my day whether you do or not’. There is much freedom in that, and I wish that younger me could have experienced a dose of that confidence back then. She’d have been unstoppable.

But that’s enough pausing and reflecting. Time to roll my sleeves up and get back to the matter at hand and the reason you’re reading this: the juicy bits. There are still a couple of people I need to include in the Newport Era before I close it off (and a couple that for reasons personal to me I won’t), but hopefully now I can get it all out without feeling so cringey about the whole thing. For now, it’s time to head back to Newport. TAXI!!