Date with Surprise Twinkle
March 21, 2012 § 137 Comments
Of course, it is just too unlikely for words.
A date has been mooted and I am thinking, come off it, surely some mistake? This man is inordinately brainy, young, handsome (oh, so handsome!) and for a million and one reasons I am thinking, this ain’t possible; This Cannot Fucking Be For Real!
First, I am thinking, well he’s suggested meeting up not because he fancies me you twat, but because he wants something. Advice or some kind of help he supposes I can give him (though I can’t for the life of me imagine what?), or something.
Second, I am thinking, I am an arsehole to suppose for one moment that his intentions are of a romantic bent. How can they be? I am older than him by quite a lot (not sure how much, probably five or six, but could be as much as ten or twelve years?) He must be gay. He must have a girlfriend. If not, then he must be Brandon in Shame and addicted to having zipless fucks with anything that perchance crosses his path and happens to be alive.
Third, I am thinking, after years of frankly useless and fucked up twinkles with their erectile dysfunction (speculative, but one possible explanation for their mixed sodding messages); with their mixed sodding messages (!); with their communication issues; with their disappearing acts; with their (all too) advanced years; with their obsessions with fricking boats or their ex (or dead) wives; with their commitment-phobia; with their Asperger’s Syndrome; with their marriages, goddammit; I am thinking, when at fucking last a normal-seeming fellow turns up, yes, even better, stinking of cliche, when I was least expecting it – only not normal because he is brilliantly clever, inordinately good-looking, mightily charming and apparently interested in me – the cynical antennae jolly well just do start twitching. There’s nothing for it but to think, what the hell is going on? Else I am cruising for more than a bruising, I am roaring towards a roasting. Why on earth would he be interested in me? As I write, I think I am old, and I have children, and I think about things like nits and ketchup and funny ways to remember a second declension neuter noun like “bellum” and how much one can allow certain parties of a certain age to say fuck and is Decorator Dave coming today to fix the shower door? All the while, ST’s thoughts are on an entirely higher plain, up there with the great philosophical questions de nos jours, thank you very much. And his looks! Mine so wanting, I can feel my bunions and eyelids bulging as I write, and detect the blemishes on my shins and knees in which some may see a life lived fully but in which most would just see banal history and bullishly marching age. I think, I wish I hadn’t picked that spot slap in the middle of my cheek long ago, the one which chose to get its own back and bloody well stay, in the form of a neon red dot, malignly, perennially twinkling. I think, tits: too down. I think, arse: too beanbag. I think, hair: too beach (which is fine at a Bonjour Tristesse seventeen, but rather less becoming on a Hotel du Lac). And I wonder, not entirely fleetingly I fear, about the state of the unspeakable mortal atrium which has had its fair share of footfall in its time and could seriously do with the pelvic floor equivalent of getting the decorators in.
I am entirely, completely, wholly, totally, 100% pessimistic. I am thinking, this date ain’t even going to happen, let alone end up with a Result.
So what bloody right do the butterflies have to have dropped in unannounced and just started, without so much as a bye your leave, on their rather tedious, excitable thing?
Butterflies. Oh, so bourgeois; oh, so predictable.