Zeni Schadenfreude
Greenlighter
“Hello sweetie…”
This is a spell. This is a charm. This is the culmination of four years energy all pent up and fit to burst.
I’m ready to channel that energy into this piece of writing. Let me be clear. This is not a love letter. I don’t know you well enough to love you. I just know that I’m finding it a struggle not to want to know you.
The first time I saw your face was near the end of 2008. I’d suffered four bereavements and the end of a relationship in the space of a year and a half. I was a mess. You were living with a statuesque brunette, who I later found out really didn’t deserve you.
The first time I saw you, you still wore glasses, and you were wearing a black t-shirt with a long sleeved red shirt underneath. You looked massively stressed out. You didn’t even notice me. I thought I recognised you from somewhere.
I remember the second time I saw you. You held a door open for me, or perhaps I held it open for you, all I remember is that you saw me that time.
I don’t want to get bogged down in detail. You know how we met “properly”. However insignificant it is to you, I remember your thigh pressing against mine, and the furtive kisses in your brother’s bathroom.
For nearly four years now, we’ve played this game, and I’ve never been able to figure it out.
Do you always find your way back to me because I’m “easy”? It’s not like you don’t have other women who would probably make more effort for you than I do. We rarely see each other or know each other. I can go for months at a time without seeing you or hearing from you.
Am I an ego boost? I think not. I’m an overweight geek with little in the way of sexual prowess. You won’t meet my gaze in public. We’ve never properly cuddled. I don’t know how you take your coffee. I don’t even know your favourite song.
You hold me at a distance.
I don’t know what you get from me, but I know what I get from you, and it’s time I told you. Most people fill my head with their noise, and feed on my energy, but you fill my head with your silence. I talk too fast when I’m in your company, trying to fill the gaps, because you make me crackle with your static.
When we enter that drunken midnight realm, I feel more like myself, more than I do any other time. Like I said though… it’s not love… I just can’t seem to let you go yet.
For years I told you that you needed city life and finally you went. That last night we spent in your old flat was meant to be the last time ever. I said my goodbyes. All I ever wanted was to sit and watch a movie with you, have drinks, and chat about life. We finally did that. The only thing that was missing was the hug that I always wanted. We’re so emotionally removed from each other that a hug would probably be the kinkiest thing we could do.
I feel like a teenager around you. I never had boyfriends at school. I’ve always struggled with men and I’ve endured some emotionally scarring abusive relationships. Partly as a result of that, I’m a bit backwards, and I appear younger than I am.
I want to tell you something. I was sexually assaulted at 15 and again at 21. I was so ashamed of myself that I never told anyone. For a long time I believed that it was my fault. The negative experiences I had made me wary of sex and I become a hotbed of neuroses when faced with the opportunity to be intimate with someone. I don’t really enjoy sex. I rarely let go. I become horrendously fearful in the days afterwards.
Here’s the thing though.
Despite the delicious darkness of our coupling, I feel your power and strength, and it doesn’t scare me. When you kiss me I don’t feel the fear creeping in with cold hands to grasp me and squeeze the confidence out of me. In that moment of embrace I feel nothing but warmth and peace. Maybe that’s the hook, the addiction, the reason I can’t quite let go.
When I go home I smile. I have a cup of tea and a cigarette. I get into bed and I fall asleep easily. For a while I shine again. I remember who I really am. I don’t feel dirty. I feel powerful.
So here we are. Nearly four years down the line. I removed my Facebook for three months when I knew you were moving. I tried to cut the cord. We’re not even connected on Facebook yet you found me the first weekend I reactivated my profile. I often wake up on a Sunday morning to find pokes, messages or snapchats from you. I know people say that if someone’s drunk and you’re the first person they think to contact, then you must mean something. Because it’s you, I can’t quite believe that. I know I’m not the only one. There’s others who get more of you than I do, and that should bother me, and despite how ashamed I feel… I sweep it under the carpet because you are not, never have been and never will be mine.
Any sane woman would realise that this situation should be classed as “fuck buddies”… that I’m an occasional hook up… and any sane woman would tell you all of this and move on.
We both know that I’m not sane though.
I’d say I’ve got one more coupling left before I grow too burdened to carry on. One more night of painful anticipation, waiting for your mouth to find mine, waiting for your beautiful silence to engulf me. For that one last time I’m not going to fill the silence with my nervous words. I’m not going to try and fill the silence at all. I’m going to let it fill me up. When we’re through, I’ll sneak out with a smile on my face, marked with your scent and still fizzling with star fragments.
One of these days I’d like to date a man properly. I’m learning how to handle the fear and I’m starting to feel homesick for the company of a man. You’ve been one of only two men to get anywhere close to me in the last five years.
I’ve waited for you. I’ve told you how I felt. I’ve been rejected. You still come back for more. I am not beautiful. I am not popular. I am not clever. You don’t like me for my body or for my lovemaking skills. So why, then?
You are infinitely beautiful in ways that you don’t understand. I see your darkness, because it is much like my darkness, and if I could take it from you I would. I see you, even if you don’t believe it, I do.
This is my spell, this is my charm, this is my plea.
Let me in.
Or let me be.
This is a spell. This is a charm. This is the culmination of four years energy all pent up and fit to burst.
I’m ready to channel that energy into this piece of writing. Let me be clear. This is not a love letter. I don’t know you well enough to love you. I just know that I’m finding it a struggle not to want to know you.
The first time I saw your face was near the end of 2008. I’d suffered four bereavements and the end of a relationship in the space of a year and a half. I was a mess. You were living with a statuesque brunette, who I later found out really didn’t deserve you.
The first time I saw you, you still wore glasses, and you were wearing a black t-shirt with a long sleeved red shirt underneath. You looked massively stressed out. You didn’t even notice me. I thought I recognised you from somewhere.
I remember the second time I saw you. You held a door open for me, or perhaps I held it open for you, all I remember is that you saw me that time.
I don’t want to get bogged down in detail. You know how we met “properly”. However insignificant it is to you, I remember your thigh pressing against mine, and the furtive kisses in your brother’s bathroom.
For nearly four years now, we’ve played this game, and I’ve never been able to figure it out.
Do you always find your way back to me because I’m “easy”? It’s not like you don’t have other women who would probably make more effort for you than I do. We rarely see each other or know each other. I can go for months at a time without seeing you or hearing from you.
Am I an ego boost? I think not. I’m an overweight geek with little in the way of sexual prowess. You won’t meet my gaze in public. We’ve never properly cuddled. I don’t know how you take your coffee. I don’t even know your favourite song.
You hold me at a distance.
I don’t know what you get from me, but I know what I get from you, and it’s time I told you. Most people fill my head with their noise, and feed on my energy, but you fill my head with your silence. I talk too fast when I’m in your company, trying to fill the gaps, because you make me crackle with your static.
When we enter that drunken midnight realm, I feel more like myself, more than I do any other time. Like I said though… it’s not love… I just can’t seem to let you go yet.
For years I told you that you needed city life and finally you went. That last night we spent in your old flat was meant to be the last time ever. I said my goodbyes. All I ever wanted was to sit and watch a movie with you, have drinks, and chat about life. We finally did that. The only thing that was missing was the hug that I always wanted. We’re so emotionally removed from each other that a hug would probably be the kinkiest thing we could do.
I feel like a teenager around you. I never had boyfriends at school. I’ve always struggled with men and I’ve endured some emotionally scarring abusive relationships. Partly as a result of that, I’m a bit backwards, and I appear younger than I am.
I want to tell you something. I was sexually assaulted at 15 and again at 21. I was so ashamed of myself that I never told anyone. For a long time I believed that it was my fault. The negative experiences I had made me wary of sex and I become a hotbed of neuroses when faced with the opportunity to be intimate with someone. I don’t really enjoy sex. I rarely let go. I become horrendously fearful in the days afterwards.
Here’s the thing though.
Despite the delicious darkness of our coupling, I feel your power and strength, and it doesn’t scare me. When you kiss me I don’t feel the fear creeping in with cold hands to grasp me and squeeze the confidence out of me. In that moment of embrace I feel nothing but warmth and peace. Maybe that’s the hook, the addiction, the reason I can’t quite let go.
When I go home I smile. I have a cup of tea and a cigarette. I get into bed and I fall asleep easily. For a while I shine again. I remember who I really am. I don’t feel dirty. I feel powerful.
So here we are. Nearly four years down the line. I removed my Facebook for three months when I knew you were moving. I tried to cut the cord. We’re not even connected on Facebook yet you found me the first weekend I reactivated my profile. I often wake up on a Sunday morning to find pokes, messages or snapchats from you. I know people say that if someone’s drunk and you’re the first person they think to contact, then you must mean something. Because it’s you, I can’t quite believe that. I know I’m not the only one. There’s others who get more of you than I do, and that should bother me, and despite how ashamed I feel… I sweep it under the carpet because you are not, never have been and never will be mine.
Any sane woman would realise that this situation should be classed as “fuck buddies”… that I’m an occasional hook up… and any sane woman would tell you all of this and move on.
We both know that I’m not sane though.
I’d say I’ve got one more coupling left before I grow too burdened to carry on. One more night of painful anticipation, waiting for your mouth to find mine, waiting for your beautiful silence to engulf me. For that one last time I’m not going to fill the silence with my nervous words. I’m not going to try and fill the silence at all. I’m going to let it fill me up. When we’re through, I’ll sneak out with a smile on my face, marked with your scent and still fizzling with star fragments.
One of these days I’d like to date a man properly. I’m learning how to handle the fear and I’m starting to feel homesick for the company of a man. You’ve been one of only two men to get anywhere close to me in the last five years.
I’ve waited for you. I’ve told you how I felt. I’ve been rejected. You still come back for more. I am not beautiful. I am not popular. I am not clever. You don’t like me for my body or for my lovemaking skills. So why, then?
You are infinitely beautiful in ways that you don’t understand. I see your darkness, because it is much like my darkness, and if I could take it from you I would. I see you, even if you don’t believe it, I do.
This is my spell, this is my charm, this is my plea.
Let me in.
Or let me be.
