Such Sweet Nothing

Why am I out of sorts? So abjectly, unrecognisably out of sorts.

I set out at the start of the year to dethrone my favourite lover (the cop) – it was my new year’s resolution. Stop sleeping with him and find someone as good if not better.

Why would I want to do that? Well, even though I was unsure of what I wanted from him, the fact was he chose someone else as his partner, effectively saw me as unsuitable for the role. And somehow this ate away at me in a way that surprised me. That I didn’t qualify, for reasons never to be explained to me.

I’m not even sure I wanted him like that, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be reminded that I wasn’t going to get the role. Or even be considered for it.

It was no longer sustainable, it had only one way to go and that was to get way messier – I had to take action. Get myself out of the station.


Except, it was a really tall order. The cop had brought something out of me, or had woken the need in me to be submissive, he gave me the key to this door, albeit inadvertently, almost by accident. But it iswith him, under his watch, that it blossomed.


He is still (as I write this) my favourite lover. But I needed to replace him, to get him out of my system, to prove that there is better sex to be had, that that is even possible.

That maybe it could be with someone I can spend time with, who might read the rest of me as well as the cop read my sexual needs.


And I got off to a flying start. Threw myself into the dating and started going on 3-4 dates a week, it was the most fun I’d had with it in a long time, when I just went on all the dates, stopped being cautious. It no longer mattered, I just wanted to distract myself and I wanted to get good at dating. And it was overall, mostly great dates. Only one had to be aborted after a single drink; a terrible case of great online but not great in reality – not as sharp or funny or (and this is so often the killer) not as confident in the flesh.


So some dates ended in sex, some didn’t. Some ended in ok sex and some really, really didn’t. Shockingly, some of the best kissing ever, transpired into some of the least sexy or effective sex I’ve had. For me, just to be clear, it was ineffective for me, I made sure he came 3 times.


And then him.


Best first night ever. I don’t know a single thing that could have made this better? And I’ve thought about it. The ratio of elements was perfect, not too much or too little of anything. We had drinks, but not too many. We had chats but no one dominated or failed to deliver. We had kissing and groping in a dark corner but not too obscene. And god knows I love kissing and groping in dark corners with someone who makes me slick.

Giddy, aroused, buoyed at our prospects we skipped back to mine. Thankfully he had the wherewithal to eschew my offer of more drinks and it was off to bed with us. As this story isn’t about the details of what he did as much as the actual effect it had, the summary will be short; he made me come 5 times and he made me squirt. I have never squirted before, I wasn’t sure I believed it to be a real thing so I don’t think we can underestimate the effect that such an occurrence could have on me.

Except I did.


I wanted more. It was instant addiction.

My own personal brand of heroin.


The second time I saw him he showed up at my house. Not at the venue we were supposed to be meeting at. It was 20 minutes before we were supposed to meet, just bear that in mind.


He walked in the door, threw his scarf around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. He unravelled it pretty quickly when I told him my hangover was likely to see me puke on him.

He took the scarf off, turned me around and bent me over the couch. With one hand holding me in place he tugged down my tights and underwear. There were mild protests from me but nothing show stopping.

He licks his fingers and shoves them into me, he probably didn’t need to, I was wet anyway. Still holding me in place he bends down to get his mouth there. More ineffectual protests from me until he stands up to hold me more securely in place and then he fucks me. Again, spectacularly.

But this too is not a story of the actions but of the consequences.



To recap, date one he makes me come 5 times and coaxes my body to a feat it has never seen fit to perform before. Date two, he ignores the plans, walks straight in my door and owns me.


Who the fuck is this guy?

In two deft moves he has rugby tackled the plinth that the cop stands on and has it rocking precariously.

This, to understate the matter, has knocked me for six.

Sure, what I wanted was someone to show me that the cop can be topped but now that it’s a reality I can see that I may have jumped from the frying pan into the fire.



I’m not sure I will find the words to accurately express how much I hate this, what it has done to me or why I don’t recognise myself or my actions. I can tell you though that when I understood I was in trouble my first thought was to call the cop – THAT would surely take my mind off it. That frying pan was looking like a cool place to hang out again.



It has been so long since I’ve met someone who had potential. I can find someone who’s great in bed, but who doesn’t excite me anywhere else (Looking at you there, architect). Or someone who’s fascinating to be around but rubbish in bed. (That’s you, brunch guy) Or someone who’s spectacular in bed, fun to be around but who shares no real core values (hello cop).

I can find one, two but never the three.


Then this guy; spectacular in bed, tick. Interesting and exciting out of the bed, tick. Shared core values and outlook, tick. (or so it seemed)

I was more interested than the revenue is in your earnings. I was sitting up and taking notice, when for so long I’d been asleep at the back of the class.



So what’s the problem?



A lot of problems actually. Instead of being cool I was uptight. Instead of letting things happen I was anxious. It was pure addiction all over again. All I wanted to know was when I was seeing him again, did he like me, was he eager to see me again, how many of my babies did he want, will we buy a house in Rathgar, will I get a book deal…. (actually, not the last three, I lost the run of myself there, it’s happening a lot lately) But you get it right? I pretty much couldn’t contain the emotions racing inside me.


While at the same time  – just being so content. Now the latent happiness could of course have everything to do with getting orgasms 3 weeks in a row. (No way to tell. These things are impossible to gauge)

But crazy wins out. Don’t battle with crazy, it always wins. And even when it doesn’t, it still thinks it has. There is no satisfaction to be had.



I think I like this guy. I see potential and my brain is trying to fuck it up for me. I am overwhelmed by our encounters and I don’t believe I’m thinking straight.


I am fuck drunk. It has been so long since I’ve been in this position that I don’t know what to do, and I am in panic mode. I can pretty much guarantee that I will proceed to mess this up. I can practically see it in slow motion.



So, to sum it up; I have just replaced one drug for another and my out of practice ‘I like you’ button is going to ruin it by being too keen, too obvious and acting like a dickhead. I’m sure you can’t even fathom how unsexy that is so you’ll just have to take my word, it is traumatically unattractive.


Post script update: There were no more dates

Rathgar is my favourite suburb of Dublin, mostly cos it’s not a suburb and is very close to the city while still being leafy and tranquil

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