By on August 21, 2010

Some clever dick said there would be less trouble in the world if we all stayed at home. I say ‘I love you’ is the problem. How many times have I heard it when I didn’t want to? And would they take a hint? Forget it. I hardly ever say it. I hoard it. They say you’re never really rich if you have experienced severe poverty. Well, after all those years in the wilderness i wasn’t going to say it to the first guy I clicked with. I didn’t say it to My Man Max for ages. Till I was sure he would return it. An erroneous assumption, but there we are. It would appear that I’m easily fooled. Maybe because I wanted to be, but, he took me. Took me for a fool.
I was high on nothing other than togetherness at the time.
He was finally back from another silly little car race. He didn’t win but then he’s not Superman, just someone who makes James Bond look like Tim Nice But Dim. We made love for hours. We also had some particularly filthy sex.
We were naughty. And were nice. There was nothing we couldn’t do. So why did I have to wreck everything? Because I was in love.  But did I have to say so? I already knew he might just freeze. As it was it looked like he had been doused with ice cold water. On the train to Siberia, where awaits a lifetime’s  forced labour.
Oh dear.
I’m not getting younger, My Man Max is one of a kind and I just didn’t see myself finding anything comparable. We were coming home from a French art movie at the National Film Theatre, rereleased for the few remaining perverts who wanted to see something which doesn’t contain Americans blowing each other up. It was interesting rerunning the last date, with Geezer, who had been too much in awe of me. My Man Max had no such problems, being
almost superhumanly suave. Geezer’s glitches and fumbles were now ancient history. It was a rare pleasure to be with a masterful man who wasn’t overbearing. Like Old Beardie before he created the world in seven days, My Man Max just is. Perhaps his near divinity was why we had a seven shades of red sunset while we sat on the South Bank looking at St Paul’s.
I was happy. Everything was prefect.
“I love you,” I said.
There was a silence. Was he pitying me? If so, I would have to kill myself. He was often hard to read, and he chose this particular moment for one of his poker faces. The silence was as long and aggravating as a Supermarket wait behind a Chavette buying Lottery tickets. Then cigarettes. While supervising her brood of squalling children.
Eventually he stopped staring into the distance.
“I think you’re wonderful,” he said. “But it’s too early to say those words. You’re in recovery. You’re vulnerable. You could fall for anything or anyone.”
“I’ve fallen for you.”
More humiliating silence. Some boats pootled up and down. I might as well have dived in. Just to see who rescued me. For if there was no My Man Max I didn’t want anyone else.
“What does your sponsor say?”
“Fuck my sponsor.”
I’m not supposed to tell you this, especially not for the second time, but freshly clean and sober people aren’t supposed to be having relationships for at least a year, some say two. We are far too volatile, apparently, and the vicious mood swings triggered by romance could well unhinge us. Well, I was beginning to see what they meant. But the genie was out of the bottle now.
“Is there someone else?” I asked.
I couldn’t breathe till the silence was broken. And I had to wait while some kid rattled past on a skateboard. The sky was getting colder and darker. And so was I.
“No. There is…no one.”
Too ambiguous. I had no rival. Or he was just holding out for someone else. What was it? Younger? Prettier? Bigger tits? Smaller bum? More money? Well…Sometimes rich people don’t want to rescue damsels in distress. They want a merger with even more money.
“It’s your silly little racing cars,” I said.
He’s too tanned to turn white but he was looking less than chipper.
Then it hit me. Something you’ve probably known all along.
“You want children with someone younger than me,” I said, “younger and richer!”
“No!” he said, too late, far too late. There had been a millisecond long pause before his denial. Long enough for the truth to be tattooed inside my tenderest folds of skin.
“I’m too old for you. You’re worried about what I’ll look like when I’m old!”
For the first time he looked sheepish. For once I had his balls in my hand – not those two darling little danglers but metaphorically. For once I saw The Fear, what’s usually in the voice and on the face of lesser men.
So I’m too old. First time that’s happened. Probably not going to be the last though. Get over it, you may say. Well, did you ‘get over it’, the last time you were in love? Not a passing crush on some pretty face but Love, the eternal flame?
“I’m better than any rich bitch,” I said.
Yes. But Am I as rich?
Better not open that can of worms. Let’s stick with ‘I love you’. That’s what probably did the damage.  I shouldn’t have said ‘I love you’.
Maybe no-one should say it. No one should ever say it.
“Look,” he said. “It’s just too early. We’re having the time of our life. Why spoil it?”
“Spoil it? You’ve never been married. What would you know about spoiling it? You’ve never had children.. You’re too selfish!”
“I’m too young for children. You have a son,” he said. “And you’d be better advised looking after him than whining on at me.”
Whining? I could have killed him.
But was he worth it? I had got into this mess with three of the most dangerous words on the planet. I stood up and said two more words to him, ones we often overuse but I was never as sincere as now. The first word was Anglo Saxon, the act that creates us all. The second was the opposite of ‘on’. Two little words. That’s all you need, if you really mean it. Then I repeated them and added a third word ruder than those two put together.
“Let me get you into a cab. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
Please don’t cry. Just about sums men up.

updated every two days…

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