The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  And again I acted against my better judgment when, some weeks after the end and for sheer convenience, I allowed a rekindling of our affair. This is so deceptive. Once you’ve ended a relationship and become aware of what you’ve lost, there is this last flare-up of interest for the other person. One of the most basic market rules seems to apply here: something you once had is gone and suddenly you miss it and want it back. Fear of loss, pure and simple. It feels strange to have to cope without him. And so you cling to what you know and do everything you can to get him back. All the while knowing full well that, after a few days, you’ll want shot of him again. But the fact that he’s no longer “yours” is a major aphrodisiac...

  And so it happens, the inevitable and pointless “sex with the ex”. Which is just what happened with Number Five. He helped me move and set up my furniture. I was in a whole new situation – just left home, my first flat, new town – and I really needed something familiar. We ended up in bed. I lied and pretended I still loved him. Simultaneously I was wondering how to get out of this mess again. Seeing the hope in his eyes truly scared me. He immediately took me back and started to make plans for our future. I was grouchy and turned off from the very first moment of our reunion and a few weeks later split up with him again, on some spurious pretext. By then, hussy that I am, I had hooked another fish. Good-bye, love of my life!

  Number Six: Driven crazy by a kiss

  Number Six happened to me when things started to get boring with Number Five. Number Five and I were in our third and final year together, what had started out as the love of my life had dulled into a routine affair. In actual fact, Number Six is nothing to write home about either. But there was this one magical moment, enough to entirely unhinge silly little me. Enough to initiate the beginning of the end for me and Number Five.

  Right after graduating high school and before the start of university I worked as a hostess at a trade show. Trade-shows are always a profitable game, if rather exhausting. Together with a number of wacky girls, I worked for a small company; we were supposed to rock the place rather than stand around looking bored in our prim little outfits. Which is why, at our stand, we had a blast of a party every day. Soon, we were known throughout the entire trade show. One day, one of my colleagues, ungrudgingly acknowledged as the hottest of us all, had four friends come to see her. Very handsome friends, Munich preppie types with Ralph-Lauren shirts and Armani shades pushed into their gelled back hair. They were brand new start-up entrepreneurs and I found their wonderfully arrogant busy-Munich-guy manner extremely sexy. I marveled at them from afar and never even considered flirting with any of them. They were entirely out of my league. No way would those big shots from Munich be interested in a little provincial flower like me.

  In the evening, when the trade-show started to close down, the party at our stand was in full swing. We girlies kept our guests and ourselves well fired up and well supplied with drinks. We danced and sang in front of the crowd and the party grew wilder and wilder. Prosecco flowed and ensured that we were untroubled by potential embarrassment, which very much pleased our illustrious party guests. The guys from Munich were still there, too. They stood and watched everything, cool and distant, and, as befitted their status as worthy citizens of Munich, didn’t get involved in any of our party excesses. One of them seemed more and more attractive to me. Tall, blond with blue eyes, so damn cool and totally sexy. Unfortunately there was no time for flirting because all of a sudden our Munich guests were off. They’d traveled in with a group and their bus was ready to leave.

  The guys were doing their obligatory good-bye kissie-kissie-on-both-cheeks rounds. I was extremely disappointed; after all, the evening had only just started to be fun. Then it was “my” guy’s turn to kiss me good-bye. Which he did, then turned and walked away, cool as anything. All I could think at that moment was a defiant “No, damn it! Don’t go! Stay! You’re mine!” And, without me being able to control or stop what was happening, my big mouth opened and articulated, loudly and clearly and seemingly without any input on my part: “Oh what a pity you have to leave. I’d so like to kiss you!” Even while those words were tumbling fully formed out of my mouth, I panicked. Nooo, you didn’t – surely you didn’t really yell after that cool Munich guy?! I could kick myself! Such a stupid big mouth! How embarrassing is that?! I stared after him and hoped that maybe he hadn’t heard me. Or more likely he was thinking, “Hang on – what was that? Did that little blonde actually yell that she wants to kiss me?” I was still staring at his back when he suddenly turned around, somewhat unsure of himself, and slowly and hesitantly walked towards me. I bit my lip, my heart performing a world-class African drum concerto, and I tried to smile. Then my cool guy from Munich just stood in front of me, beamed at me with his incredibly blue eyes and kissed me. Holy cow, what a kiss! I thought I’d melt into a soft pink heap of marshmallow. The kiss simply blew my socks off. It felled me. The moment lasted maybe three minutes. But oh, what three minutes! I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. He detached himself from me, his friends were getting impatient, and the only thing he said was, “Damn bus! If it wasn’t for the bus...” – and then he kissed me again and was gone.

  I stood as though I was rooted to the ground. Easy to impress as I was, I had fallen in love with this guy there and then. Those three minutes were definitively the most exciting moments of my life. My trade-show girlies were well impressed by my antics and kept saying, voices tinged with respect and admiration: “You didn’t really yell after him, did you? Wow - cool!” I myself could hardly believe that my big mouth was capable of such hara-kiri type behavior. Dazed, I drove home. I couldn’t sleep and kept replaying the kiss on the big cinema screen inside my head. Other than his first name, I knew nothing about my great kissing hero. Not to mention that I didn’t have his phone number. I could only hope that he had been as overwhelmed by the moment as I’d been, and that he would try to get my number from my trade show colleague. Then he’d get in touch with me and we’d ride into the sunset together. And they kissed happily ever after. Screech-squeak-scratch-sound of record grinding to a halt, because, nothing of the sort happened. He never got in touch with me. And I suffered like a shorn squirrel in winter! All I could think about was this kiss, those blue eyes. Even my trade-show colleagues couldn’t tell me anything more about my Number Six. Crazy in love as I suddenly was, they tried to tell me as compassionately as possible that he’d not asked after me at all, not even once. I was deeply disappointed and frustrated.

  There was, however, one more opportunity to see him again. We trade show girlies had become good friends and so we decided to take a trip to Munich and visit our Munich colleague – the one who knew those hot guys. My one and only hope was that Mr. Superkiss might turn up there, too. With one of my trade show friends I embarked on the long journey south. The drive took forever. I could hardly wait to get to Munich. When we finally arrived, we first went out for a meal, but no sign of Number Six. My Munich colleague had promised, though, that the guys would join us later. I grew more and more nervous. A long time later, after we’d ended up in some posh club and I’d had a few cocktails, they finally arrived. Instead of the four-man boy band from the trade show there were only two of them now. My one was one of them. Thank God, yippee, three cheers and a hallelujah! Unfortunately, Number Six didn’t seem the slightest bit pleased to see me again. His greeting was entirely sober and neutral. Very well, I thought. Be cool for all I care – I’ll thaw you later! I wasn’t unduly worried yet about how the evening might progress; I was in a good mood. The most important thing had happened – he was actually there. First objective achieved.

  Unfortunately Number Six paid me no attention whatsoever during the entire evening. Even though I looked great. He kept flirting with my trade show colleague instead, the one I’d come to Munich with. And the stupid cow flirted back, shamelessly, even though she knew how much I was in love with her flirting victim. Dismayed by this ugly turn of events, I couldn’t even rely on my usual self-as
sured big mouth. I tried to draw his attention by dancing particularly suggestively and sexily. But frankly, I could have wrapped myself naked around a pole and it wouldn’t have registered with him. My frustration grew and grew. Instead of giving him more bold and cheeky chat like at the trade show, I withdrew, sullen and frustrated. What a mega washout. Both the girls, who were a few years older than me, tried to comfort me. But since one of them had ruthlessly taken over my territory, this felt more like mockery to me. I practically shrank back to nothing and felt more and more fat, ugly and stupid, surrounded by this glamorous Munich party crowd. I tried to draw attention to myself by disappearing for a short while – that always seems to work in the movies. I walked about outside for some time, hoping they would miss me and someone would come running after me in a dramatic fashion, but it was bloody cold and of course nobody even noticed that I wasn’t there.

  Eventually, the girls decided to go home. We would spend the night at our Munich colleague’s place. The guys walked us to the car. And while I got in, still frustrated and pointedly ignoring Number Six, I saw them snogging, my so-called trade show friend and my Number Six. There was simply no end to this nightmare! I couldn’t believe it. So much bad luck, frustration, abuse and humiliation in one go – I was devastated. I’d spent weeks longing for this guy and then, at the very moment I’d so been waiting for, I’d been so tense that I fucked it up royally, and then this stupid impertinent ass-cow came along and blithely snuffled the guy up, right from under my nose. I felt it was my own fault. If only I hadn’t sat there like a shy, lovelorn girlie, if only I had pounced on him right away, then maybe it would be me he was snogging now.

  I couldn’t keep from crying anymore, I sobbed loudly and with abandon. What did I care now, it was all over anyway. I sank into the back seat and pulled my sweater over my face. I didn’t want them to see my tears. The other two girls got into the car, giggling, and made some pitying noises in my direction. She wasn’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that she’d snapped up my guy. I was mad as hell. Nevertheless, like so often I pretended that it was all OK, cracked a joke, we all giggled and that was that, as far as the other two were concerned. On top of that, I had to spend the night lying next to that snake-in-the-grass in the guest room. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, from sheer rage and disappointment.

  In time, the emotional confusion dissipated of its own accord. All the carrying on in the world wouldn’t have made any difference, and so I just got back to normal. I spent less and less time thinking of Number Six and eventually the memories paled and faded. Here, too, time did what it does best. I didn’t keep in touch with the girls from the trade show. Instead I remembered that I was supposed to be in love with Number Five. But cracks had started to appear, and the next small stupidity was just around the corner. Enter Number Seven.

  Number Seven: Albino pit bull with tiny little pink tail nestling in orange fuzz

  Number Seven was a friend from university, part of the same crowd. We all were like a family, meeting often, having parties, hanging out. At the time I was still with Number Five, but the end was drawing closer. My affair with Number Seven is one of those you do not brag about. There are men with whom you somehow embark in a passionate affair whilst at the same time feeling deeply ashamed. Number Seven was one of those. He wasn’t exactly blessed with beauty. In fact, he resembled an albino pit bull. He was podgy, with a pale freckled bulldog face and reddish-blond hair, cut very short and gelled. He also had a way about him that was, shall we say, an acquired taste. He was loud and brash, completely full of himself, macho, and thought he was the hottest item on the planet.

  In spite of these rather off-putting traits, we became friends. We had a load of fun and whenever we spent time together, we goofed around and behaved like lunatics until I nearly pissed myself laughing. Somehow we were on the same wavelength. I never had the slightest notion of having any other kind of involvement with him. In any case, he was with someone else – his childhood sweetheart of many years.

  One beautiful hot summer’s evening, during a party at university where I’d turned up with Number Five, Number Seven simply dragged me away from the party crowd and we walked for a while in the darkness, being our usual silly selves. Then he was suddenly hugging me from behind and holding me close for whole minutes. I had no idea what was happening to me because I was instantly electrified and unbelievably turned on. His embrace felt wonderful. He started to kiss me deliberately from the side, on my face and neck. I grew more and more excited. The thought “what the hell are we doing?” shot through my head. But everything felt so hot and at the same time so somehow familiar that I turned around to face him. Then we kissed. I was completely amazed, because my hitherto good friend who happened to be a boy turned out to be a connoisseur of the art of kissing. In addition, he smelt fantastically good. All of a sudden my coarse and big-mouthed bulldog friend was all tender and bashful. I too didn’t know what to say, and so we bridged the silence with more making out.

  After we got ourselves together again, we ambled nonchalantly and inconspicuously back to the party and mingled with the still wildly celebrating hordes. Luckily Number Five had not missed me and so didn’t ask any questions when I reappeared by his side. I carried on celebrating, intoxicated by the unexpected joys of the surprising nocturnal third-party snogging session. Number Seven and I exchanged secret glances, which turned me on even more. I didn’t fancy Number Five in the slightest. When the party was over, I went home with Number Five. Lying next to him in bed made me feel really cross. I couldn’t sleep and Number Seven was constantly on my mind. We secretly exchanged yearning text messages and arranged to meet the next morning for breakfast at his place.

  Cold as ice, I told Number Five some lie about why I had to disappear so early in the morning. I believe it was something about studying or a girl friend I had to meet. I used Number Five’s bathroom to prepare for breakfast with Number Seven – the whole thing, shaving my legs and everything. Having breakfast was about the last thing I intended to do during the next hour or so. I was so excited. Anyone who kisses like that and can send such shivers down your back has got to be dynamite in bed, I though. I savored the thrill and the tension. When I finally got out of Number Five’s place, I rushed over to Number Seven, ready for anything and with a heap of butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t feel bad about Number Five. I was only interested in my adventure.

  My arrival at Number Seven’s place was a full-blast anticlimax. In the cold light of day and without the object of my desire being positively enhanced by the flattering influence of alcohol, the albino pit bull resemblance was undeniable. Suddenly shocked and irritated by Number Seven’s absence of handsomeness, I silently asked myself: “What on earth do you see in him, and how the hell could last night have even happened?!” Not to mention the sudden embarrassing morning-after-tension-silence-now-what-insecurity that seemed to have replaced our nocturnal erotic excitement and intimacy. Number Seven was completely bombed, you could tell he’d been partying, he had a massive hang-over and was irascible and grouchy. He didn’t seem like someone who was pleased to see me. The guy I was facing now bore precious little resemblance to the gentle kisser and romantic text message writer from last night. I saw that he, too, hadn’t quite worked out where the whole thing was supposed to go from here. I felt that my being there was unpleasant for him, and when I saw all the photos of his beloved on his walls, a cacophony of alarm bells went off in my head.

  I was unbelievably disappointed and frustrated. What I should have done, of course, is turn around on the spot and get out of there without further comment. Everything I had seen, felt and experienced during these last few minutes seemed to scream only one thing: “Get the hell out as fast as you possibly can!” But apparently, when you’re in your early twenties, you can’t muster up that much pride and dignity. And so, silly and pigheaded and possessed of masochistic tendencies as I apparently was, I decided that I would prefer to stay with this strange, ugly and bad-temper
ed guy. After all, I hadn’t shaved my legs for nothing!

  I have no memory of how we managed to get past these first cringe-making moments. All of a sudden – and in spite of his rotten mood – we reconnected where we’d left off the night before and found ourselves in bed, making out. Anti-cringe-making-out, so to speak: when the whole thing is so embarrassing that making out seems to be the only way to deal with such a weird situation. Yes, he was still a brilliant kisser, but there was nothing of last night’s magic. Still, one thing led to another. We unwrapped each other, mutely and reproachfully watched by his girlfriend’s many photographic eyes.

  By the way: taking each other’s clothes off in real life is never, EVER, anywhere near as easy and sensuous as romantic comedies or much less romantic pornographic movies would have you believe. I presume there’s a special bedroom choreographer at hand, who spends whole days training the actors in the art of sexily disrobing each other. I keep wondering why they don’t just show it how it actually happens? Nobody has ever been helped by watching some perfectly acted bedroom scene. Non-opening bras, worn-out ancient Mickey-Mouse panties, idiotically vile contortions while trying to get out of your jeans, the futile attempts to make those embarrassing bright-colored cotton socks disappear – why don’t you show that, dear movie-makers?