Long Shot’s Text
November 13, 2011 § 35 Comments
I remember, some weeks back, observing that the Sod’s Law about Sod’s Law is that it is always so predictable and reliable. So it is that of all the texts I ever receive from men – and let’s examine the word “all” here and point out that, in this context, it is used in the loosest possible sense – they are invariably from those that I do not fancy and never from those that I do.
I met Long Shot at the colon end of September and now it is the large intestine of November. While I have been going in for a bit of spinning which resulted in BF so incredibly generously inviting us both to stay at the same time (he has yet to hear if LS is going to be able to accept), I never contacted him myself in any shape or form. Occasionally, soon after we met, I thought, on hearing the rather optimistic little bleep on my smartphone which hails a text, wouldn’t it be acid-trip amazing, if for once it was from someone like LS? I mean, as opposed to my bank telling me that now my statement was available for viewing online (oh, and such joy to be extracted from that little pistol of news), or even a date request from the kindly but not-for-me Poppy Seed. But I gave up on the dubious fantasy weeks ago that I might be blessed with contact from LS. It ain’t ever going to happen, girl. Pretty well never has in 47 years, at any given time, from the person of one’s dreams. May as well get used to it.
On Friday morning I was sitting at my desk in full contemplation of my Boyfriend Bar which I fell to writing and banging on about for that day’s post. (BTW, I realised I missed out Can’t Stop Wanting the Old One. It is an oversight which I swear is not significant and my response to it is this: that was the case for a while but I have now so moved on, thank you). My Blackberry was sitting beside me, and when it did one of its little moan-y judders like I imagine the rather measly orgasm of a small, deprived creature such as maybe a gerbil, I ignored it. I have heard it so often, working up a little steam beside me, and it invariably disappoints. Anyway, it was a while before I deigned to look down at its post-coital proneness and red-light breaths. Picked it up unconsciously, and suddenly saw Long Shot’s name at the end of a text. WHAT???? I couldn’t believe it. Friendly, it referred to our meeting and conversation all those weeks ago, and asked for my contact details all the better to open the way to future communication.
Frankly, I was flabbergasted. So much so, I took the rest of the day off to compose, with Charlotte’s invaluable help – and her husband’s crucial, male-perspective input – what was a pithy but pitch-perfect little response (two days later, I have not wobbled on this; it couldn’t have been bettered). It took ages (well, about twenty minutes), but I replied only after a decent interlude of several hours. Then I went to the cafe to meet a couple of girlfriends who said I looked so wired perhaps I should calm down and eat an iced bun. I couldn’t have eaten an iced pine kernel quite frankly. I felt that same silly, searing excitement that I experienced on receiving a letter from Gavin some weeks after he danced with me in a nightclub when I was fourteen to Le Freak then kissed me and turned me to liquid mercury during 10CC’s piss-take-saccarhine I’m Not in Love on which a whole generation depended for scoring a snog.
The difference between then and now is that I soon managed to take possession of my senses again. The madness lasted on Friday for about four hours but then, thank God, plankton pragmatism (cynicism?) rigor mortified the foolishness.
One girlfriend said no man contacts a woman he doesn’t fancy. Another (male, gay) said that that is not true; depends on the man; that I could read nothing from it other than that it was an opening gambit. Charlotte’s husband (of whom I am extremely fond) said I could probably take from it just one absolute: that the man had not found me completely and profoundly repellant. Charlotte herself said it was significant. Janey said it wasn’t, and that under no circumstances was I to burn other boats because of it, and that I could infer quite nothing from it.
My feeling today, after some contemplation (you can imagine!), is this. The arrival of the text was probably the best bit, and it is downhill all the way from here. Past experience, detailed many a time and oft in this blog, has told me that men I like who ask for my number, even text me the next day, suddenly disappear into the ether. I think of the one whom, a year ago, I made laugh and cry at dinner and really believed felt something, as I did, and as was evidenced (I shouldn’t allow myself to turn that perfectly good noun into a verb, apologies) by the highly sexy way he asked for my number and who then… well, fuck all.
I have decided that if my expectations reside at nil, then I will not be disappointed. The fact is, that was the first I heard from Long Shot and I can pretty well guarantee it will also be the last.
I have promised Janey that this is where I stand now (after my initial misplaced euphoria) with regards to the text: I am glad that I never contacted him; it was nice, in a find-a-£10-note-in-an-old-coat-pocket kind of way, that he contacted me, although I am under no illusions that he will ever do so ever again; I am not about to burn my boats; my date with Smidgen is still on for next week and I am still looking forward to it; I can sleep at night and, perhaps most impressive of all, I have absolutely not taken to leaping upon my Blackberry every time it shows its rather half-hearted little signs of being in the throes of an email orgasm.