Commitment

After a two month hiatus in which apparently nothing has bothered me enough to make me blog, I am back Fucked It fans to talk about the tricky subject of Commitment, a word which up until pretty recently has been almost exclusively used to describe men enjoying the single lifestyle of taking numbers and breaking hearts. If you type “Fear of commitment” into Google you get 10,700,000 results, so it is clearly something which is widely discussed, at least online. For men it seems that commitment means an immediate loss of freedom and the swift introduction of your balls to a vice, which, unless you’re into that sort of thing, is pretty scary. There are things in life which people commit to without a second thought, I’m talking Gym memberships, E-bay purchases and phone contracts, so why when it comes to sharing ourselves, our happiness and our lives with another person do we tend to run for the hills, find a cave and live on lichen and beetles for a few months until the coast is clear?

 

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I’ve spent much of my adult life being asked the same question by friends and relatives “how’s your love life?” And I have had the same answer since forever “non-existent”. This always creates the same reaction, furrowed brows, worried eyes and that weird sad smile that says ‘oh sweetheart you’re just so alone aren’t you, it must be so hard, let’s go for coffee and talk about how lonely and miserable you must be.” WRONG. I am a smug bitch, my life is complication free, oh and that’s absolute danger. When you describe your love life as ‘complicated’ or ‘hard to explain’ or ‘a long story’, that’s when you are miserable. That’s the time that you are spending days on end trying to decode texts, or lack there of, or Facebook stalking to make sure they aren’t having more fun than you. Fuck. That.  Meeting a potential love interest is fun for the first few weeks, the butterflies in the stomach when they text you, the planning of an outfit that doesn’t look too planned for a casual cup of coffee, the shaving every frigging inch of yourself every few days. But after that is the difficult bit, which I am not talking about from experience, I mean as I’ve said before I find it difficult to sleep with the same person twice, so getting out of the dating phase and into the “so what are we” phase is mythology to me.   I hear that once you get past the initial few months and enter long-term territory, it becomes about farting in front of each other and eating dominoes before deciding you are both too bloated to even think about the no pants dance.

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So let’s get specific. I want to talk about ladies who are not into committing. We are not rare, we are not the unicorns of the human world, we are not few and far between and we are certainly not ashamed of our lack of interest in the long-term. I will use my friend as an example, lets call her PMP (for Pretty Much Perfect), PMP has a boyfriend (BF) and has been seeing him for lets say 8 months. PMP is a sexual butterfly and her immaculate physique, intelligence and sense of humor mean that she literally turns heads wherever she goes (she would NEVER admit this because she’s a stupid bitch). Now this constant interest from men is having some sort of chemical or psychological effect on her in that she cannot be with one person without wanting to drift. Obviously BF has no idea, he takes for granted the fact that they have some unspoken contract where neither of them will flit about the pond in search of other options, however, BF also doesn’t know that he is very much punching above his weight, and therefore should not be taking anything with PMP for granted.  PMP has always been a horn dog, she appreciates the male of the species in many different forms, but has a penchant for intelligence, so while BF is madly in love with her but has forgotten to show it, PMP has sought out comfort elsewhere. Why? Because commitment has burned her before. PMP seeks to avoid getting hurt by keeping her options open even though her partner is totally besotted with her (as is every member of the straight male population). PMP is bored and undervalued and has sought out fun in the form of ED (for End Date). ED is exotic, reminds PMP of how much she’s done with her life in terms of travel and offers escape and far more than BF when it comes to emotional intelligence. ED is also moving abroad in a few months thus any sort of fling between PMP and ED has an end date which means he is a hugely attractive option, minimal commitment for maximum satisfaction.

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 They always say nice guys finish last, and its true, we like bad boys, we like the dangerous option and subconsciously we like the fact that they will never commit; why else would certain ladies (like myself) constantly find themselves attracted to guys who are utter dickheads. We are ingeniously finding a way to escape the bonds of any sort of relationship before it has even been established because we are that clever. “Where are all the nice boys” we ask, rhetorically, “We’re here” come the cries from the nice guys  in the friend zone who are absolutely furious. To the guys who think that they are absolutely bossing it, finding a different girl every weekend, texting ladies left right and center, just remember that we are not stupid. We know what you are, if you are an asshole, we are probably using you too even if we aren’t that aware of it. Ladies,we all know that it isn’t just men who think that monogamy is unnatural, it is part of our biological make up to want to spread our DNA as far as possible. But this bullshit about how girls are sluts and men are studs has got to stop, we ladies are far more aware of how we are perceived that men think, we know that if we wear this dress we will get attention, but if we wear this one, we will be left well alone. We know how to manipulate men in a way which makes them think they have the power in an exchange. We just have to be stronger, not look for emotional bonds and let them find us naturally.

Also Christina had it right when she said

“If you look back in history
It’s a common double standard of society
The guy gets all the glory the more he can score
While the girl can do the same and yet you call her a whore”

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Power and Passion

Today there is a worldwide lemon shortage as I have apparently eaten them all. Such bitterness has not been experienced since Megan Fox had hundreds of  thousands of dollars worth of cosmetic surgery done only to have her toe-thumbs pointed out (seriously, Google it) . Love and hate are twin emotions, both felt with a fiery passion which is hard to extinguish once the embers are crackling to life. One could argue that the difference betwixt the two are simple, one is positive, the other negative. We are supposed to associate love with romance, warmth, puppies and kittens, toasting with champagne and generally being really quite smug. Hate is the badlands, the shadows, lurking alone scowling and nothing filling the void. However, each can be as brutal as its brother. Love can put a sharper edge on the twisting knife just as hate can make you feel power and accomplishment. Love lifts us up where we belong but hate sends us into orbit. Both can send us spinning us out of control until we slow down enough to enjoy the view with which we have been presented. Yes, glorious perspective. Given the impetus for today’s post, I will focus on hate, with the promise that if I ever experience smugness of the romantic sort I will create a post full of puppies and kittens and feelings and sweetness. But that is not for now.

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What, I hear you cry, has happened to send your blood boiling to this extent? What chaos has erupted into your life, miss salt, to make you unleash the beast? I’ll let you think about it for a second or two…..can you guess what it is yet? Ahhhh yes what else could it possibly be.  For a few months now I have been battling a ghost, something not quite there, but who is the vengeful spirit now?! Me… I am.  I have spent time with G (for Ghost) fewer times as I can count on both hands, and yet my mind has given him such power as the spirits themselves possess. Lurking in corners and disappearing from view when looked upon directly. There is nothing supernatural at work here, no measurable powers of charm, persuasion or seduction, there is only the smokey air of vague. I gave him undeserved weight, status and purpose in my stupid mind clouded by a pretty face and cracking blue eyes. And an accent. The journey of blogging began with him because I let myself feel. Well, lesson learnt, there is to be no more of that nonsense.

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The best thing about being on the other side of the fairground ghost train is knowing it’s not real. Knowing its cogs, bells and whistles. Seeing the horror house actors underneath the makeup and wigs and knowing that the fear comes mostly from you imagining what isn’t there. The same is true of whatever I have let myself feel, reading warmth into an icy blast, making allowances, omitting and adding details, essentially creating a person who doesn’t exist out of the good bits you find. And so Frankinstein’s Monster is given life by its creator and allowed to blunder about in my mind for weeks on end, trampling everything in its path. But in my version the monster doesn’t develop a sense of duty to those around it. It just ceases to be. Hate helps,like a torch in the dark it picks out pieces of Lego and upturned plugs on the floor wishing to cause us harm in the night. Nothing can hide from hate, nothing fogs its crystal clear focus.  It is not the nasty dark power people think it is,it is the last knife in the drawer when it comes to self-preservation. Hatred is both sword and shield, aggressor and protector. It gives a sense of purpose, an outlet for excess emotions, recently evolved from something softer and less able to protect itself. Where many of us are left in a state of dribbling confusion, unsure of what to do with ourselves when mere thoughts sting, we can use hate. Give your weakness strength; transform those fragile butterflies into iron dragonflies. Shed your exhausted and tear-stained skin and step out clothed in glorious hate, the smoldering embers in your eyes the only clue as to the depth of your true feelings. Some may say that promoting hate is a bad thing. I am promoting the kind of hate that you feel but never act on, it gives you a charge, an electricity that surges through your veins, speeding up synapses, reminding you what you’ve been through so you are not taken in again. I’m preaching power with a sustainable source, you don’t need to feel weak, no more tears only clenched fists and a source of power that will never run dry, after all, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

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One Night Stands

Its coming, the weather is hotting up, the skirts are getting shorter, the tops are getting plungier and the hedonistic nature in all of us is effervescing away beneath the surface waiting to burst forth in a wave of skin revealing revelry. Summer. The time of year where the youth of the day return to a primordial state where the smell of sunscreen, sweat and hair products propels the masses into a frenzy of sloppy tonguing sessions and even sloppier sex. We abandon ourselves to our baser instincts, summer is prime time for one night stands and I am here to tell you the DO’s and DON’Ts of this oh so special of occasions.

First things first, if you don’t use a condom when bonking a stranger, you are essentially a vile slut who doesn’t care if she catches every STD under the sun. This goes for boys and girls, for both are sluts equally. Do not skip the rubber, you don’t know where Mr P has been, and you don’t know who has been visiting Mrs V, so why risk it. Better than to have to momentarily pause proceedings than have to call ever one of your sexual partners and explain that due to your foul sexual discrepancies, you may have given them herpes. The rule is essentially, if your partner doesn’t suggest the use of any sort of protection with you, the odds are they don’t use it with anyone. Bail.condom1

 

Now, the fun bits. One night stands are the perfect opportunity to try those weird sex tips your read in  magazines, or to try that thing you’ve always wanted to. For example, in my final year of uni, my sluttish behavior was at an all time high, I had a fire escape outside my room, which my bedroom window opened onto. I called it the balcony and it was a happening place. I therefore made it my mission to get laid on there at least once. And I did, with a total random, who was JUST terrible. Which brings me to do number two; always bring them back to yours. This means you have control of when your conquest vacates the premises; fire escape guy wanted to stay and cuddle (something I will literally never understand) so I had to deliver the classic line “oh shit, my boyfriend is coming home in like twenty minutes. You should go!” (scoffing quietly to myself at the idea of me having a boyfriend at all)  It is also the perfect time to be demanding. Once you know that bonking is on the cards, you can pretty much draw up a little contract in order to be fully satisfied, I once gave a guy actual rules before agreeing to sleep with him (which ended up being a three-hour romp, followed by wedding  jokes at breakfast with the rest of the group in the morning) Also, one night stands are prime time for hilarity; take the time to do something hilarious and socially inappropriate and create an urban myth that you know to be true. For example, I had one guy back and after thirty minutes of heavy petting he was still…..a little more Philadelphia than Parmesan in the penis department.  Anyway, I was drunk and intolerant and delivered the classic ultimatum “Babe, at this point, go hard or go home”…he went home and I passed out naked…again. Then there are those classic moments when you’ve drunkenly gotten naked with a friend with no real intention of actual penetration. This happened to me at uni and the pair of us ended up passing out au naturel. About an hour or so later, our mate came into my room (greeted by the sight of my bare ass) to get the guy to go back and smoke up at his place, and I (still in a naked drunken stupor)  could only repeat the words “Babe, just chill out, its fine”.  There are those moments when you both think you are porn stars and then catch sight of yourselves in the mirror and both have to take a second to laugh hysterically. There are those times when you take a mid-session break for a cigarette and end up performing a top-notch blow-job in the communal garden in full view of the upstairs neighbors… just cos. There are hilariously awkward moments, however. For example, I once ended up bedding my Uni’s water polo captain, who definitely forgot my name and just referred to me as  “Baby”, I have never been so pleased as when he got up and left in search of a kebab.

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Things to beware: Beware the “accidental slip”, we all know what I mean here, and there is a chance that in the fumble to pleasure you, your partner may have gotten too excited and popped something somewhere it doesn’t belong for a second or two, causing you to perform the gravity defying ‘gecko’ move up the nearest wall.  Beware Magic FM…Seriously, I remember ‘Careless Whisper’ coming on at 2am and being completely unable to continue, while my playmate thought it was the sexiest thing ever. I literally almost pee’d with laughter at how cheesy it was. Horrendous.  Beware volume control. There is nothing worse than hearing other people bumping uglies, honestly it isn’t ok, you end up feeling like some sort of aural voyeur because no matter what you do you can’t block out the sounds.Beware inequality; go tit for tat, if you go down for fifteen minutes, the favor should be returned…any guy who says anything pertaining to “I don’t do that” can suck your imaginary balls and get out of your bed.  Beware feelings. As I have said before, if your legs open faster than Google’s homepage, you are not girlfriend material…one night stands are called this because they have a very precise shelf life. You are not going to find ‘the one’ this way. What you will gain is confidence, skill, experience and fun. Try not to give a shit about reputation, because the only reason people will disapprove is if they aren’t getting laid or if one of you is cheating. Cheating is BAD. Do not get involved with ANYONE who is attached.

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Love is a Tool

Love songs are unrealistic. Written to tell us what we want to hear, making him out to be a saint and her to be this perfect pedestal dwelling angel. They aren’t. They are people with flaws. It is the most written about subject in literature, film and song. Shakespeare had it right in his sonnet 130 beginning “my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”, in which he talks about his amour being imperfect and even ugly, but concludes with ‘and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare’;  essentially he loves her for who she is. A glorious revelation, but one whose value has been lost in time. We tend to listen to people drone on about how in love they are and how the world is new to them, how everything has changed,how perfect she is, how wonderful he is,  how lonely they were before and how fucking smug they are these days. Its fucking exhausting hearing about it. Today’s drive for perfection has seen beautiful women reduced to alien beings, more plastic than fantastic! Giving themselves horrifically over-inflated trout pouts, noses that belong on barbies and don’t even get me started on fake tits! These poor women think that looking ‘perfect’ outwardly will help them find love, help them to find someone perfect for them, when actually you should be more concerned with giving your mind a makeover because you will only ever attract someone who is as apparently vacuous as you seem to be. That’s the horrible thing, I see these barbie dolls walking around like clones of each other, all of them armed with their black leather Michael Kors Tote, hair up in a high bun, each clinging ferociously to the over-pumped arm of some orange skinned slick-haired buffoon.  I look around at these couples on MTV’s The Valleys and Geordie Shore and it’s no wonder it makes such good entertainment when those people essentially are caricatures of themselves. Covering themselves in war paint and hair extensions, the lads doing so many push ups they end up looking like a skinny guy coming out of the torso of a buff guy, it’s just not right!

 

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Love is a complicated mess and yet the pinnacle, the summit of our lives.  My uncle asked my mum recently whether I would be bringing my ‘latest squeeze’ to this family party we are throwing. And the truth is i have never had a ‘latest squeeze’. The relationship thing is a shadow to me, an illusion. I don’t know whether its me being hilariously picky, whether I ‘just haven’t found the right person yet’ (ps for the love of fuck, relationship dwellers, stop fucking telling us this…I know I haven’t otherwise I wouldn’t be on my fucking one now would I?) or whether its something deeper like a the constant need to self-sabotage for some reason. Who knows? But one thing is certain, whilst I may have missed out on many, many lovely things like make-up sex, couples holidays and whatever else it is that they do, I’ve also avoided break-ups, cheating, foul PDA and the absolute hell of meeting the parents. I think so many people these days are so preoccupied with not being alone that they will jump into any relationship offered to them, rather than spend some time getting to know themselves a little better. Especially the generation following mine, where 14 year old seem to think that listening to Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift makes them ready for any kind of committed relationship that isn’t with a celebrity who is unaware of said relationship. I have friends who have never been truly single and who like to pretend like they are just  like me… gurl…you  are not. Spending a couple of months post break up is not being single…it is being momentarily indisposed. Having to pick between guys and it being a struggle…not being single.  Spending at least a year struggling to even sleep with the same person twice…that, my friend, is being single. And you know what, for me, so far, it’s working. Sure I don’t have anyone to wrestle naked with, but I have friends with whom I can do literally anything a couple would. We cook dinners together, sleep in the same bed, share secrets, cry together, laugh and love. As I’ve said before, friendship is a BIG deal to me and there aren’t enough songs about that!

 

Here is a poem I enjoy immensely:

 

Love is a tool

Love is a tool to manipulate the weak.

We see love on TV every day,

But its something that’s followed with ads for Diet Dr Pepper and mascara or Trojan Condoms

Love is a marketing scheme designed by CEOs

Who have gone through five wives with no remorse

And haven’t paid child support in years

But their bank accounts support octuple digits

That can buy a new car

A Swedish cabin

Or a set of new shot glasses.

Thats why when you tell me you love me

I’m reluctant to believe it.

How do I know you’re not going to sell me shoes

Or trade me in when the new wears off?

I don’t want a price tag on my head,

So fuck love

And its sneaky trappings.

Love is a tool to persuade girls like me to buy romance novels

and Ben and Jerry’s

And sit and cry over guys in High School

Who called us fat one too many times.

That’s exactly what love is.

Take the Tesco sticker off your roses

And try to convince me otherwise.

– Anon

I think love is finding someone who drives you up the wall but you can’t kill them because you’d miss them too much. Its laughing at every fart (because they are always funny), sitting through questionable movies and braving awkward social situations like a two man army. Its finding a best friend who you want to have naked playfights with and who will hold your hair back when you puke. It isn’t just having someone.

The Penny Drops

How much shit are we all willing to endure for the sake of aesthetics? I have mentioned before that I have a pretty sparkling track record when it comes to notches on the bedpost, this bitch has punched above her weight time and time again never failing to coax her prey into bed. Each and every one of them was a solid 7 or above externally…but I find the lack of substance in the bunch disturbing. Reflecting over late night cocktails with my friend/ volunteer life coach, I realized that much of my grief surrounding the rejection following conquests is because they were gorgeous physically. On closer inspection i realize that X had a pretty tiny penis, which is the route of their generally negative demeanor, Y was incredibly stupid,  which is probably the most unattractive thing ever ,and Z all your friends hated, and your friends are NEVER wrong.

Time and time again I have found myself defending dickish behavior and severely below average performance, citing past traumas or some confidence crisis as reasoning behind laughable social etiquette. Why? Because we all like hotties. Beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder, and sometimes, when you are standing too close to something your vision becomes blurred. So we squint and imagine that what we are seeing through the haze of  desire is what we want and attempt to cram a triangular peg into a round hole. Having a certain allure means that we are willing to overlook a lot of shit that people throw at us, you can become a crutch for someone; misery loves company and you assume that getting to them on an emotional level will even out the playing field. It doesn’t. This is something to really keep an eye on, everyone has their own shit to deal with, their crosses to bear, their skeletons in the closet, always be aware that when your arms are full of your own controversies, you are in no position to offer to carry someone else’s too.

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These hotties come in many shapes and sizes, but all of them give you that unrivaled tingle of pure lust which clouds our judgement. This is where our friends come into their own. My lot have been saying for weeks that i should run for the hills. Of course they are right. Unfortunately, I’ve been so busy being smug that I have failed to really see the idiocy of this all too familiar situation. So the cycle continues, we lust, we lose, we hurt, we live and we LEARN, which is the most important step. I am learning, slowly but surely, by pulling this carcass of mine up this endless hill called life, that you can’t compromise when it comes to your peace of mind. Fuck bargaining for your happiness. Fuck waiting. Fuck being fucked over.  I am in my god damn mid-twenties, the world is my proverbial oyster! So what the fuck am I wasting my time on anyone who isn’t going to make me even happier (to those of you who know me reading this, yes, you were right, fuck you all)

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So having been knocked back for the millionth time I feel it is time to stop all this feelingsy bullshit.As my cocktail compadre said last night, I have come too far of late in the mastery of my mind to throw it into the fires of lust and watch it shrivel into nothingness, especially for anyone who isn’t even remotely worth it. This ache will ease, the butterflies in my stomach will be consumed by the acid therein and I will emerge victorious once more. With my gym membership in hand and summer looming on the horizon I will embrace Hedonism as my mantra. I will behave appallingly and I will not let myself get bogged down in these futile swamps of douchebags who are going to try to fuck me about. No longer! Those who are unwilling to make little changes for the better are not worthy of a second of my precious time. I am a fucking phoenix rising from the ashes of another charred fuck up.   The sun-starved goddess in me is surfacing, she has been hiding in Hades for too long now, she needs to breathe the glorious honey tinged air of Mount Olympus where she is meant to be,  she needs to spread her legs and fly.

 

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Mind Games: A Dire Idea

 

Fancying someone is like what I imagine having children to be like, no matter what you’re doing you cannot get a moment of peace and radio silence is more suspicious than anything. There is nothing more frustrating than not knowing where you stand. A friend said to me this weekend that relationships would go a lot more smoothly if there was a stronger element of transparency to them. He’s absolutely right, of course, the games we all play to do nothing but shroud us in an unnecessary fog of ‘mystery’ or, as I like to call it ‘mind fuckery’. The act of mind fucking is a plague upon all of our houses, serving no purpose other than to deliberately taunt the minds of those unfortunate enough to experience it. My assumption is that you’re either a brain raper, or you’re a perfectly honest person just trying to get by in a world where having the upper hand is apparently paramount. Gone are the days of honest hearts and open minds. We are, all of us, allowing game playing to become a horrendously ordinary way of going about our romantic business.

 

With the advent of Tinder has come the loss of transparency; casually flicking through five or six potential candidates a minute, stock piling those you ‘definitely would’ is creating a selfish generation where ‘playing the field’ has never been more a la mode . To me, it is clear that we are losing faith in the idea of finding anything meaningful, we no longer value monogamy, we fish about in the sea using a net rather than a rod, preferring to ‘keep our options open’. I was guilty of this too,however since the flaccid experience on a Tinder Date lately, I’m hanging up my swiping shoes in the hopes of finding a genuine connection with someone which isn’t based on looks and proximity. Imagine my frustration then, when I think I’ve found something that could have become significant, only to have fucked it (ha!) by hastily fumbling about naked…..twice. Silly, silly girl, when will you learn that no matter how glorious you are as a sexual partner, carnally vivacious does not girlfriend material make.

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Our old enemy obsession (see my post Obsession not Love for full rant) plays a key part when it comes to brain banging. The culprit relies on the fact that their victim has a strong interest in them, whether it is forged in a mutual interest, or (more commonly for me) in manipulation. A friend who I will call M (for Master Manipulator) has told me a few times that to get someone to fall for you, you need to work out what is missing from them and provide them with it. For a while I thought ‘what a great idea, creating for oneself the opportunity to seize the upper hand, to hold the power and become (This summer, Arnold Schwarzeneggar is) the Manipulator’.  But I soon realized, having spent years feeling endless tuggings on my various strings, I couldn’t put someone else through it. Call me weak, call me soft, but having been fucked over time and time again, I know how pathetic it can make you feel, and it isn’t something I would risk on my hunt for a permanent piece of peen, slash ‘love’ (if it still exists somewhere)

 

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I’m sure it isn’t just me who gets excited when I embark on a new adventure in romance, I will fantasize, maybe I’ll see something of a  future, maybe I’ll read into things a little too much and is that so wrong? Perhaps my interest in finding something real shows in my face, in my posture, the way I construct my texts or the frequency of them. Maybe I reek of neediness, but whatever it is, it can be sensed and it is a repellent. So I deliberately try to be chill, I treat the situation as a fragile glass spider, handling it with care and diligence, holding back so as not to snap its frail legs. Yes, this is obviously not transparency at its best, but it is keeping my cards to my chest in order to cushion the blow of what will doubtless be yet another rejection. Obviously this is incredibly negative, but, honestly, its the only surefire way of avoiding that horrific ache in your chest you only experience when your affections are rebuffed. Why shouldn’t I use any armor available to me? Why shouldn’t I get my cub scout on and be prepared? The worst that will happen is my assumption that things will flop is, yet again, correct. Its surely better than getting your hopes up, pinning them all on someone (which, by the way puts a huge amount of unknown pressure on your beloved) and having all of them smashed in an instant. The situation I’m in now, I am doing my utmost to put out of my head, the more I think, the more the obsession takes hold, and the top of a pedestal is a long way for anyone to fall.

 

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So I will protect myself, I will keep my shit together, be a friend first and foremost, as has been asked of me.  I can’t stop the sensation of butterflies that follows a dazzling smile, and I can’t avoid feeling as though everything is a sign of something that could be coming, but I can try to ignore them. I will not decode every text, every full stop, every lack of  kisses at the end. I will keep my feet firmly on the ground and do my best to keep my head out of the clouds, but we all know that eventually, not matter how many distractions you provide yourself with, no matter how busy you are and how much you try to ignore it, your mind will saunter back to the forbidden land of your heartthrob and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.