A template letter to your ex

In the spirit of public service, I thought that I would provide you all with a letter that may prove handy in case you wanted to get in touch with your ex-partner. There are lots of blanks, but I have offered what I consider to be the most likely options:

Dear <insert name of boyfriend/girlfriend/mistress/gimp>

It's been almost a(n) <decade/year/month/day/hour> since we broke up. And although I am <sorry/happy/annoyed/perplexed> at things ending the way that they did, I thought it was time that I should get in contact with you.

The last time I saw you was <at a mutual friend's party/across the street and I pretended not to see you/looking through your bathroom window/you looking through MY bathroom window>, and I regret not being able to really <talk to/confront/throw pot plants at) you then.

So what are you up to? I'm not doing too badly, I'm <working in a comfortable job, but not really pursuing my actual ambitions/a billionaire space sex cowboy/drunk>. I saw your post on Facebook with your latest <drawing/short film/fetish shoot> and think it's <great/inspiring/confusing/drink enducing> what you're doing.

To be honest, since we broke up I have <n't had much luck in finding anyone/had sex with every good looking person I know/gotten romantically involved with a lorry driver named Trevor>. So I guess that right now I < am dying from sexual frustration/probably have an STD/am now called Cynthia and take a lot of amphetamines>. The other day I found out from <your Facebook status, pictures and posts/our mutual friend/hacking your email account/speaking with the spirits of the netherworld> that you <are still single/in a relationship/in several relationships/are a lorry driver called Trevor>. I just wanted to say that I am <happy for you no matter what/very depressed/very drunk, so really it doesn't matter>.

If you are free in the next <month/week/year> then it would be great to meet up and <talk and stuff/have sex/listen to you talk about your life so I don't feel too bad about whining about how shit mine is in comparison/throw aloe vera at each other>. I am <generally/always> <free/drunk and horny/at the garden centre>, so let me know what's good for you.

Really, all I wanted to do was let you know that I <don't even think of you that often, I just feel kind of both happy and sad whenever you come to mind/fucked your brother>.

Best wishes,
<name>

A Home of One's Own

First things first, I would like to direct any attention away from me and towards my good friend Ivan's new blog beyondtheironpeak, in which he discusses the various crazies in his head. 

Now, the notion of a living space is one that I have previously touched upon, although that post dealt with the degrading drudgery that is house hunting. This entry is to do with a very personal dream of mine: the dream to live alone. Okay, 'dream' may be too strong a word: a really big fucking desire to live alone puts it more succintly. 

For someone in their early 20s, or actually near-approaching mid-twenties, which is really terrifying, there are several states in which one can live:

1) Living with parents (very likely)
2) Living in a house-share with strangers around your age (pretty damn likely)
3) Living in a tiny flat with a live-in landlady who doesn't let you have guests but does let you listen to her have sex with her partner on Friday and Saturday nights (more likely than you would want to admit)
4) Living with friends (sadly not as likely as it really should be)
5) Living with a partner (come on, who even HAS long-term relationships any more?)
6) Living by yourself (pretty damn impossible).

Okay, it's not THAT impossible. Bypassing the hyperbole, the main obstacle to having a place to myself is cost. That is, I can't afford it. I suppose it's my fault for working in Cambridge, which happens to have the highest average rent outside of London. 

So, removing the cost barrier, why would I choose to live alone rather than live with friends or a partner? Well, because I'm a romantic of course. I have this image, which has undoubtedly been influenced by so many novels, films and biographies of poets in the 1920s, of a small apartment, with a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, books crammed into every cranny and a delicious turntable and stereo in the corner with stacks of vinyls and CDs. Probably a cat as well, to act solely as a lap warmer. That is my vision of paradise. On no account does this perfect space include a damp problem, bad central heating, shit estate agents, uncaring landlords and a mounting sense of despair and loneliness. 

Yes, I prefer not to involve reality in this dream. Reality would dictate that living alone in perfect contentment is really just as much a raging fantasy as living with someone else in the same state. But dreams are infectious, and the image of the artist being locked in their private world with no distractions is very contagious. The main problem is that it's bulllshit. All of these novels with these sorts of people always involve them somehow acquiring lovers. I should try locking myself in my bedroom and writing poetry all day, I'm sure that hundreds of Parisians will flock to the landing in an instant.

Okay, so maybe this doesn't sound so great after all, but what is the alternative? Spend most of my 20s living with strangers before moving in with a partner? Maybe that is the only choice. Yet it hardly seems like something that can be depended upon. Romance or not, living alone affords the virtue of space, of being fully in one's own skin. 

Also, you get to walk around naked.

An Interesting First Date

Before I start on my latest post, I would like to draw any attention I may receive to my Twitter feed, which can be found here.

I would also like to take this opportunity to mention my friend Mark's blog site. It looks a lot more professional than mine, and actually updates regularly. Check it out!

Anyway.

I don't think it's much of a confession these days to say I use online dating. Really it's not much of an anything. Fortunately that's not what this post is about, but I suppose that it is the context. 

I first began online dating in the summer of last year, based on the glowing reports I received from an acquaintance of mine, who had carved himself out a niche as a very successful libertine. Driven by both the desire to meet new people with the possibility of sparking something and a mounting, crushing loneliness, I made a profile.

And then nothing happened and I gave up.

But 6 months later I started again! Quite quickly I began messaging someone who appealed to me on various levels: 1) she looked quite gothic in her picture; 2) she said she was taking a masters in classics; 3) actually...it was mainly those two things. Her responding to my message also helped move things along.

By the second message, I had already accidentally asked her if she was into S&M. Okay, semi-accidentally. She happened to mention a book in passing that was vaguely to do with the subject and I brought it up. It turned out that she was into S&M.

We decided to meet. I chose one of my favourite cafes that happened to be within decent cycling distance of work. She was sat in plain sight of the entrace, wearing a purple jumper. She definitely came across as nervous, she had long black hair that she would retreat into at certain moments in the conversation. 

I began by making a comment about the weather (it was fucking cold) - it seemed like the first point of bonding for fellow Englishpeople. Thankfully, this was not the sort of date where small talk needed to be made. Within what seemed a short amount of time, she told me that she was in an open relationship. My reaction wasn't great, I remember making some audibly English sounds, most likely in the 'oh' or 'ah' category. It was more surprise than anything else, because I just had not gleaned that from her profile. 

Once that was in the open, we discussed classics, our backgrounds, and then sex.

It was my fault really, I was the one who brought it up. What was great about this girl was that she was really sexually liberated and completely honest about it. The problem was that I was honest about it too. Now, I wield the truth as an ogre might wield the leg of a horse: with reckless, joyful and yet thoroughly gross abandon. The point came that she asked me how many sexual partners I had, and I answered truthfully that I had been with two people. 

Now what was funny about this, and the reason why I felt I had to write about it, was her reaction. She diminished into her hair with what looked to me like shock, as it became increasingly obvious that I was hilariously out of my depth. The funniest moment was when she asked me how I had only been with two people when I had just been talking about the other dates I'd been on. I said, 'Oh, we only went on two dates, we didn't have sex.' She looked quite aghast, just at how weird it must have sounded to her.

The only way I can describe it is the awkward meeting of two vastly different worlds. My one being the one where sex is serious, where the concept vastly outweighs the act because there is so much built up around it in terms of culture and gender politics. Her world seemed to be one where sex simply is. It is something enjoyable, obtainable and ultimately freeing. 

We make our own prisons and our own means for liberation. Something like sex can be both of those things. I am reminded of the question that everyone associates with philosophy from the age of 5: "If a tree falls in the wood and no one is around to hear it, does it blah blah blah?" I suppose my version of this is: "If someone is sexually liberated, but does not really have sex, can he or she still be said to be liberated?" I would like to think yes, because there is more to freedom than what the body performs, but then action defines being, it carries out freedom.

After leaving the cafe, we walked around some parks and streets, discussing pretty much this. When we parted, she said she was glad that she had met me. A few days later she emailed me to say that we were probably too different, I think she was right. To use another ancient metaphor, stepping out of the dark cave too quickly leads to being blinded by the Sun. I translate this as: things come in time, just step slowly.