Yesterday I felt I’d achieved something stupendous when my cheesecake (miracle!) set properly and I was able to dish it out fondly (and just a little proudly) to all my housemates.
As I write this now, I’m fighting off the urge to head downstairs and attack the remains with a fork.
In all the old legends, when the frog is kissed it turns, magically, into a handsome prince. Why is it, then, that the reverse is easily the more common story?
I met Mr. Andrew at Mr. Will (more on him later)’s 30th. It really was the perfect cliche – we laughed, talked, chatted, and it seemed like a fairytale match. He even looked, in retrospect, rather prince like. Tall, blonde, handsome, but with a helping of rugged stubble just to keep the look this side of edgy. Intelligent and just a few years my senior. Boxes ticked.
Leaving the party with Mr. Andrew and his housemate, I whipped out my iPhone and promptly started looking for the night bus home (4:30 am). Whereupon I received the offer to “crash” at Mr. Andrew’s St. James apartment.
Needless to say it wasn’t long before we were in bed.
As I stripped down to my underwear and climbed in, I promptly found myself wrapped in a set of lean, swimmer’s arms and told “I’m not going to push for sex, OK? I really like you.”
Sex may not have been pushed for, but we didn’t wake up several hours later with the underwear still on.
Going out to a post-party Birthday lunch the next day, when we bid farewells it was in the high hope of meeting again soon – he had even lent me his t-shirt so I wouldn’t have to turn up wearing the same attire as last night.
2 weeks went by without a peep. Until today, when I received the following:
Hi. Sorry for the silence. Was at my sister’s in France most of last week, but in general I’ve been pretty off the boil.
It really was a pleasure to meet you the other weekend, but I don’t feel like it’s a good idea for us to meet up anytime soon. As I think you know, I’m in a very strange place in my life at the moment and I’m finding that I need to keep things as simple as possible.
Sorry be so anti social. As I say, it was a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps we’ll meet again in the future.
All the best,
And here I am again. Feeling used, dirty, ashamed, humiliated.
Did I mean anything at all to him? Was I just a body to warm his bed?
Could someone so sweet, kind and loving really be just a manipulative arsehole?
I don’t want to believe it. I met a Prince charming that night. Yet I kissed him and two weeks later he turns into a cowardly, slimy amphibian – skulking away back to his lair.
Perhaps we’re wrong to let our hearts hope so badly after one chance encounter over cocktails, and we fall for a pair of pleasant eyes and a winning smile, but it’s hard to see how you can do otherwise.
People would probably have screamed ‘get out!’ when he mentioned his turbulent relationship past, but how to you get out when you’re feeling warmer, safer and more comfortable with someone than you’ve felt in months?
The truth is you can’t. Deep down, everyone out there searching for the perfect love; we’re all gamblers. We play the hand hoping it will be that Royal Flush. Does it hurt that we just lost? Of course. Would we have ever done differently? Never. We lay down a bet that we’ll get our fairy tale ending.
Maybe no-one is reading these. Maybe, if they are, they wouldn’t care two ticks about one writer’s heartbreak.
But, wherever and whoever you are out there, make sure you throw every one of those frogs back into the slime from whence they came.
And until you find your Prince, there’s always cheesecake.