Skip to main content

My Love Life, Part 3. Contains Disappointment.

My Love Life. Part 3

Part 1 and Part 2 are right here. You really should read them first. They're better than this one.

It was almost another two years until I had sex again.  But I fell for nearly everyone in the meantime.

After a clutch of 'O' levels (which were like GCSEs but much harder, fact fans), I changed schools once again for Sixth Form.  For the very first time in the seventeen years of my life, it was my own choice, unlike my first nine schools.  It meant a move from the small town to the big city, from a white middle-class comprehensive to a mixed demographic community school surrounded by burnt out stolen cars and populated by burned out, sullen, teachers.  'Fame' hadn't long finished on TV and I was genuinely hoping someone would teach me to breakdance, or at least spin on my head.

Nobody did.

I didn't know a soul there.  But on induction day I met a couple of girls who took me under their collective wing.  In the years to follow one of them snogged my brother at a party and subsequently became a very senior police officer (though connectivity does not prove causality). The other eventually fell victim to my then best friend Jake, subject of this story, and was rewarded with an Olympic-standard dose of genital warts.

Like me, Jake had a Saturday job at a well known orange-hued supermarket. It employed dozens of students, many of whom had actual breasts and smelled quite nice. New school, new job, new friends.  I was nearly 17 years old.  Teeming with testosterone, plethoric with pheromones, jam-packed with jizz.  Naturally, nobody wanted to shag me.

It didn't stop me losing my heart repeatedly.  In Part 2 I mentioned "that girl I got the cake for."  If only I could remember her name, but it's lost in the shrouds of memory. What I do recall is the pounding of my heart; so full of desire was it for her.  She was a year older than me and seemed incredibly sophisticated, with her short hair and full driving licence.  It was my first true introduction to the friendzone, and a very hard one to take. I blew almost a week's pay packet (brown envelope, used notes, no sequential serial numbers) taking her out for a birthday dinner and arranging a personalised cake, replete with candles, for dessert.  It didn't change anything. She liked me. But not in that way.  She didn't want to kiss me.

Nor did Daisy, my sort of girlfriend but actually best friend that I adored from the zone girlfriend through much of sixth form.  She loved Dave. There was a point when she was busy chasing Dave that I fancied Alison, but she had a crush on Will, who had a bit of a thing for Cindy, who liked me. Unsurprisingly nothing came of that, either. Except Daisy and Dave. My not-girlfriend was busy very much being my definitely-not-girlfriend, it transpired.

The pattern continued throughout the hazy days of A Levels, Driving Tests & 18th birthdays. I had good, close, friendships, was confided in frequently by my girl mates upon whom I occasionally developed insane and unrequited crushes.  I also had regular teenage passion for other unattainable friends, colleagues, teachers & actresses.  Oh, and pop stars.  But Bananarama didn't fancy me either*.

*About 3 years later I spent a sunny afternoon hanging out with Bananarama in New York City.  They were fabulous company. They still didn't fancy me.

Occasionally, gratifyingly, I learned that the insane and unrequited were crushing on me, but they were often a couple of years younger.  The revulsion suggested by the thought of dating someone my little sister's age is a heavy irony now that she's just turned 50.  But at the time the giggling fourth years who stole the posters for the school play; featuring a head and shoulders shot that displayed my carefully feathered & layered mullet; were an annoyance, rather than incredibly flattering, given how little age gaps matter now a few decades have passed.  The half your age plus seven rule still stands, though, just as it did then. Not that it matters, when you're young, lovable, but unfuckable.

I took a gap year, or "Gap Yah," as my eldest child refers to it, and worked in a more upmarket store while saving to travel.  There were probably only a dozen men in this branch of M&S, but hundreds of women, many of whom became such good friends that I went on not one, but two hen nights in my few months there.  Once, inevitably, as a Gorillagram.  Because nobody in their right mind would have wanted me to strip. Naturally, I can't recount any stories of quivering passion behind the stockroom shelves, but memories of an afternoon spent in a rented gorilla costume, clutching a bunch of bananas and roaming the city's High Street make me giggle still.  These were the days of phone boxes, which, when occupied, are a perfect target for a teenage guerilla gorilla to hurl himself against the glass.  I am sorry for any coronary events I may have caused.  Mea culpa.

That summer I went off to work in the States. First on a summer camp in the company of a hundred or so similarly aged counsellors, then as a DJ and deliverer of cars, though never at the same time, because vinyl scratches.  An English accent and a layered, Sun-In streaked mullet were the key to a crowd of fascinated onlookers; desperate for my stories about how everyone in England had a butler whose main task it was to operate a pedal-powered black & white television in the evenings; so we could worship a flickering picture of the Queen while drinking tea; but those same attributes were unsurprisingly less successful in initiating dates.  I did, actually, sort of, have sex late that summer, in an outdoor hot tub, with Jenna from Massachusetts, to give her her full name.  But I can also reveal that coitus in a sex pond is ultimately nigh-on impossible, because bubbles and water friction are not a happy mix, despite what The Shape of Water may have implied.  I loved that movie.  But perhaps I needed gills.  Or a barbed cock.

I sent Jenna postcards from across the US as I continued my travels, perhaps in celebration of the fact that I'd somehow become fuckable.  I never heard back from her.  Guess what must have happened to the lovability bit?

I'd always intended Part 3 to be the last of the segments of my love life.  Not least because this was meant to be a throwaway guest post, months ago.  And yet I've barely made it to the age of 20.  I can't half fucking ramble.  GET ON WITH IT, BD!

Adrianna was my other crush I was a teenager, OK? in the year or two preceding this segment. She and her older sister, Helen, were the prettiest girls in the school, and lusted after by so many pustulent teens that they could have milked acne for scientific research and still had queues of boys around the block.  Although a year older than me, Adrianna hung with me after school and most weekends, poking around H&M & Our Price. She rode my motorbike the first day I got it. And crashed it. If she was going to have a boyfriend, it would be me, but she didn't want a boyfriend.  Once, coming to my house to pick me up, on a night when Helen was driving us to drink halves of lager top underage somewhere, she held my hand as we walked up the driveway and I thought my heart would burst. Adrianna cared about me, but not in that way. Back then I was lovable, but unfuckable.

Later that year, back from the States, tanned, worldly-wise and sporting even worse hair, I bumped into Adrianna at a petrol station the week before I went to University.  We were thrilled to see each other, and arranged to meet for drinks and dinner when we were both back in the capital. And we did just that, poshly.  My student overdraft was a thing of magic, free money for the feckless, and as a young man almost entirely lacking in feck, the seemingly limitless funds offered me the opportunity to live, not just beyond my own means, but to set the official record as NatWest's most overdrawn student three years running.

(As an aside, Lennie, the Student Branch Manager - such things existed, honestly - came to a few of my DJ gigs.  I let him do an easy mix once.  He bought me pints.  Whenever I offered to buy him one, he'd say "No, BD, you can't afford it," and then get another round in.  Good guy.  I wouldn't be at all surprised if he got fired over the credit line he extended to me, but I hope he didn't, despite the fact it took me another 17 years to pay it off.  Actually, on second thoughts...)

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I'm at the point where, post dinner, Adrianna comes back to my shared house with me, because the simmering passion of a number of adolescent years is bubbling hard enough on the hob to get British Gas excited about their annual results. We undress each other, (no white towelling pants THIS time, fashion fans) fall into bed, and have quite the most disappointing and desultory sex experienced in the UK since Michael Gove's wedding night. The desire dreams of my teenage years empty faster than a shelf load of toilet paper in a Covid 19 pandemic, and the jarring realisation that great attraction doth not always equal great sex bursts my love bubble like a tired child's party balloon under a drunken uncle's shoe.  We don't see each other again.

As before, connectivity does not prove causality, but Adrianna now lives on the other side of the world with her wife and child. I'm well aware that sexuality is nature rather than nurture, but I still very much hope that I wasn't the catalyst. To be so fuckable but unlovable that I both managed to turn a girl lesbian and send her to New Zealand would be a special skill indeed.  Though given that my ability to repel every woman I have feelings for continues right up to this day, there may just be some truth to the theory.

So there you have it.  The story of my love life.  From lovable but unfuckable to fuckable but unlovable.  I'm just going to have to deal with it on my own.

Pass the hand sanitiser.


  1. Have just read part 1,2 and 3 brilliant!! Well not in the fact that it is your life, but your writing is fantastic! Also reminds me of my life, maybe thats why it's so funny. Good luck with your dating!

  2. Oh my lord - I love this so much. You really have to keep it up and now that you have a little time on your hands you really have no excuse!
    With regards Adrianna and her resulting sexual orientation I can go one better. The first boy I had sexual 'fumblings' with went on to become a priest. A gay priest.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Is it too early to talk about cunnilingus?

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other.  I've only been blogging for a few days. But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later. Because, er, I like you.  And you like me.  That's how we got here.  And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me.  And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here? * Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak.  I'm easy like that.  If we're already en le frottage , then let's be comfortable with each other.  I'll roll with it.  What goes around comes around, etc. Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve.   But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style.  Which of course I may be, subliminally. 

Multiple orgasms. Unexpected hairs.

One of the very last times I slept with someone, back when sex between consenting single people was still allowed, I woke the following morning with a couple of urges that needed to be fulfilled. Grasping between and behind my legs I eventually encountered something long, thin, and disconcertingly unfamiliar. Groping around delicately, I pinched the end of a what turned out to be a hair between my fingertips and pulled inch after tickling inch of it from my puckered balloon knot. Similar to a string of anal beads, except without the knobbly bits, perhaps fortunately. It wasn't entirely an unpleasant sensation, but I'm not convinced I'd subscribe to the YouTube channel. There was more to come. Well, there wasn't, because those  urges had been wonderfully mutual upon waking, but there were, unbeknownst to me, further treats in my lunchbox. It's quite difficult to describe the sensation of pulling what feels like a two foot long hair out from inside one

Words...Don't come easy to me. But numbers do. Or do I mean number two?

Sunday evening. Blog posts written:  None .  Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London.  Can't even tell if it's a good story or not.   * This is not a euphemism Cigarettes smoked: 1 .  And I gave up last year.  I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing. Beers drunk:  2 .  Not even enjoyed those.  They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome. Steps taken today: 19,004 .  Good, but ruined by the beer.  And the cigarette. Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2 Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks:  5 Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0 Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't lo

Headshots. Dating under false pretences.

The only thing worse than a profile with no picture, apart from  possibly anal herpes or doing up a zip fly a tad too quickly and enthusiastically before being fully tucked away, is a dating site profile with just headshots.  Beautiful, well lit, artfully posed headshots, showing off lustrous hair, luscious lips, and eyes like limpid pools of liquid diamonds.  Rather like an iceberg, a headshot only profile tends to have a little more going on below the surface. Or in this case, a lot more below the neck. I’ve learned this the hard way, and broken my own rule on a number of occasions, none of which has led to anything but disappointment. I love a rounded, curvy figure. There’s something very alluring about the softness of warm flesh, the wobble of a bingo wing. I’m no Adonis myself, and it’s completely natural that women (and men) in their mid years might have an extra few pounds here and there, a sprinkling of cellulite, a slight downgrade in the degree of perky pertness that underpi

This wasn't what I intended to write, but it came out unexpectedly

I was driving down from my villa this morning in search of breakfast at the nearest beach village when I realised I'd have to turn back for another poo. This, in itself, won't come as momentous news to anybody who experiences morning bowel movements.  Which, all being well, is most people, but I'd already had three between getting up, showering and leaving the property. For the record, I have diverticular disease.  This delightful piece of oversharing i s brought to you by the formation of small bulges in the wall of the colon, which has nothing to do with punctuation and everything to do with the passage of food and its by-products through the body.  It's also hereditary, which explains why both my brother and my mother have it too; although not the fact that I was diagnosed years before either of them, despite being the youngest of us.  Here comes the science bit: Who knew  I'd be younger than my mother? What it means, in real life, is that I have to be care

Honesty, kindness, and unexpected boobies

I really, really want to be kind.  And honest. I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around.  Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form.  Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to."  Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that.  Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends.  I went to their wedding.  It's OK.  Honestly.  We're all mates.  Still.  Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer. Phew. Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her.  She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School. 

My Love Life. Part One. A Tragedy in Many Parts. A Part in Many Tragedies.

I've been a bit blocked recently in terms of updating my own dating blog.  Mainly because: I'm not currently dating I've written all the tales that follow my typical story arc* I can't write about having my heart shattered, because it isn't funny** * If you haven't read my midlife dating blog before, it's fundamentally full of the various histories of dates I've been on that turned out to be massive disasters, one way or another.  But I try to make them mildly amusing, once I'm over the trauma **Which is basically point one.  But the rule of three applies.  Plus, I've spent ages writing & deleting all my heartache, bitterness & angst. Time has passed, I'm doing my best to let things go. Anyway, there's no angst room here. This was meant to be a guest post. Then Alice  kindly asked if I'd like to write a guest post on her blog.  And I accepted, because, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently caught me at the sw

Trusting a fart, and nine other things I'll never do again

I was up far too late the other night, because what better time to go full-on self destruct than during a global pandemic when you've got to be on an 08:00 Microsoft Teams call in little more than 4 hours? Standing on my balcony, enjoying the silence of Lockdown London and wishing I had a Camberwell Carrot with which to mitigate the respiratory menace, the sudden appearance of blue lights on the street below made me drop my metaphorical spliff in momentary panic. They hadn't come for me, it transpired.  Not yet, anyway.  Turned out it was an ambulance gliding, almost silently, into a space on the road several floors below in the deserted ghetto.  It pulled to a halt, and after a pause a paramedic descended from the passenger side, stood motionless for a minute in the road, and then released a thunderclap fart of such enormous proportions that it set off car alarms a mile away in Maida Vale. For a second I was stunned.  Should I clap for the NHS?  Would all my neighbo

Mea Culpa - Apology and Catharsis

Nobody likes being dumped.  Although excuse me for stating the bleeding obvious. I got dumped a year ago.  On New Year's Eve, which is already the most overrated day of the year.  And it broke me. The thing that really hurt about the end, above all else, was the way that I was assured that what we'd had was so special, so precious, that it didn't deserve to be discarded like meaningless litter. Right up to the point that I was discarded like meaningless litter; blocked and deleted; cut out and cold-shouldered at my absolute lowest ebb.  Dismantled, depleted, and depressed, then dumped in a fashion swifter and chillier than Bear Grylls can manage a shit on an Arctic expedition. But we live, and we learn. We try to forgive, or we actually, eventually, genuinely, do. Full disclosure : I'd been the one who'd originally undermined the whole thing early doors. I'd dumped her. On her birthday. Whilst mid-air. Flying towards something we both desperately wanted,