Vesper’s reflections

Freedom loving Sagittarius meets the private Scorpio

Reflections on a date and dater.

Meet Jamie Scott: a man who walks in the bar and finds a slightly un-nerved (but holding her demure) frenetic woman painting her nails in her aloof confidence who rapidly manifested into a cock sure cow trying her very best to ‘put off the opponent’. Being her Saturday night self – foul mouthed, drinking like a fish, calling herself a cunt and impersonating Geordie accents seemed appropriate.  Why? Because it’s doing the right thing – being half heartedly proactive but setting up barriers so that nobody likes you – you’ve tried – you’ve failed – so you can go home shut the door and reside back into the cave you pulled your sorry arse out of in the first place.

Yes. That I suppose was an attempt at date one.  So how on earth did poor Jamie endure the delights of a pernicious ranty drunken wench? And somehow make it through the strange dark wet night that continued from bar to bar, alcohol slowly saturating the head filling me with the confidence as if I knew him from years back; therefore, shouting expletives, slamming him on the back and telling him about his characteristics felt totally acceptable. As well as regurgitating my knowledge of horoscopes and arrogantly telling him I’d done my star sign home work was just a perfectly normal way to behave.

In a whirlwind of cocktails and Gin, the night seemed to very quickly draw to an end and I was subconsciously aware that I may have made an utter cock out of myself but had also bypassed it with the carefree knowledge that I’d had a great night out (probably with a man who had put up with my antics for the craic? Or to see just where the night would end? Possibly vomit or being barred from a bar?).

Rules of dating? I don’t bloody know? You let them kiss you? You kiss them? You end the night with a chivalrous hug? I’ve never dated in my life so what do these things imply? What could they suggest? Best to do little. That way no-one is confused, or are they?  Anyway I recall the peck on the cheek as I almost attempted a 360 manoeuvre like Reagan from The Amityville horror to avoid my lips. Touching, public show of affection, I was wilting under the intoxication but remember bellowing “Jamie Scott” like some vile ladette from a late night documentary about the state of binge drinking Northern women.  Yep. That was my attempt to scupper a perfectly good night.  And it was a perfectly good night because I enjoyed his company, his wit, his Northern charm and most importantly his ability to withstand me and sustain my fickle flighty attitude. Been there done that.  Like a cat on a hot tin roof trying to jump off because in my head I’ve got nine lives and clearly I’m invincible.

Online dating, the everlasting monotonous lure of strange people selling themselves as outdoor pursuits, music lovers and film lovers: an ache of dullness combusts like a thorn in my side when I read them – but the inner voice or my good friend the oracle constantly reminded me of the pangs of loneliness I will encounter in old age: an old spinster left on the shelf only to be pursued in later life by widowers – ok – ok back to ‘trying’ and yes I am a victim of narcissism and incapable of actually trying to make conversations with these invisible people because I’ve written them off before they even get a chance – why? Because why should they get to know me? They won’t ever get remotely close to ever finding me and understanding me.  I know me, and I’m likely to falter quickly, simply because my mind is on fire, craving for wit and intelligence but like the rest of human kind, validation and attention is needed: a reminder you exist.  Tough call though: why am I on an online dating site?  When I signed up, I thought I knew.  Easy.  To find a potential companion and settle down all over again, to spend life, share life, that kind of normal thing I guess.  Yet the closer they got, the further I flew because beneath the skin there is the frozen me, trapped in the alpine glacier that cannot connect. Fear. That there isn’t anything out there and that I am easily jaded.  So what am I looking for? I wish I knew.  But one thing was for sure I couldn’t do regular, can’t do dull and certainly won’t do debase or nice.  Well, that narrows it down.  Despite my new lust for the men from Ripper Street, I didn’t think they lurked in their finely fitted suits and hats on an online site.

Hey ho.  I’m always intrigued; forever interested in the ones that think you’re some kind of keeper in the online world.  As did Jamie Scott. So I thought I’d see his profile – except there was nothing there to see.  Just a rant really, about how awful he was; no selling, no attempt to satisfy the punters through vacuous statements about being an ‘honest’ or ‘genuine’ guy.  Bored by the masses I found it funny enough to respond to him by saying “nice obnoxious profile”. And that was my aloof, detached usual way of half heartedly trying to connect. I think I did.  A photo with a guitar.  A face that failed to smile like mine – someone who isn’t ‘nice’ like me.  That was why.  That was it.  Can’t fit into society’s norms, or won’t – something quirky – something else

So as it happened after the attempt at date one and a tug of war, a trip to Coventry was finally agreed and accepted like the seal of the covenant it was dramatic. Pathetic fallacy encompassed the trip though Biblical hails and stormy weather conditions.  I gathered myself ready to battle the brunt of the cold sharp wind, and together with the odd locus in my bag that had also fallen from the skies, set myself on the path to the unknown.  Like Shelley’s allure with books of travel and Arabian nights, I hypnotically took flight because there was an air of risk, of danger and of entice.  Drawn towards paths that are curiouser and curiouser, like Alice I deliberately jumped into the rabbit hole

The journey certainly felt like an Arabian night seeing as I’d boarded the slow chugging train in the afternoon. But I landed, eventually and thus began a strange decision as I couldn’t help but process the decision I had actually made.  To meet a man I had verbally abused in my city and then make the sporadic brave decision to turn up at his doorstep and stay the weekend?

Sagittarian the ever optimistic explorer

“Adventurous that they are, the Sagittarians are always willing to take risks and keep the excitement levels in their lives alive”. You couldn’t get any more excitement than landing on the doorstep of a foreign city where you don’t really know the host, but as usual I follow intrigue and I took a chance.  Indeed Mr Jamie Scott was most hospitable and it was odd but comfortable to just hang about someone else’s kitchen and attempt cocktails (though they turned out warm).  It could only be described as that first awkward day with the new house mate that you’re going to spend the next possible University years sharing rotas with.  The inhibitions were slowly dissolving as I sipped on my warm Gin cocktail in rapture of his Geordie accent sat in his ‘Winter Palace’ – a crimson cave where Wolverine sat proudly in the corner watching our every move.

We sat like bohemians on his whitish rug eating the meal he had made, he had scrupulously pointed out the Freudian slip of injected the aphrodisiac asparagus into the meal.  I nonchalantly laughed like I always do. Meanwhile I clumsily scattering rice grains, unable to sustain the awkward position of eating on the floor without my skirt riding up my arse – a perilous situation.  And yes as much as I hate the word ‘nice’ for its hollow laziness as a word, it was nice in a  ‘Good Life’ Gerry and Margot way, except I doubt Margot would have compromised her skirt.

We got ready to go out, and in my usual glam rock approach to any opportunity to dress for an occasion, I dressed for some drinks and the promise of some Rock tunes to air guitar to.  He noticed my apparel, perhaps I was over dressed, I don’t know but in any case it was a true reflection of what I offered to the art of reverie.  I had the pleasure of meeting some of his friends and as a social butterfly I was at ease in their company, again it felt welcoming to now extend my levels of ease with more strangers.

We hit the music and like a trick I’d vanished into the sounds. Lost in the words of the songs, uncontrollably feeling every beat and singing the songs that mattered – I was fully in my comfort zone. This was where I belonged. Dancing like a loon, careless and carefree, especially in a place where no-one knew me, even better. But he wasn’t, he hated dancing and I knew that.  But I took it upon me like a healer, as if this could be a changing moment in his life to drag him in the middle of the dance floor and cajole him into the reverie of song and madness.  My madness.  And he did. This was brave and took courage: Conan the Barbarian meets fastidious flapper girl.  I could see it in his face, the sheer cringe of what I was making him do.  This wasn’t a test; it was an invitation, an opportunity to let him taste the vortex: my fast lane, where the sublime can submerge into a subconscious dream in a blink of an eye; where intoxication allows you to be nothing but you. Caught in ecstasy, music takes me beyond so that I am the strum, the riff, the chord…

It was a dark and stormy night … and something happened in the cortex of my mind. Was it inexplicable perhaps unavoidable? Was it a moment of pushing the boundaries and finally accepting connection? Not sure. But I know deep down what matters to me, the importance I’d placed on carnal consummation all my life had overshadowed the real meaning, like a cliché, it had lost the truth.  My former life of intimacy had transformed me into some a wayward Temptress, performing to salvage and secure. Like the players in Hamlet galvanising every sinew we search to seek out something that was once true or untrue.  See here I was unleashed, like a caged animal a bit like Ted Hughes’ Jaguar:

But who runs like the rest past these arrives 

At a cage where the crowd stands, stares mesmerized,
As a child at a dream, at a jaguar hurrying enraged
through prison darkness after the drills of his eyes

On a short fierce fuse. Not in boredom-
The eye satisfied to be blind in fire,
By the bang of blood in the brain deaf the ear-
He spins from the bars, but there’s no cage to him

More than to the visionary his cell: 

 Detachment or distraction?  The body enslaved to desires of truths and untruths: the mind retracted, awakening the electrodes inside to shudder itself back to reality – I know, let me quote Blake whilst I’m locked in this sexual encounter so that I might shake myself from the shame that I was nothing but the Jaguar, prowling, unable to restrain the animalistic need to be human: a paradox. Or justify it as something so sacred, like Blake’s transcendence, a divine intervention that would leave me in a forgiven realm of ecstasy. Mesmerised that Imperial Leather didn’t dry out his skin I continued like a quest for the Holy Grail, touching every part that consumed the appetite.  I was sold on this soap.  It was bloody good shit.

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