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Fucking useless

  Sat 11th February 2017

Kitty's birthday, and we're in the liberal accepting bar that is tolerant to all things, except differences in class. Working class speech and manners are repellent to them. Dogs are used as a proxy to introduce a vicariousness into conversation which makes their owners feel sufficiently distant from their interlocutors to be comfortable.

Earlier, me and Wendy spent a couple of hours down a proper pub. The ex-Navy man's voice from two tables away was boring, in more senses than one, into the couple next to us. "The thing to avoid," Wendy said, "is to make eye contact."

In the over-smiling bar, Wendy has changed into a different dress, a wraparound one which I longed to undo, to slide out the knot behind her back and unravel her.

There was five minutes when we were on our own. "You're such a romantic looby, but it never works. You end up being told off, and controlled. You've got lovely friends, you've got loads of people you know, you've got lovely daughters, and you've got a great life."

"I know that, I know all that. But I've got everything except what I want most." I was speeding and had had a few pints. I felt this hollowing behind my eyes, a sadness, a resignation. "You know Wendy, the person I want to be with, is you." She shook her head. Don't fucking impose that on her, I thought to myself; I recomposed my face and we went to talk about something else.

Kitty went home, and me, Wendy, and The Little Dictator, went back to Wendy's. Wendy told me to hide round the corner in her kitchen. The Little Dictator started wailing. "Looby's still here! I want you to come to bed with me!"

"Looby's gone home," said Wendy. "No he's not, he's in the kitchen."

She drained herself with histrionics, fell asleep on the settee, and Wendy cradled her up to bed.

Wendy gave a sigh; sat next to me, and put her head on my lap. I stroked her behind her ears and down the side of her head, slowly. I was arching down towards her because I wanted, very gently, to kiss her, but I couldn't get low enough. It was a slow paradise of feeling my fingers through her lovely dry hair, across the side of her face, and along her neck. My fingertips, and me wondering at her. Too much. I can't look at her any more. Closing my eyes, sliding touch.


Today, we all met up in The Fur Coat and No Knickers Arms.

Wendy said that when The Little Dictator had gone to her Dad's this morning, the first thing she said to him was "Mummy lied. Looby came back with her last night." "Did he sleep in her bed?" he asked.

They all had to go home but me and Wendy's aunt carried on for another few pints. "You know, looby, you've got no chance whatsoever with Wendy?" "I know, and I accept it. I've had -- I am having -- a fucking great life, but I want to give. I've got a shedload of affection and care to give to someone, and I want to give all that to Wendy. I know how controlling it can sound coming from a man, but I want to care for her and look after her."

Before bed, I text her. "I'm going to read more Ulysses then wank myself to sleep over you. High and low, but what's low about you? I love you Wendy, despite me being perfectly aware of the futility of such an ambition."

6 comments

Comment from: isabelle [Visitor]

Oh god Looby, you’ve got it bad. It’s like watching an exquisite form of torture unravel.

Sun 12th February 2017 @ 13:13 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

The history of humankind is a long, sad, tale of wanting and desiring what we cannot have… without that there literally would be no art and no decent pop songs, i’d say take that zen route and profess to Olivia Wendy Holmes that since you love her you’re setting her free, a bit zen but also a bit fucking Sting and since i believe i just quoted Gordon Sumner i’m going to go and punch myself in the face twice…

Ah that’s better, one piece of advice, not that you need it from a deviant fuck-up like me is this, i wouldn’t let her put her head in your lap, as much as you enjoy it it’s pure fucking torture for you, in fact i’d tell her all that flirty, touchy, huggy shit is done and you’re just mates and that… you’re a better man than me though looby, i’d have run my hand straight up her backside, got slapped and shown the door all while attempting to look pathetically innocent, that’s just me of course…

Sun 12th February 2017 @ 13:55 Reply to this comment
Comment from: [Member]

isabelle:
Yes, I have.

I’ve tried every distraction technique going, dating sites, chatting to women in pubs. I can’t get over the fact that Wendy is who I want. I want to make up, invent, a relationship with her using just our own resources. It doesn’t have to be controlling and all that constant criticism that men give women. I really don’t think that’s me. She said everything I need to know a few months ago in a few words: “Having a relationship with you would feel incestuous.” I’m too close now.

kono:
How I wish you and me could go out one night in Manchester, adequately stocked, and see what happens.

I know your advice is sound (and advice from deviant fuck-ups always outshines any counsellor or psychologist), but I am so desperate for the touch of Wendy (how I wish I could use her much lovelier real name), that I am too weak to relinquish the rare opportunities I get to stroke her. I want her to stroke and touch me, but she never does. Her language doesn’t need to be spoken to be clear. She’s not interested.

The rational response which you suggest is beyond me. I fancy her so much, that I lap up any slight offering of her.

Sun 12th February 2017 @ 23:21 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

We might need a film crew to document that event my friend, it’d be a laugh, i’l wear my Hacienda t-shirt so i can look like a typical American, lol!

and i understand your plight my friend, sometimes taking what we can get is better than getting nothing at all.

Tue 14th February 2017 @ 02:51 Reply to this comment

Did she respond to your last text? You really lay it all out there in the store window for all to see. What sublime torment. You got it bad and that ain’t good.

Tue 14th February 2017 @ 12:02 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

kono: no pictures, no pictures :)

Exile: Yes, she texted about midday the the following day asking me what I was up to. I said nothing much and asked what she was doing. She was at work writing risk assessments.

Strange how after all that an exchange can be so banal.

Tue 14th February 2017 @ 13:15 Reply to this comment


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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
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