No longer as truthful as should be deserved, some names, places and events deliberately vague to protect identities that aren't mine

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

The future soon...

Those of you familiar with my twitter will likely be aware of the person I refer to as #superaggressivefb.

This is a guy I met about 6 months ago, at a group play event at another fuckbuddy’s house.  At one point, #superaggressivefb hit me a little too hard for how you’d playfully hit someone you’d met at a group play event not 30 minutes earlier.  It hurt.  Not a lot, but enough to be definite pain.  Naturally, I grinned.  Probably a little too much.  And suddenly he gave me the kind of fiendish smirk that only ever happens when 2 kindred spirits discover each other, the look that says “Oh, we’ll be trouble together”

And we do have a lot of fun sexually.  But even better, is that we both have a similar outlook - that fuckbuddies can also make really good friends.  He’s one of my favourite people of late, and not just because he beats me up, we have a hell of a lot in common and enjoy a lot of the same things, and can match each other intellectually, but neither of us ever seem to pressure or stress the other.

I’m staying with #superaggressivefb this week while the floors in my place are being re-done.  We’re both slightly scared about this, for my own sake.  It’s entirely possible I’ll end up going home very, very broken.  
But completely unexpectedly (not because I didn’t think it could, I just truly didn’t consider the fact it might), staying with him might be the best singular thing that’s happened to my well being in the last 6 months.

#superaggressivefb has a husband.  And being around them gives me the kind of hope for the future I find difficult to come by at the moment. 

They are in their 40s, they are successful, They live in a flat.  It’s a nice big flat, but it’s a flat, not a house.   They have tenants who rent the other bedrooms because owning a flat in London is so expensive.  They don’t own a car.
They’ve been together forever, their ‘story’ is one of those heartwarming doesn’t it just makes you sick ones.  They got married less than a year ago.  That’s a big thing to me.  I’m old enough that when I was coming to terms with my sexuality, whatever ‘gay’ was, it meant every assumed aspect of straight life was suddenly closed off to you. 
They have shared and different interests.  They’ve managed to avoid that thing that seems to happen when ‘long term relationship’ meets ‘40s’ and haven’t just amalgamated into one set of people.  They have friends that overlap and friends that don’t.  They go out and do things apart from each other.
They have tiled fireplaces and art I don’t understand on the walls.  They have daffodils in vases on tables.  They have board games.  Not scrabble and monopoly.  Ticket to Ride, and Catan, and Dixit.  They have scores and scores of big thick politics and history books on their shelves.  Their bathroom has a note taped to the toilet asking guests/’visitors’ not to flush condoms down it.  They throw dinner parties with soup tureens .  There’s a teapot in the shape of Margaret Thatcher on their shelf.
They play.  Together and apart.  They lead totally respectable lives with impressive but sensible jobs.  They do drugs.  Together and apart.  They trust each other.
I don’t think the husband is completely keen on me.  He’s always courteous.  It’s not a problem that I’m around.  It’s not a problem I play with #superaggressivefb. 
They love each other.  Very obviously.  They are both still besotted with the idea that they are finally married.
They are content.  Not complacent.  They both desire and desire strongly.  They both have ambitions and things they still want to achieve.  They have disappointments.  But they are content.  There are parts of their flat that look old and worn, not in a ‘they’ve always been old and worn and we like them that way’ fashion, in a ‘we just haven’t managed to find the money to fix them yet’ way.

They seem to have achieved a near perfect blend of aging gracefully and together, with never losing that joie de vivre of the twenty something gay male.

The benchmark for people I admire is very high, (and occasionally rather unusual).  It is a list of less than 10.  #superaggressivefb and his husband are the perfect counterpoint to another set of gay married friends of mine.  Both silently helping to assure me, just through their every day lives, with all their struggles and achievements, that what I want can be mine right now, and it can still be mine in the future.

I’m still angry.  I’m still upset.  I’m still sick of feeling like this.  I’m still sick of feeling anything at all.  I’m tired, and I still haven’t found the energy to pick myself up, and start with everything I wanted, and was planning, all over again.   If you asked me why I get out of bed in the morning I couldn’t tell you.  The only way I get out of bed in the morning is by not asking myself why.  I go through the motions, simply because I do not bother to ask myself why I’m even doing that.   I don’t let myself think about the future, because there still isn’t any kind of one to imagine in my head.

But one like this wouldn’t be too bad.

No comments:

Post a Comment