A year ago, I went back to stay with my (then) girlfriend in the US for two months. Our relationship had been crumbling for awhile but ultimately it was there and with her that I’d been the happiest in my life, and my depression was spiralling out of control.
So I went back, and did all the things that made me so happy before.
Only this time, I didn’t feel a thing.
I remember laying with her in bed, once the most satisfying and amazing feeling ever, and being frustrated that I wasn’t feeling the same way. We went to NYC and beyond a bunch times and saw amazing things, expensive things and I didn’t feel the blissful joy I used to. I was numb.
To put it another way, if the good feelings used to be the equivalent of lying naked entangled with your loved one after amazing sex, they were now holding hands in thick gloves outdoors in the middle of freezing winter. There’s a little something there, but it’s not the feeling I used to have.
And all the bad feelings I was experiencing every day were as crystal clear and sharp as ever.
And worse, she could tell and was afraid she was losing me. And she was trying so hard. And that broke my heart and I didn’t know what to do but try to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault.
We broke up not long after I got back to England.
She’d be absolutely horrified to know the highlight of my life now is drunkenly making out with some guy I barely know in an underpass right before he snorts coke, or being slightly too close to a girl half my age and risking destroying her new family if I step an inch too far.
There is no light on the dark side of me.
So I spent the night drinking on an empty stomach while playing board games with a group of friends, one of whom was a guy I met exactly once before – close to a year ago, while the most drunk I’ve ever been in my life. He said I was attractive and –just like that– I made out with a guy for the first time ever after a life of exactly zero gay thoughts. Reminder: I’m in my 30’s.
Back to last night: Knowing I was working the next day, my friends were kind enough to kick me the fuck out so I could get home and get some sleep. He left at the same time and we decided to walk back together instead of taking the offered taxi. We’re both pretty fucked up so we’re walking arm in arm and are chatting. And we walk through a park, where a group of teenagers start yelling “faggots!” and similar generic anti-gay stuff. My memory is a little hazy, but I distinctly recall turning around and yelling, “The more you yell, the gayer I get!” and something about sucking his dick if they didn’t shut up. And we went from linked arms to holding hands just to wind them up even more.
It’s utterly surreal and darkly amusing to be the target of homophobic remarks as an adult for actually acting gay, as opposed to when I was a teenager and it was just the go-to insult everyone used at school (it was a much less enlightened time)
I also made the smoothest move of my life, while my friend was about to indulge in his recreational drug of choice in a underpass (yes, this is a classy story about classy people doing classy things). A couple and their dog rather suddenly came through and just as my friend was about to lose his shit, I deftly moved in and kissed him. They awkwardly walked past (the rather embarrassed woman saying “Not looking! Not looking!”) and didn’t at all notice the drug paraphernalia he was holding.
“That was a really good idea.” He said.
I got another kiss goodnight when we got to his place. And this morning I woke up without a hangover. Nice.
I nearly got laid 3 weeks ago. There’s a girl I kinda like (not the one I’m in love with and desperately trying to get over) and I know she likes me too.
Her other half was out of town for a week and she invited me over for dinner one day. We had a really good time, got really drunk, went out, got more drunk, staggered home and she wanted to fuck. But she was more drunk than I was. No hope at keeping eye contact, and she fell off the bed twice. So after a really long, drawn out and quite agonizing turning her down and putting her to bed I left and staggered home like a slow motion pinball.
I found out later she rang another friend the next night and he didn’t turn her down. She really didn’t care how drunk she got, she just wanted a fuck. I did the “right thing” and didn’t get laid for nothing. But if I had done it, I’d have felt horrible.
I live in a morally bankrupt world where I’m gonna hate myself for doing something I want as much as I’m gonna hate myself for not doing it. I can’t win.