Condemned to a stop-start life.

Entering a new ‘thing’ without a definition.  The stage in a  relationship where you are kind of looking for company, to avoid a forlorn future with no options and no way out but a trip to a dating site or a lonely hearts Wednesday night meeting at some dingy Irish pub where ladies well into their fifties smile at me with their weathered lips and freckled skin.  The stage where you are desiring something more than sex, something that drives you wild in the night, an animalistic want for that woman’s touch and need.  In your head you think ‘I want her to cling to me, to smother me with kisses and listen to my stories’ but then flinch when she actually turns out to have a few daddy issues and the only reason she wants you so bad is because you are the greatest male influence in her life.  Then you want a woman with great integrity, a great mind and a great family surrounding her.  She doesn’t want you so hard but the sex is pretty good and she gives you space.  But there are other guys in her life and that makes you jealous.  You’re intimidated by her intelligence, by her zest for life that makes you feel that you haven’t travelled enough or experienced enough to be by her side.

Insecurity.  It can gnaw at your insides and it breaks the promise that life is meant to work out for everyone.  It isn’t.  Life isn’t going to grant my wish during my morning shower when my mind is wandering into the think tank of my sexual experiences.  You hit 22 and you were promised direction by an overpriced private school.  You don’t know where to head next when everyone around you appears to be pushing into the corporate world where the money is great and networks are gratuitous.  Rejected resumes on the basis that you aren’t ready, that you need better grades, that you aren’t quite the type they are looking for occur without even a second glance at your face.

Pandering to anyone who is older than you with a status that appears to be greater than yours only to enter a conversation about the state of the Melbourne property market where someone they have never met sold their house to a couple of Asian investors for twenty mil which then turns into a chat revolving around their life, their kids and their dreams. Hey, I’m still here if you didn’t realise.  But then again, why would they give a shit about my dreams.  I’m young, brash and on the right path.  Well, I am one of those things and I certainly am not openly parading around the fact that my penis is bigger than an HB pencil.

Back on the girl, she’s still waiting on my message.  Or is she?  She hasn’t gone out of her way to open the lines of communication and I don’t think we have much in common.  But she’s cute and she’s fresh and I’m pretty lonely.  Loneliness is a disease that doesn’t require a bunch of symptoms to be ticked off.  It just comes and goes even after you leave a party where you hung out with a bunch of your best friends.  It comes when you look at the ceiling as a one night stand with a decent body kisses your neck and the heat doesn’t allow you to get to sleep.  The little kid in you is destroyed every time you bring a stranger into your bed and tell her of your  dreams of a date in the park or at the zoo or maybe a trip to South America only to wake up with another broken dream and a long drive back to her place in Eltham.

Of course this is all hypothetical, my Grandmother lives in Eltham and I would probably drop the girl to a train station to make sure that two dreams of a better life were broken in an instance.  ‘But we could get breakfast together?’ She asks.  I reply nonchalantly that ‘I’m busy with a few things… but I’ll call you’ as I reluctantly kiss her ear.  Maybe there has been an event that parallels this.

So I crave something that I thought existed. But I know it does somewhere.  The 16 year old in me pleads with me to give that innocence another chance.  An opportunity to find that girl who will listen to Bombay Bicycle Club all day in the sun as we sip on Pale Ales with her glistening flat stomach soaking up the rays of the sun.  I’m looking in all the wrong places but I just go where my friends tell me to go.  Every time I do the opposite I have fun.  I’m not stuck in a line about to enter the realm of another frustratingly unsuccessful night where the beers cost ten dollars and I turn into a quasi misogynist and sociopathic mess as I analyse and dissect every girl in the place.  I leave, relieved that I am still human.  A pleasantly drunk vulnerable human.  Just like the rest of them.  In my head I think I am better looking than most of them but the upper echelon of private school girls don’t seem to think so.  Slouching amateurs with silly hats on slink around the streets without a dream but to claim territory that has been in the hands of old money for centuries.  Why bother? I wonder.  To have a purpose is the answer from a voice that can’t possibly be my own.

I text her off the cuff.  ‘Ice cream Sunday?  My shout :)’ and sneer at my idea of a forced meeting.  In the back of my mind I picture a young woman sighing at my desperation whilst another waits by the phone for the very same text that seemingly got lost in transmission.  It is a cruel web of manipulation.  Not many escape the entrapment of a world drawn up in invisible wires.  Is she bored of me?  Am I bored of her?  Can we ever find that happy medium?  I lament.  I’m making life sound like a board game.  It is far more complicated than that.  It should mean more than that.  But maybe it isn’t.  Maybe it doesn’t.  Maybe I am stuck in a game of monopoly with a Mayfair property with 4 hotels on it and I am definitely not the owner.

It is only a matter of time before I land on it.  Then again, anyone who plays the game could land on it.  Even the owner.  But the owner won’t suffer unless they glow with empathy and tire of the sadistic joy they receive from seeing another bankruptcy and they personally want to avoid another kind of bankruptcy.  One of the moral kind.

(Lights out) (Scene)



  1. I love this, but I fear it straddles Patrick Bateman territory, as it gains momentum.
    Also, ‘glistening flat stomach’ – good luck!
    But you do write beautifully.

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