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Brotherly love

  Tue 12th July 2016

Four women at the next table.

"...sitting on't balcony, looking down at all them cunts down there -- she's dobbed him and she's ditched him and she's getting fingered in the bushes, fucking fat joint, fuck, no, it's not a blokes', no, you're not [going home], you're coming to Galgate and getting off your face."

One of them came over to me. I couldn't remember who she was. "You remember, you were talking about Jeremy Corbyn the other day." Two of them just had their wedding ceremony at the Registry Office. One of the brides was wearing a see-through red artificial lace top over a white bra, the other, trying much less hard, a plain black top and black jeans.

Two hours in and it's all winding down in a familiar vortex in which longwinded expressions along the lines of how lovely you are and how I've never met someone that is such a kind person, no shut up I'm talking, no listen, you know what I'm saying..." are now souring into bitter, drunken, loud, life-as-soap-opera. They've been refused any more drinks. One of the brides' mothers has grabbed her jacket and stomped off. "Fucking pricks."

Me and Trina went to Middlesbrough. My mum wanted a second opinion on her clothes for my sister's wedding next month. My sister has been fretting, asking me, amongst other inanities, if I'd like her to buy me a "burgundy" tie to co-ordinate with that of the groom.

We took my mum to a cheap pub for a dinner: a bolus of reconstituted potato, and stools of extruded vegetable fat. Back at hers, she tried on a boxy navy outfit, which I said made her look like a Tory councillor. She had another idea, a white and creme combo which at least has the advantage of a kinder colour. She said "I'd prefer to turn up looking like a scruff. I've no interest in clothes whatsoever."

I am spending the least amount of time possible at this wedding, since I avoid work whenever possible. Trina is collaborating in a lie to my sister that I've got to leave early in order to get to a freelance job in Glasgow.

In fact, we're escaping to a hotel in Appleby, a town whose attraction is that it lacks anything of interest. Dribbly, somnolent afternoons in the bar are enlivened only by the arrival of the militantly healthy types dragging the rain in with them, beaming with a self-satisfaction that comes from being razored for hours by sleet.

Me and Wendy ventured up the park. She wanted to nip off into the bushes. "Hang on, I need a wee. Have you got a tissue? No, I can't use my Barclaycard statement." We came back to mine and had a bottle of Prosecco and some weed instead. We text and talk like lovers. We are not lovers. "Being with you would feel incestuous," she said a couple of weeks ago. She sees me like a brother.

I've got sex on a plate with a woman I neither love nor fancy; I cannot have a physical relationship with someone I do. It pains me. It's sad. I feel it as a loss, a waste, a waste of ignoring the natural part of the spectrum of affection that I feel for her.

When she stood up to leave, angling her head and lips away to offer me a sisterly cheek, I held her for a fraction of a second beyond the moment at which I could feel her relaxing to tell me to unclasp her; desire, time racing, the intense few seconds in which I am allowed to hold her to me, desire as strong as the horror of appearing pestering or needy.


Comment from: kono [Visitor]

I believe Exile will concur with me on this, but have you ever heard the old J. Geils Band song Love Stinks? it almost perfectly sums up this triangle you have going on…

Of course i’d advise (not that you need any advice from a derelict like me) hanging on to the fantasy of Wendy and giving up the chase, if she doesn’t feel it sadly there is nothing you can do, there was a girl once who spent the better part of a year trying to get me in bed, i’d go to her place and get high and she’d constantly want to shotgun hits into my mouth, all i had to do was respond and we’d be naked, i refrained cuz she was a friend’s ex, her and i were good friends, and then one morning her and i and another lass ended up in a rather interesting three-way somehow, when we finally got around to fucking, (the other girl i quite fancied so we went first) we started screwing and about a minute in we both looked at each other and said it was a bit weird, like screwing a cousin or something, she turned over and told me to keep going from behind so we wouldn’t have to look at each other, it sorta worked but still it was just odd, so maybe this is just a long-winded way of saying be careful what you wish for cuz it could be a colossal let down… or absolutely brilliant, shite i’m no help at all…

Wed 13th July 2016 @ 14:45
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

He he kono, your comments are excellent stories in themselves.

Nice to have a choice of who you had a go at first!

I really don’t think anything beyond this is going to happen with Wendy. It would have happened by now. I understand how she sees me now. There was the odd flicker of sex but it’s disappeared again now. Bugger!

Thu 14th July 2016 @ 11:21

I didn’t even know you had a sister, much less one about to be married. Don’t call it an inanity. It’s important to her, even if it seems trite to you. Be generous.

I remember getting the cheek well. It happened countless times. Still does. Ever think of ending your torment and telling Wendy it’s just not working for you? Might want to see where an ultimatum gets you. What’ve you got to lose?

“Love Stinks” = a very bad song by a very good band.

Thu 14th July 2016 @ 11:45
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Yes, you’re right, that was a rather ungenerous comment abot my sister’s wedding. It matters to her, so one should go along with it. But really, I’m only going to do all the smiling for two or three hours at the most.

I don’t want to give Wendy any ultimatums. I know her answer. “Ok, fair enough looby. What would you like to do then?” I have absolutely nothing to bargain with. Any withdrawl of my friendship would be met by her with a short period of mild disappointment, nothing more, after which I would look even more of an idiot than I am making myself (at least in my own eyes) than I am doing already, a sullen, sulky teenager.

I’m stuck. Such a woman crosses my path hardly ever – once, twice? in a lifetime – but there’s nothing I can do, but try to erase these feelings for her, which seems an impossible task at the moment. How am I supposed to do that, when we get on so well, and she’s so sexy and gorgeous, clever, funny, superbly dressed, druggie, literate, single?

Fri 15th July 2016 @ 00:52

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