John from Seattle only allows me to contact him via Facebook. This is shady behaviour, but I overlook it because he’s on holiday and he’s American, who in my book (e.g. ‘American Chris‘), are notoriously odd. It’s unlikely that anyone who lives on the other side of America is ever going to contact me again, once they’re out of reach and no longer need my bedroom “services” (we’ll come to that).
When we met at the bar on Sunday night, we had discussed attitudes towards relationships. I explained to him that I had once been given a good bit of advice by a friend, who told me,
Whether a relationship lasts 3 days, 3 months or 30 years, we are lucky to of experienced it.
There is a great comfort in this, especially when John from Seattle messages me at eleven o’clock at night on a Wednesday and asks if I have time to see him. I explain to him that I’m at home, in bed, in my pyjamas, but he comes by anyway.
When I open the door to him, he looks at me like a schoolboy in a candyshop. It’s midnight. I have been at home all day, I’m in silky cami top, heart pyjamas and a knitted shawl. My hair is curled, perfect, and I have lipstick on. No one goes to bed like this usually, he’s almost certainly aware of this.
He immediately wants to touch me, we sit at the dining table, and he pretends to want to look at the illustrations I’ve made that day, but he pulls me onto his lap instead, and kisses me passionately.
I believe him when he says he is interested in the art that I create. I trust him when he’s with me, but this man is unknowable to me. I will never spend enough time with him to understand him, which is enticing in itself. We make drinks together in the kitchen, covering each other in kisses and dirty words of encouragement. This time we skip the lounge, and head straight to the bedroom, sitting cross legged on the bed and playing with each others hands, toes, hair and administering kisses.
Finally, he tells me how sexy he finds me, and his soft, smooth American accent lulls me as he pushes me back against the pillows.
I ask him later if he’s been on any other dates with English girls whilst he’s in London. He says he’s been on dates with two others whilst he’s been here, but nothing physical, not like us. He kisses me and whispers to me whilst he holds me,
“Are you jealous in relationships?”
“No, I think that you have to trust someone, otherwise what’s the point?”
The thought of him on dates with other girls whilst he’s on holiday in my city makes me jealous.
We talk and flirt in bed, looped round one another and giggling. I tell him about my dream to open a gallery. He talks about the future of video games and the potential for computers which are much, much smarter than humans. It sounds scary to me.
John from Seattle forbid me from ‘taking advantage of him’ in the morning, the way I had on our last date. #sorrynotsorry
As we slept, John from Seattle wrapped his arms around me, held me close. He loved the way I stroked him with my fingertips across his back and his arms. It is those details about him which I will try to forget. He told me that he leaves this weekend, which is even sooner than I thought, I whispered,
“So this is the last time I’ll see you?”
If John from Seattle responded, I don’t remember what he said. It confirmed my thoughts, regardless.
In the morning, John from Seattle barely woke as I showered, dressed, and left for work. Why do they always do that? It makes me feel so alone. I would love one to offer to wake up with me, to help shoulder the burden of an early morning as a couple.
As I kissed him goodbye, mindful that I had been forbidden from leading him astray in the morning, he said
“Thanks for everything,” which I hated.
“Don’t say that,” I replied. It made me feel like a service industry.
“See you again.”
We’ll see, I guess, but I’ve been here before, a few times. I know the score. There will never be an ‘again.’