All Quiet on the Eastern Front

Oh, hello! Remember me? I’m the one in London having all the sex... Except – oh no! Wait. I’ve not been having any sex at all of late, therefore rendering this whole blog an absolute farce.

I can only apologise for my lacklustre performance over the past few weeks. I can’t really account for it. Although there is one thing... I’ve moved to Shoreditch. Could this possibly have anything to do with it?! Can my utter failure to have sex really boil down to the fact that I refuse to wear brogues (they make my ankles look fat) or have an undercut (what happens when you want to grow it out?!). If I were a little more fancy-free with my footwear and/or hairstyling, perhaps I wouldn’t be experiencing such a dearth of sexual activity. Perhaps.

Maybe men in East London are just looking for something different in a sexual partner (aside from gender inappropriate shoes and androgynous haircuts). Armed with this revelation I am going to get my hands on a fixed-gear bicycle, a Barbour jacket and some wayfarers... Then I will start a band and watch a lot of art house cinema. That should do the trick, right? Right?! Note to self: don’tforgetthevintagecarpetbag.

In the meantime, I could always revisit some of the previous blog entries. Not in a sexual sense (necessarily)... But I realise that many a story remains as an incomplete narrative. And that’s just bad reportage.

For example – Today I saw Sam. Now there’s a name you haven’t heard in a while! Sam, you will recall, played the *fanfare* starring role in the two-person marathon that was One Hundred Hours of Servitude. His medication-induced inability to ejaculate resulted in an exhausting battle with his limbic system that nearly killed me. This was followed by a period of intense textual assault - a terrifying level of demand for my company - which resulted in us not seeing each other at all for a good couple of months. His keenness was nothing if not off-putting. We’re back on much better terms again now though. In fact today we went for lunch. When I say lunch, I mean that I sat in silence and ploughed through a gourmet burger, whilst Sam listed every female conquest, compliment and comment of recent weeks... Not that I mind really. He does it in a rather sweet way that’s so totally transparent it’s hard to be offended. He’s just keeping me informed. He’s desirable, don’t cha know.

Much like last time I wrote about Sam, I have just received a text from him, as I type. “By the way, you look stunning”. Greeeeeaaaat.

Then there’s Rob. Good old Rob. Twoyearsdowntheline, supermarketsushiinthedark Rob. Rob of the Mothering Fights. Rob of the wanting what he can’t have. Where Sam and I have kissed and made up (figuratively speaking), Rob and I have fucked and fallen out. We’ve been sleeping together on and off for two years, and of late I’ve been wanting out. But I haven’t told him – Oh no! That would be far too simple. Basically I’ve been hoping to communicate my lack of interest via telepathy. Is it really too much to ask that he get the hint and let the whole sorry affair die a quiet death? “Do Not Resuscitate this relationship!” In fact, more than that. Send this sad little old relationship to a clinic in Switzerland and let it have the dignified death it deserves.

The entire situation has become even more irritating recently, if possible; the worst thing being that even he’s irritated now. His requests to meet up are becoming nothing short of abusive. I think he’s trying to bully me into sex via the medium of text. It’s not working.

Jokes about Swiss clinics aside, turns out a little trip abroad is exactly the solution that was needed... Great news has arrived this week, which has solved a world of problems. Rob has been offered a job in Manilla... He’s moving to the Phillipines! Indefinitely! Now I never have to talk to him like a grown-up, never again must I face the wrath of his mother (like a child) and the whole thing is, frankly, a weight off my mind.

Who else, of the recurring cast of MENTALS, should I mention? There’s always Jim I suppose. Dear Jim, with his performance anxiety and crippling (for me) inability to get an erection. On Impotence and Being Earnest and A Tale of Two Fitties certainly didn’t paint him in a particularly favourable light. In fact there was a point when I genuinely feared he was a heroin addict... But you know how it is when you have a few drinks and forget about a man’s impotence just for a second, and text them to see how they are and end up agreeing to see them for a drink, even though you strongly suspect the whole episode will be as entirely fruitless as every other failed attempt to get it on with the closest incarnation of Russell Brand you will ever meet in your life? No? Well I do. And I’ve done it now, so we’ll just have to wait and see.

I hope Jim will not be the only boat on the horizon (there’s a joke here about being at half mast which I can’t quite muster the energy to compose) in the near future. That would be a limp basket to place all of my eggs into. I’m hoping that my domination of Shoreditch will take on new life now that I hold the key to seducing the men of East London...

Maybe I should have faith in my ankles and buy those brogues after all...? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ