I shouldn’t be here…
Where, you ask.
Here. Exactly where I didn’t want that pesky little BD Conscience Devil of mine to lead me. But he did; my flesh, it appears, still remains weak where lustrous hair, captivating eyes and compelling conversation are involved.
I’ve relapsed. I’m the smoker who after a six month break has that one harmless puff that leads to a whole packet, the drinker back on the scotch after just a nip. Okay I’m not that bad, and I shouldn’t make light of more harmful addictions. But you know what I mean. I’m just not entirely strong enough to resist yet.
You’re not impressed though are you? I mean I know I’m not exactly morally bankrupt, but as far as current good intentions are concerned they say the road to hell does lie along this route, so I guess it was my fault for skateboarding down it in the first place.
Anyway I better quickly explain. I slept with her. In fact she’s still asleep here beside me. Who? That ex-client I mentioned last time. The one I said I wouldn’t, but did. Blame it on, well just blame it on me still not being able to resist what often goes on in a crowded west end bar after a few drinks and inexcusable flirtation. I’ve been “here” a metaphorical thousand times before. Indeed it must have been about two years ago I last spoke to you in a similar situation, that shake hands “let’s quit while we’re ahead” moment reminiscent of a simpler epoch when I was still relishing what I’d been missing out on for all those previous nondescript years of my humdrum before.
You know what the worst part is though. It’s the bit that gets me cold afterwards, the onset of that emotional shutdown I’ve referred to previously. But I still do it don’t I. I spend a year or more self-reproach for all those textual trysts or theatrical assignations and even attempt to grab my coat, walk away, take myself beyond the butterfly and catch a glimpse of the nirvana of pure normality I really seek; but then off I go and surrender everything for a kiss I hadn’t the strength or self control to hold back from.
I used to lie here on nights like this with Jane years ago, but with very different thoughts flying around my head; needier thoughts built on misplaced ideals I had at the time. Now I’m lying here knowing I’d rather slink off home before it all gets awkward, in fact wishing this had all never happened, as good as it was. Actually that’s my biggest problem, knowing how “good” indulging in one’s basic instincts can be given the right chemistry, however transient. Sometimes you can just tell from a glance, a word, a glint in the eye that, even before so much as a kiss has passed between you, this is going to be oh so good; so that in no way is your biology, by now irretrievably exposed to the cata-lust, going to let you walk away from it. Well you can. There is such a thing as self-restraint. But my BD Conscience Devil is quite the artful spindoctor where all that’s concerned.
Still what’s wrong with f*** buddies? It’s the norm these days. Hell I’ve shared my thoughts on all this in the past and provided both sides know the score (and are happy with that result), no problem. But that’s my point. Like I told you up in that Cessna, have I ever really known the score? Not really. And certainly here, with her soft contented breathing juxtaposed my own discontented inner sighs, I realise we never actually had that discussion. It just happened. And I just let it happen, abnegating my responsibilities for the sake of irresistible release.
Should I still be doing this, now approaching thirty-five? Wouldn’t this be more okay were I ten years younger instead (as much as some of you would decry such an opinion)? Of course I have no point of reference for that stance; I mean I was a pretty boring bastard back then who never did anything too outrageous to warrant comparison. Still catching up for lost time is one thing but I’ve caught up at light speed already. After all that’s happened recently, after all my insight into the understated normality of what I’d much prefer with someone, here I am again, back at what I’ve come know best since leaving the original cocoon.
Mind you being in her forties she’s more than old enough to make her own choices. I mean perhaps it’s rather patronising of me to presume she might have wanted anything other than what we’ve just done. This really could be just another shake hands episode after all. My problem is I don’t know. And I’m dreading it if it’s not – so many of you say you hate this sort of thing, and anyway I’m not supposed to be the butterfly anymore (although ironically good old butterfly squadron has once again taken flight inside my stomach the more anxious I get about all this). But then maybe this is all I can get, just as my own Hamlet moment the other week surmised. Maybe there is no third way. One can only be Spiderman or Peter Parker, Superman or Clark Kent, Batman or Bruce Wayne, Bastian Dash or… or that name I’ve never told you: me. I mean the guise works for me professionally, and at least he gets me laid. What more can I possibly want?
But I do want more now. And it’s not this, because this leaves me emptier each time. Thus inevitable choices are still heading my way. I knew that when I lay on ‘Playa Bastian’ around eighteen months ago. Straightening up and flying right though is a lot harder than lying back and riding wrong instead, especially because right now as I gaze at her, I sense my oh so predictable human side would enjoy doing it all again.
God, sometimes I really am rubbish. Still, it could be worse I guess.
I mean at least I’m not an MP…
By Bastian Dash read more by him on TBW Xtra on your personal home page.
