NO CONTROL
So after years of fantasising and self-inflicted torment, I've finally arranged to go and see the object of my affection.
And then what do I do? I go out on more dates in the past week than I normally do when my mind isn't elsewhere.
Right after Emma's wedding, I arrived back in London exhausted and disinclined to do anything more energetic than be absorbed by my leather couch in front of Curb your Enthusiasm.
But London-based L called. She had tickets to some Jewish music festival on the South Bank.
I agreed to go, not realising that the only thing Jewish about the spectacle was the audience, the songs (which were written by one), and the hilarious transformation of "Get me to the Church on Time", from My Fair Lady (I think) to "Get me to the Shul (synagogue) on Time."
Dull doesn't begin to describe it. I walked out halfway through. L was upset, so we talked in the cafe till the show was over. She dropped me home. It was at this point that brain disengaged and willy took over.
I asked if her if she wanted to come in. She did. And as soon as she was inside I miraculously found my missing energy...
Even as I was fondling her bee stings and sliding my hand where it really oughtn't, I asked myself what I thought I was doing. I had no answer. The red, trident-wielding devil sitting on my shoulder won - again.
On Tuesday, I met up with R. Sweet, pretty South African girl, with a cherubic face and awkward affectations that reminded me of a house-mate of mine at university.
After two rounds at an overpriced Hampstead pub (£16!), I walked her home. I went upstairs. She showed me the view, gave me some wine, and within about 10 minutes I was in her bed. Fully-clothed, I should point out, but in her bed nonetheless.
"What are you doing?" I asked myself once more. Again, brain disengaged. I brushed aside my doubts and went straight for my target.
Thankfully she behaved reasonably well. I left around 1am. But as I walked through the freezing mist home I felt like a tart. And I feared that I might be prejudicing my impending visit to see the L my heart has desired all of these years. I pray that I am not.
So after years of fantasising and self-inflicted torment, I've finally arranged to go and see the object of my affection.
And then what do I do? I go out on more dates in the past week than I normally do when my mind isn't elsewhere.
Right after Emma's wedding, I arrived back in London exhausted and disinclined to do anything more energetic than be absorbed by my leather couch in front of Curb your Enthusiasm.
But London-based L called. She had tickets to some Jewish music festival on the South Bank.
I agreed to go, not realising that the only thing Jewish about the spectacle was the audience, the songs (which were written by one), and the hilarious transformation of "Get me to the Church on Time", from My Fair Lady (I think) to "Get me to the Shul (synagogue) on Time."
Dull doesn't begin to describe it. I walked out halfway through. L was upset, so we talked in the cafe till the show was over. She dropped me home. It was at this point that brain disengaged and willy took over.
I asked if her if she wanted to come in. She did. And as soon as she was inside I miraculously found my missing energy...
Even as I was fondling her bee stings and sliding my hand where it really oughtn't, I asked myself what I thought I was doing. I had no answer. The red, trident-wielding devil sitting on my shoulder won - again.
On Tuesday, I met up with R. Sweet, pretty South African girl, with a cherubic face and awkward affectations that reminded me of a house-mate of mine at university.
After two rounds at an overpriced Hampstead pub (£16!), I walked her home. I went upstairs. She showed me the view, gave me some wine, and within about 10 minutes I was in her bed. Fully-clothed, I should point out, but in her bed nonetheless.
"What are you doing?" I asked myself once more. Again, brain disengaged. I brushed aside my doubts and went straight for my target.
Thankfully she behaved reasonably well. I left around 1am. But as I walked through the freezing mist home I felt like a tart. And I feared that I might be prejudicing my impending visit to see the L my heart has desired all of these years. I pray that I am not.
Labels: Curb your Enthusiasm, guilty, Hampstead, Jewish, Prejudice, wedding
posted by David Cohen at 5:53 pm
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