The One - No one said it would be easy (9 page)

The one thing that confirmed itself again and again was that even the worst case of love-sickness will heal in time. And that afterwards you always ask yourself the same question: “What on earth was I thinking?!” Be kind to yourself: smile wisely and forgive yourself. Nothing else works. Smart people know that no one is immune from love’s irrational quirks – or rather, from what we mistake for love at the time. All that remains is the hope that eventually you’re going to be clever enough to recognize your own stupidity and that, next time an emotional mess beckons, you’re going to be more capable of getting yourself out of there under your own steam. Never mind the bittersweet deliciousness of heartache. This doesn’t exactly answer the question of why women keep falling for assholes, but at least it illustrates that possibly this might be due to a blind spot or a wiring fault within the female brain. Maybe we simply can’t help it.
Number Seven and I met up a few more times. It was always the same. He acted like a big shot (but no big shot in his pants), we had ball-thumping sex while listening to his oh so cool club-type music. I never felt very much at ease with him. Still, after a while I assumed that I was in love with him. I can’t even remember how I handled the thing with Number Five at the time. One of our meetings was particularly weird. For days, Number Seven had bombarded me with yearning text messages. He was longing for me, when would we be able to meet again, and all that kind of stuff. When we finally did meet, we practically tore each other’s clothes off, he whispered things like “Oh baby I missed you so much” and we had great sex.

Turned on by how emotionally uninhibited he was, I had the grand idea of confessing my apparent love for him. During sex. While he was laboring and panting on top of me, I whispered my “I love you” into his ear. He said nothing. But I instantly knew that he thought only one thing: “Oh shit!” I spent the night at his place and again was very aware that I wasn’t really welcome in his life. Before, he’d made all these lovey-dovey slushy schmaltzy noises, and now this. Unbe-bloody-lievable! How could I have turned into such a stupid clingy cow! Next morning: total meltdown. He muttered something about how it wasn’t possible, he liked me very much but nothing more, and his girlfriend and blablabla and so forth. And that’s when the penny finally dropped. I was good for a screw, and the minute that was over, he just wanted me out of there again. Mad as I was at him, but most of all at myself for being so unbelievably stupid, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t speak. I grabbed my stuff and left. Which was the only sensible thing to do. I heard him hit the door with his fist and yell “shit!” – wow! Albino pit bull in action. Really very impressive.     
Tears streaming down my face, I drove home. I was so mad. Simultaneously I imagined how I’d leave Number Seven to stew if he’d ever got in touch again. Not a peep out of me, nothing, never, I swore to myself. Oh, how much I would have loved to believe this! If Emotional Disaster had a sister, she would definitely be called Inconsequence. All my promises to myself and all my good intentions went out of the window as fast as the conviction with which I had made them was deep. Long live unreasonableness and sweet self-deception! I actually managed not to contact him for several days (always a big deal among girl friends in the wake of an affair with an asshole: “Be proud of me, I haven’t contacted him for two days now!”). Then I received an e-card from him. A dog with a stupid expression on his face said “sorry”, plus a little message from him. And since we’d been on the same wavelength intellectually from the start, and had a lot of fun together before all this sex stuff hit the fan, his message was just right. I started to giggle and I couldn’t be mad at him any longer.

Naturally, I wrote back and forgave him. Also, his two semesters abroad were just about to begin and we managed to be grown-up enough to make up before he left. We met for dinner, he handed me a bunch of “please-forgive-me” sunflowers and we had almost as much fun as during our pre-sex times. We didn’t mention our botched affair.

Several years have passed since and we’re still good friends. We don’t see or hear much of each other, but when we do, we are just as silly and have just as much fun as in the olden days. It seems incomprehensible now that I once got into such emotional turmoil over him. And when one day some female colleagues and I, during an attack of shrieking silliness, decided to use an online social network to show each other our most toe-curling affair under the heading “I’d never introduce him to my girl friends!” I was the absolute run-away winner.

And: the thing with Number Seven confirms once again that sex always comes between men and women. Normal sexless friendships are simply not possible. Always there’s this underlying attraction and the question “what if...?”.

Number Eight: The dream guy I just couldn’t fall in love with

Nothing much happened with Number Eight but I have really nice memories of him. It was one of those brief summer-magic numbers that last but a few weeks. I seem to remember that this lovely little affair happened just after I broke up with Number Five. I can only recall his first name and that he was unbelievably cute.  

I met him at a small cozy party given by a friend of mine. I noticed him immediately because he was so damn handsome, like a mixture of Tintin, top model Markus Schenkenberg, and a Monchichi. His behavior was kind of boyish but who cared! He had a huge tattoo on his back, which, prompted by the knowing host and suitably embarrassed, he had to show to the assembled guests. I was majorly impressed; the tattoo added a sexy and wicked note to this seemingly sweet and harmless guy. Plus, he had a very beautiful, well-toned, strappingly tasty physique. We girlies are so easy to impress! Even though I really liked this guy, I didn’t flirt with him that evening, it never even occurred to me. Which meant I was relaxed and easy-going, just having a great evening and lots of fun. I didn’t have to impress or woo anybody, I was free, independent and happily myself.

Apparently, that’s the best love charm ever, because, big surprise next day: my friend called and asked if she could give my phone number to the Monchichi – he had asked. Baffled, I said yes. Seconds later the phone rang. He was so sweet and bashful and apologized for phoning around after me, but said he’d really wanted to get to know me better. Enchanted by so much cuteness, I didn’t exactly make it hard for him and we arranged to meet that very day, for a walk and some ice-cream. Very romantic. I was a little bit high – after all, isn’t this every girl’s dream: to get the most handsome guy of the evening to jump through hoops to acquire your phone number and to take the first step and dare to call you up, and all without you having made any moves in the first place! That takes some balls! I was most impressed.

Everything about him was cute. Our initial hellos when we met on our date were sweet, he seemed so wonderfully awkward. And me, I was very pleased to be seen with such a cutie-pie. We wandered about in his village, down the pretty pedestrian zone where he bought me ice-cream, and found a big bolder near a lake in a small park, upon which we sat and talked. That’s more or less all that happened. Some days later, we had another date and he picked me up in a fab purple sports car. Up until then I had never thought that a car could impress me, but it was actually quite grand to be cruising around in such a swish car with such a beautiful guy. I was however somewhat irritated by my newly apparent superficiality and the associated interest in beautiful things. Even my dad – this was during my last few weeks at home, just before I moved into my student digs – whistled appreciatively through his teeth when he saw the swish car and its swish driver. We went to a swish club in the swish city. After an unspectacular evening we went home to his house. He had his own beautifully furnished little flat within his parents’ villa. And he had a gigantic dog. We were hungry and decided to prepare a midnight feast, spaghetti with tomato sauce. Once we’d done away with that, we kissed. He kissed well, but even then I could only think one thing: how cute! Everything we did was lovely, everything about and around him was perfect. But, sadly, for the first time ever and even though he kissed well, I experienced nothing at all else during the kissing. No further excitement. Nothing else happened that night. Or any other night.

We went on a few more dates, cooked meals in his perfect flat, I met his perfect (and very nice) mother and we took his perfect dog for a walk. Everything was perfect. We made out a lot and that, too, was perfect. And I so, so much wanted to fall in love with this perfect young man. But it just didn’t work. I got really cross – he was just too cute. But however hard I tried, it just didn’t work. You can’t hurry love. I can’t actually remember how we broke it off. I think I wrote him a long email and explained that he was the most wonderful man on the planet, but that sadly I was not in love with him and therefore it made no sense to keep seeing each other. Number Eight replied with a very cute email – how else? What he wrote sounded so grown-up and mature it quite threw me. Then I felt even more cross that my heart refused to fall in love with this really fantastic dream guy. Falling for a God-awful albino pit bull almost to the point of self-sacrifice – but downright refusing to allow any butterflies in the stomach for an all-round carefree dream-package like this guy. Sometimes your heart simply doesn’t know its ass from its elbow!

Number Nine: Sex with a best friend

During my time at university I got to know another cute guy. There were actually quite a few cute guys on campus. A rather strange but still very nice story developed between me and Number Nine. Number Nine was very sweet and totally nuts and we ended up with a very chilled friendship. I was really proud of this; at long last I too had something like a “male best friend”. Although Number Nine was very attractive, I didn’t actually find him sexually attractive. The main reason being that I didn’t like his smell. Not that he smelled bad, rather the opposite – he was always groomed und styled from top to bottom. But something bothered me about his smell. I couldn’t define what exactly it was. But, as science has proven again and again, the first thing that has to be compatible about a potential couple is their smell.

Number Nine and I may not have been on the same wavelength with regard to olfactory preferences, but we were with regard to everything else. Things were eerily familiar between us, sometimes almost as though we were siblings. When we went out together, neither of us ever got to flirt with anyone else – everyone assumed we were a couple. In summer, we went on outings together. I had no problem lying next to him by the lake, soaking up the sun toplessly and cuddling up against him, practically naked. We often hugged and sometimes we held hands. Once, on a journey, we even shared the same bed and I fell asleep in his arms, all warm and comfortable. It never occurred to either of us that there might be anything more. Everything was perfect just the way it was. He had just split up with his girlfriend and I had just split up with Number Five. We had both had it with relationships, so to speak.  

Of course, every so often the question arose just how far we could take this and what might happen if, but we never took it all the way. Until that evening. Summer break. Both of us out on the town again. This time we wellied it up some, aided and abetted by lots of alcohol. Dancing together, the atmosphere between us grew more and more scorching. Our dancing was lascivious, most exciting. After sharing a giant cocktail meant for four people and hitting a few more clubs, we staggered back to my place. I had no doubt that Number Nine would stay with me, he was so drunk I wouldn’t have let him walk anywhere by himself if he’d tried.

Which is how we ended up cuddled together in my bed. I couldn’t sleep. All that alcohol and all that heat between us. Suddenly, I felt really randy for him and so I asked what would he do if I were to start seducing him. He whispered that he would probably melt with lust. That was all right then! We got started immediately. Number Nine had a beautiful wiry athletic body that I loved to touch. His smell, though, still bothered me. I simply didn’t like it. Which was why we didn’t kiss. It was the only time I ever had sex without kissing. A new kind of experience. We tried to get going, he was well aroused and very well endowed. He had a picture book Greek cock. Perfect size. And completely shaven. Another thing I’d never before seen on a man. We managed to reach the in-and-out stage, but after a while our strength deserted us. Somehow, we couldn’t quite manage to turn our immediate lust for something new and unknown into lustful action. Also, everything had started to spin around me, the merciless effects of all that alcohol.

Apparently it was like that for him, too, and by mutual agreement we stopped and fell asleep, snuggled together. What was astonishing is how entirely relaxed I was throughout. Even this miserably failed attempt at having sex was perfectly familiar and not remotely embarrassing. I didn’t feel ashamed and I didn’t worry at all whether this would wreck our friendship. It wouldn’t – I was sure of that, especially since I knew that I wasn’t in love with him, which drastically reduced the potential for emotional disasters. When we woke up next to each other in the morning, we burst out laughing. We made a lot of fun of one another and our miserable attempt at sex. And that was that. We resumed our relaxed and easy friendship just where we’d left off, without bitchiness or drama. If anything, after sharing this bizarre experience it was even more intense than before.

Some years later, during my one year of singleness, we tried again. Again, we’d spent a brilliant evening together, went out for a really posh dinner, drank lots of wine and, for dessert, went back to his place and a nice fat joint. Which reliably rocketed our sexual excitement sky-high. We sank into his waterbed and, drug enhanced as we were, let the music draw us in. We even kissed this time, but the problem with the smell was still there and I just couldn’t really get into the mood. Of course you have to ask yourself again why you’d want to do things when you already know that they won’t lead anywhere. Not a clue. Maybe you just like to keep chancing it.

Anyway – this time we had real sex. Not that easy in a waterbed, but we managed surprisingly well, even different positions. Sadly, I was so doped up that after a while everything began to spin and it became strenuous rather than lustful. He came, I didn’t. I spent the remainder of the night hanging over the toilet bowl, freezing my butt off. Too much wine, too much joint. And somehow the thought that the sex thing had been entirely unnecessary. Luckily Number Nine didn’t ask any questions and, comfortable as ever, we eventually snuggled up together and fell asleep. When he started to fiddle about on me again in the morning, I gently but firmly moved him away and that was the end of the matter.

We’re still friends. Very good friends. And, as ever, things are wonderful and relaxed. But I sincerely hope that, in future, we’ll keep well away from all experiments of a sexual nature. After all, we’ve tried it often enough now!