Well, well, well look who’s found their way back to the keyboard…well only because I’ve had my heart slightly torn up once again and I felt like writing about it (and now I’ve started writing again, I don’t want to stop) and after all my loss is also my gain because nothing “bad” ever happens to a writer…it just gives new material so here we go…buckle up folks.
Did you miss me? (Obvs). Will you make it to the end of this mammoth essay of a blog piece (Probs not). But look, if you can’t love me at me “War and Peace” you don’t deserve me at my “Hemingway” when he wrote “Baby Shoes”.
Literally he just wrote:
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn”.
That was it. No prologue, no epilogue, not even a measly dedication to a lover, past or present. Not even to his cat (who could have also been his lover, I mean he was a “modernist”, insert *cheeky wink*there) Just those 6 words. Simple, easy, basic words. Quite heart-breaking, gut punching, rip your heart out words actually when you read it...then read it and feel it.
But look, I digress, and thank me when I say I really don’t want this to turn into one of my A-Level English Lit evaluations of a novel for your sakes- you DEFINITELY would be tapping your finger on the ‘close’ button faster than you swipe left on Tinder. I see you lot giving that index finger a workout (I could insert another *cheeky wink* there but I’m trying to keep this piece classy and not uncouth you know…).
So my first blog back is all about DICKS. Hehe, sorry.
Well, mainly the species who are attached to them.
The Males. The Geezers. The Lads. The Chaps. Bloke’s, guy’s, fellow’s and the gentlemen.
Whatever your chosen noun is, that’s who I’m talking about.
Because I’m having a little bit of an issue with them. And verbalising these troubles might actually make a little bit of space in my mind for much more important things- Barbie the Movie comes out in exactly 40 days and I need as much room in my brain as poss to make that film my entire personality for 2 weeks.
I have come to the conclusion that I must have a massive sign on my head that reads:
“COME IN TO MY LIFE, BE NICE FOR ABOUT 17 MINUTES AND THEN COMPLETLY SCREW ME OVER TO ANOTHER LEVEL THAN THE GUY BEFORE DID AND MAKE ME EAT COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF BEN AND JERRY’S TUBS OF ICE CREAM TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER”
I mean my forehead is verging on a fivehead so it would all fit to be fair…
Either that or I am just the greatest “Fuck Boy” pied piper of all time and I give off an energy and vibe that just has them sliding into the DM’s like Tom Cruise in “Risky Business”!
I was once told buy a man (who was a fair bit older than me, daddy issues innit) whilst in a cinema queue that, and I quote:
“You’re definitely more of a Marilyn than a Jackie, aren’t you?”
Now, I was kind of offended by this comment. I mean he didn’t say it just because I was blonde at that time now did he?! We all know what this is implying and if you don’t…I don’t know, read a history book or something…dumbass.
Jackie was the ultimate “wife”- pretty, smart, quiet, the girl you’d take home to meet your mum and she’d say, “oh isn’t she nice”. Marilyn was seen as the complete opposite. The sex-object, the bombshell, the “dumb blonde”. The kind of woman you’d bring home to your mum…and she’d send her husband out for milk and bread.
After some recent “events” (God, that sounds like a tragedy that’s just popped up on the BBC news doesn’t it, I might message Huw Edwards and ask him to do a dramatic reading of this piece for me, I’d pay good money to hear him say “all about dicks”) those 11 words that he said to me swirled and twirled around my brain again and made me slightly question if this was the reason why, once again, a man had used me to make himself feel better and sacked me off once his ego had been re-pumped up just enough to not need to message me…again.
I met up with a guy back in April. Which if he’s reading this-:
Hiya, I finally saw ‘Jackie Brown’ and OMG WHAT A FLIPPING MOVIE! Loved it, solid 9.3/10. Would see again.
He messaged me, out of the blue 3 days after I had sworn off dating/seeing/being within 5 meters of a man for good. (I say out of the blue, he had been doing the casual “like” spree on my Facebook and Instagram for a few days prior, you know to put the feeler out…the modern way).
Oh, and European’s you’ve got yourself to blame for my “NO MEN” policy because you are slimy bastards who bring nothing but trouble, heartache and to be quite honest, probably some venereal diseases (I’m clear but there are a few ladies in the dancing world who might want to get down to a clinic ASAP Rocky- no shade, no judgement, only facts, stay safe because no man is worth an itchy vag…or worse)!
We’d exchanged messages, a few here and there, the usual stuff-
“Where do you live? What do you do for a job? So, when we meeting”
I don’t know why I responded really. I really was sick of men and all the shit, hurt and “situationships” I’d been in recently and I think, deep down, I knew I was probably going to start playing with fire again but something made me respond. And agree to meeting. I scrolled (stalked) his Instagram profile. And his Facebook. Couldn’t find his twitter account. And felt drawn to him. Like I’d known him from a time before. It was a weird feeling. Not my usual type… in terms of him being from England. And a blonde too! Not “Milky Bar” kid blonde, but would have definitely had that hair colour when he was little type blonde. But something drew me in.
We started messaging a little more frequently, trying to figure out when we could meet up. And then he says, “Can I call”?
ERMMMMMM…. CAN YOU FUCKING NOT? Hideous. The thought of a stranger having to listen to my diabolical Essex accent is the stuff of nightmares and if anyone knows me properly then you would know I can barely text back let alone actually click ‘accept call’, the thought made me shudder…although that could have been the fact I went and sat out in my garden at 9:30 at night in my pj’s to actually answer the call.
“Hello”.
Oh god its him. Wait, that is not at all what I thought he was going to sound like. I kinda like it though. Its giving Top Boy meets Peaky Blinders. I really like it.
We talked for a little while and instantly there was some sort of vibe. The conversation flowed and weaved seamlessly, full of cheeky chat but also it had moments of honesty and openness (from us both) that is rare in today’s filtered life. I felt so at ease that I didn’t realise my teeth were chattering and my body was shaking with the cold until my mum lobbed a blanket out the back door at me.
These “Garden Chats” happened a few times, stolen minutes when we could here and there. And I knew I had to see this guy. I had to see what would happen when we met. Would it be the big Hollywood meet/cute or would it be the biggest let down since Marcus Rashford missed that penalty in the Euro’s (sorry to do you dirty like that Marcus babe).
We eventually got a “date” in the diary and I of course, like any sane person would do got to London 4 hours early and did 18,000 steps around the centre of London before we were due to meet. I’m beginning to see the issue to be fair…
We were meant to meet at 4:30, he was coming straight from work and I was giving it the whole “yeah play by ear, let me know, no worries” when actually there was a lot of worries, don’t let me know fucking tell me what time precisely we are meeting and the Capricorn in me despises playing it by anything other than fact.
4:30…4:40…4:50…5pm- don’t worry he wasn’t an asshole and he did tell me that he was going to be late, but I won’t lie, by this point I already was like “Ahh forget this, I’m gonna go”. I’d even text my mum to say that I might come back home as I wasn’t really feeling it.
Him: “I’m here where are you?”
Me: “Well I’m here, where are you?”
Him: “I can see a Five Guys”
Me: “I said the big Primark, right in front of the station”
Him: “Nah I can’t see a Primark”
Me: “Well I can’t see a Five Guys”
This went on for a good minute before he said, “wait I can see you”.
Oh god, he’s seen me. Too late now to back out RiRi. Shit, does my hair look alright…oh bugger I bet I’ve sweated off half my makeup from my blooming hike along the Southbank I decided to partake in…oh I can see him. He’s really tall (could be because he’s across the road), like really tall. Oh, okay, I’m crossing the road, my legs have literally taken me across the road, I didn’t even check to see if a car was coming, nice introduction that would be- me being thrown 50ft in the air after getting hit by a red bus.
NOW THAT WOULD HAVE MADE THE BBC NEWS!
We do the hug thing, neither one of us really sure where to put our hands. Do we do the air kiss, is it one of two? No no, this guy is English Ri…he’s a one kiss for sure. Oh shit, maybe it’s even a handshake. I really need to date more English guys.
We start walking to nowhere and I hadn’t really looked at him properly yet, taken him all in I mean, until we got to the crossing and he turned back to look at me. The most ocean blue eyes I had ever seen were staring back at me. The type of eyes that would make that blue your favourite colour in the whole world.
And it was at this moment I knew I was completely, and utterly fucked.
We sat down and had a drink, did the “usual” polite, chat about family, work, what we’d been up to that week but it didn’t feel usual. It felt like he actually wanted to know. It was as if he actually cared what I’d done that week. And wasn’t just asking because “that’s what you’re supposed to do”.
We moved on a couple of times to different places, our steps slightly starting to interlink along with our hands catching each other’s, accidently of course, as we walked along the busy Sunday streets of London. Whenever I’m in London I always love the hustle and bustle of it but that day, even though it was heaving with cars, people and sunshine, they had never felt quieter and peaceful to me.
We finally settled in a cosy little wine bar down a soft side street and I prayed that there would be food as I was a wine and Aperol Spritz down by this point on just a Belvita breakfast bar that I’d pathetically nibbled almost 9hours ago.
We laughed, we chatted, we spoke about movies and why Tarantino is the absolute tits, we shared dreams and fears, wants and tears, over multiple glasses of red that loosened our exchange even more. Oh, and we ate (THANK THE LORD) he made me try anchovies for the first time and in the very sexy way I managed to drop the little fishy out of mouth as he attempted to feed me the little bread/anchovy sandwich he’d made for me.
I instantly felt my cheeks flush a hint of red that was probably giving my freshly coloured hair a run for its money and I covered my eyes in complete and utter cringe and just wanted the ground to swallow me whole (a bit like my stomach wanted me to swallow the last bit of cheese on the board too).
He took my hands clearly from my face and instantly said “so come on tell me about your tattoo’s…what’s this one” as he pointed to the evil eye on my middle finger. Phew, he’s not asked for my mum to come and pick me up.
“Well it’s meant to protect me from evil in life...I mean it’s not done the best job so far”
We laugh. He’s still holding my hands.
“What else have you got?”
I start giving a guided tour of them all and their little meanings, his face softens when I get to certain ones that mean a little more to me than just the pretty heart I fancied getting inked into me. He’s still holding my hands.
“I really like them, they’re so different…like you”.
He’s still holding my hands.
That was a cheesy line but tonight…I like cheese.
“I really want to kiss you”.
Well that’s delightful because I really want to kiss him too.
We lean in across the wobbly tiny table and our lips catch the balance as we fell into a new type of conversation.
Now, I’ve had a fair few kisses in my time. Good, bad and the pure ugly (ewww washing machine tongue) but this was good. Like really REALLY good. So good in fact that he didn’t even seem to care too much that when we unhurriedly came apart I laughed directly in his faced when I saw I had shared my signature rouge lipstick all over his mouth.
Hand in hand we head to another bar, the darkness now covering flushed cheeks and stained lips and eventually it was time to go home. He walked with me to the tube and I could feel my heart start to sink. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay, his hand holding mine and head into the unknown with him.
The whole train journey home I began to ponder and slightly worry that this was going to be another situation where I’d had the best time but I’d missed all the tell-tale signs that he wasn’t interested, so I braced myself for disappointment…I also braced myself for the wine hangover the next day too.
But he rang. The very next day. And then he rang again. And again and again and again. Holy moly, I’d smashed it. HE DID LIKE ME BACK! Alexa, play “Hallelujah” and crank up that volume baby because ya girl is back in business.
He showered me with compliments and would say things that normally would make me recoil in disgust as they were so “lovey dovey” but from him…I adored it. Being 100% honest, I was starting to slightly adore him too (and I’ve never adored anything that doesn’t have four legs and a tail) He told me he was thinking about me, spoke of things that showed he was hiding a vulnerable fragment inside him, he made plans of trips we’d take and after much deliberation we decided, it was simple. We just liked each other. For who we were. “Not kids shit”.
So, tell me why is it that 4 weeks later I’m sat on my bedroom floor wondering why I’m crying once again over a man after I receive the message “I’m sorry I know its harsh but I need to cut it off with you, I really like you but I can’t do this right now. You deserve much more than me.”?
I knew from the very start that he was a busy guy, he had a lot of things happening professionally and personally in his life and I thought I’d made it very clear that I understood this and we’d meet when we could, heart-to-heart’s when we had some spare time (because hello I’m a busy working Mum to a Cavapoo so I got shit to do too baby).
But when that message came, I was floored. Of course, I sent back the classic “cool girl” response with “Oh this sucks, but I’ll be fine…hope everything works out well for you in the future and you get everything you want and more…blah blah blah”. But I was not the cool girl in reality. In reality, I was the burning woman who had just been smacked in the face by a wet towel.
It’s giving “It’s not you, it’s me” vibes isn’t?
The really shit thing is. I really liked him. I liked everything about him. Even the “bad bits” I wasn’t supposed to like. But he was open, honest, true, unafraid to say what he felt. Refreshing from a man. So strong yet had the slight vulnerable side to him that he didn’t shy away from showing me. I saw him. I saw all of him and I still wanted to make it work. I was truthful about all my own baggage and he didn’t run for the hills saying “stay away you crazy bitch”. He made me finally feel seen too. Heck, even my Mum liked him! And that is one tough cookie to crack.
I mean, part of me thanks him for being “honest” and not doing the typical “ghosting” move of just stopping replying and making the other person wonder if they’ve been hit by a bus? (What is it with me and busses?)
But then this brutal honesty made me question everything else that he’d said. Did he mean anything he had told me, was it all a lie? Was this just a bit of fun for him and he thought I’d give more of myself if he was “the nice guy”? Why even contact me in the first place if he wasn’t in the right place to follow through? I was doing perfectly fine (well…a ‘RiRi’ version of perfectly fine at least) until he showed up, made everything shiny and bright and then fucked off and took all the colour’s back with him when he left.
Or, and this is where the Marilyn/Jackie remark came back into my head. Is there something in my DNA make up that’s been made to be “desired” but not “loved” the whole way through. I’m a decent “side dish” but never the full “main course’. The Saturday night party girl not the Sunday morning breakfast in bed babe? A good “Act 1” but don’t bother coming back after the interval.
After all, Marilyn was “adored” by the whole world but she also had 3 failed marriages, countless love affairs that ended in disaster and a heart that was shattered to pieces by the time she had finished her time on earth.
Men seem to be in love with the “idea” of me but the “reality” of me is never quite what they want. As the lyrical prodigy that is Denise Welch from Loose Women’s son, Matty Healy, once sang-
“Don’t fall in love with the moment and think you’re in love with the girl”.
Is that the way I’m going to have to live my life from now on? Having these amazing human interactions and happy bursts throughout my time left but accepting that that’s probably all they are going to be, fleeting moments in my own story. Chapter’s. Segment’s. Does anyone ever really get the full “Happy Ending’? Or are we just chasing the unobtainable “Hollywood” fantasy…isn’t that what Marilyn did? So desperate for love are we that we’ll lick leftovers from a knife.
But even after all of this, I think I’m truly content with being a “Marilyn” after all. In the short time she was here she was so full of life, talent and most importantly love- in all its forms! She was bright, intelligent, strong-willed, funny, sexy, witty and she was the ultimate feminist icon who paved the way for so many women in the entertainment industry and beyond. She left her red lipstick mark on the world and if that’s who I remind folks off…I’m pretty fucking honoured.
To the Marilyn’s of the world, I see you and I love you.
xoxo
