Saturday, July 8, 2017

In White Satin

Nights are not my friend at the moment... days I can handle; days are full of friends and sunshine and ticking things off my to-do list. Nights... nights are full of rampant, animal sex followed by criminal loneliness.

Unfortunately, only the criminal loneliness is happening to me.

One of the joys of living in a building full of flats is hearing every bodily function that happens to the people in the shoebox above. In my life, I am lucky enough to live beneath not just one, not just two, but THREE student males in their early twenties. I know right?!

Just when you reach that age when you're drifting happily towards thirty-something and OK with the changes - here come three virile reminders that you used to be cool.

The music, the smoking, the shouting and the stamping I have dealt with. The flood I have dealt with. This new thing they're doing where they fuck exclusively between the hours of four and five in the morning to such an astonishingly painful sounding beat and exuberance I am not dealing with.

I don't think waking up to sex happening can ever be good - I like to be warned if it's going to happen to me, and I like to be warned if it's not happening to me so I can not be there.

I want to sit them both down and patronisingly explain why what they're doing is:
a) too fast to be as enjoyable as sex can be
b) too forceful to not be doing kidney damage
c) happening between four and five o clock in the fucking morning so pack it the fuck in until you own a house in the middle of a field you sociopaths

I lie there at night listening to them love each other and wonder why they can't be head aficionados... head is so quiet. Head is what you do between 4 and 5, isn't it? Who has the energy for a fully blown fuck after 4am?

Oh my god I am 30 years old. I am a married 30 year old moaning about the happy go lucky people upstairs enjoying their lives.

Yes, yes I am. Because you know why? It's so god damn loud and it's happening above my face.

The only saving grace of their night time adventures is that a side effect of interrupting my sleep is that they interrupt my dreams.

At least once a week I dream that my husband has left me and I can't have him back. Sometimes I am dimly aware I used to be happier and that something is missing but I don't know what it is, sometimes I think I am with him but then I realise it isn't as good as I thought it was and then I realise it's not him, sometimes it's just a regular break up story and I can't stop sending him texts I shouldn't send in case it works and I can have him back.

Last night he agreed to let me have one more date for old time's sake and dream me lived through the most bittersweet night. Real me woke up heartbroken with no reason to be; because we're still together and his fond texts telling me I'm dippy for dreaming it are blaring from the screen.

I don't know how to get rid of these dreams. No amount of reassurance or happiness in our lives gets rid of them and I hate always knowing exactly how it will feel for it to be over because I have already done the emotions. I hope I never have to know if I've got it right.

He tells me it will never happen. He tells me again and again and so often that I start to worry this is how it will happen; he will grow tired of the endless reassurances. My bullshit will engender more bullshit and I will drown in my own bullshit.

Then, on that day, when it finally happens for real, I will wander round desolately hoping the sky is about to start thundering into sky-sex to wake me and tell me this isn't real bullshit. It's just more of my bullshit.

I wonder if the fuckers upstairs feel like this about each other - so painfully wrapped up in each other that separating their personality back out even in a dream is so forcefully painful I think I might have made my husband a horcrux.

Everything hurt more in your twenties didn't it? Except hangovers. Hangovers were 45 minute affairs easily solved on the drive to MacDonalds while you laughed and talked about what you were really crying about on the front porch smoking the fattest roll up you could afford. Which was extremely thin. America by Razorlight is playing.

It doesn't sound like they kiss during their sex. I cannot fathom a human body that could co-ordinate that level of happening at someone as well as some sensitive lip action. Short sharp blasts of action followed by some silence in which she and I are both praying he's done and we can go back to being un-invaded.

Maybe it's the heat - they'll go back to a normal timetable when autumn blooms and I will sleep through the night again. That would be nice. If I have to be an emo in the dark hours I would like the dignity of doing it alone.