The Pursuer

This relates more to the past than the present, I should think. I write and publish as testimony and expulsion of the things I have thought, may continue to think, but hope to be rid of one day.

Why do I have to work so hard for so little reward? Why don't people think "Ah, that Liam's a catch, let me show him I'm interested." Where's the nightingale to press her heart against the rosebush thorn, and sing for her faith in love? Why does that faith immediately prove as much vanity as religious faith: fear-based, consolatory, mythical? I watched a cartoon of the Wilde short story that goes with it and was like, wow, love sucks. So I then went up to my room and read it - "The Nightingale and the Rose" - and in all I went about doing, thought about it, all day. Why am I the pursuer, and not the pursued? What distinguishes me from those catches, those elusive beauties and non-beauties whose hearts men like me pine for? And if I sit and think about THAT, I start to worry. It all becomes painfully clear why this happens to me again and again. Why men crush my heart to dust. Because these are the qualities of the pursued:

Beauty. I can't begin to start explaining how many ways I fall short of this by any objective measure, but I can safely assure myself - especially in mind of worry and whatnot - that clearly no one in the world finds me attractive enough to want to keep around.

Grace. From casual clumsiness, to not being au fait with the ways of romance (all I know, I know from books and failed romances), to a stupified understanding of the workings of the world. The pursued appear like angels in the wind, delicate and elusive but as if they might be carried away at any moment.

Mystery. There is nothing mysterious about a man who is honest. Every aspect of my personality is exposed either casually, in confidence or in fact of sight. I don't believe in harbouring secrets, in lying to casual strangers about whether or not they're fat or making pleasantry on the phone where I have no pleasant sentiment. Truly, the pursued are naturally of a countenance which implies there is something to be discovered!

Wealth. Of so many respects. The wealth of money, of knowledge, of experience. I have none. I have little to my name, I have aptitutdes that are unexpressed but no true wisdom, and no experience in tender age or in life lived. My life is hollow with absences which pervade its fragile structure. The pursued give off a charm of limitless potential, of such interesting facts and memories and so much to share. What do I have?

Irreverence. The most important one, and within it, all of the above. They don't care about anything but in this is the illusion that they might harbour some deep-abiding passion, or potential for change which as experience (what little I have) had told me will always fail to materialise. And it's always apparent from the beginning. I have none: I express motivation in my calculated apathy, I express desire in my every glance and inquisition, I express hope in my every sorrow that all is lost.

So am I "special" this time, or any time? Time will tell. My enemy, time. That word: inevitability, haunts me from before I knew what I was writing about when I wrote about the boy at the window those days and days ago. The boy I had never conceptualised as one (and was, inspired by one in the past). The boy I do not know and will never know, every one of them.

Dance, Dance (then stop)

You probably all know the situation where someone you're not too into starts dancing with you, and to be polite you dance back for a song or two. Then you discretely say you're going to get a drink or go to the toilet or for a cigarette than you'll Be Right Back, Honestly. For the rest of the night, you avoid that person and act as if you cannot see them on the dancefloor. What really sucks is when you're that other person.

"Make the first move more often" is what Liam is told by his Brighton friends in great numbers, "to be bold and more confident." Before being told this tonight by Dougie, by Ronan, by Beca and Georgina and Luke my LGBSoc dad and even the guy who runs the Pop Tarts night at BabyLove and some old geezer who looks like Truman Capote, I had this in mind. So, while Georgie is out getting a cigarette and Beca and Ronan and I are on the dancefloor, I notice a striking young man who at first I decide is far too attractive for me. This person will never notice me, but as he catches my eye I smile anyway and he smiles back and continues dancing with his hags.

Still finding this guy rather attractive, I smile at him again and he smiled back prolonged and we start dancing together. Unfortunately the song isn't too good but we both seem resolved to presevere and I think he fancies me which is just as well cos I think he's hot and I decide I probably wouldn't mind taking him home one bit. I consider for a moment that he's probably got some great body and guys with great bodies don't care much for guys with very average, boring bodies, but I don't let this insecurity show and a much better song comes on which is just as well. He's not a great dancer as far as I can tell but it's ok because in that is the encoded message that he's a fairly reserved, straight-acting guy who's not going to embarass me when he inadvertently meets my staircase buddies or want to overstay the morning lie-in time if he does inevitably (or so I thoguht) come home with me. And yeah, he's hot, and I'm chuffed that as far as I can tell someone I think is attractive seems to be into me for once and it's the only time that gay clubbing isn't an absolutely abysmal failure for me.

Except it is, because he grabs my shoulder and says in my ear in a sexy, manly voice that he'll be right back and those are the only words I have ever heard him utter. Later, he returns with his hags, and I dance nearby him again to get his attention but it seems as if his eyes are trying their best not to meet mine and he and his hags walk off after a song or two. I am instantly upset - not to the point where I want to cry, but only because he is symbolic not of one guy or one shag but every guy who I rightfully am otherwise too afraid to go over to because they will not fancy me and they will not want me and they will only reject me and leave me alone, on my own, while everyone vaguely attractive couples off. I rub my eyelids as if to soothe a coming headache and then I'm a bit better and dance with extra enthusiasm as if to say "Fuck him" but it really gets to me because I really did want to fuck him.

I spend about an hour telling Luke how hideous I feel I am because no one wants me at any club, not here nor in Brighton nor presumably any city in the world. All the uglies are macking and it's sickening and I'm not getting with ANYONE which means I'm uglier than them and I stop to despair at how many complete strangers I must sicken purely by existing in their vicinity. How much kinder they are than me because they never seem to tell me how they really feel about me. I contemplate going to Bridge and picking up some braindead Oxford Brookes girl because even though I'm not horny I feel lack of sex actually chilling my veins. I have ice blood from lack of sex. I have also been (officially) single since January and "more or less" single (not seeing anyone) since like June. I also contemplate becoming a Roman Catholic priest and letting my stifled eroticism come out in poetry about Jesus. Who woudn't like to infer the act of fellatio to the messiah? I wonder if I'd have been happy if I was intellectually starved back home with more willing, forward guys but then I remember I was just as despondent on the club scene there as I am here.

Doug and Costas mention going clubbing in London on Saturday and while it originally sounded like such a great idea, I'm no longer too sure because I realise how gay clubbing and I do not get along and by 2am I always feel like I want to die. My standards are too high - higher than me - and the guys I go for always go for guys even better looking than they are which means my only option is to go for guys uglier than me, which I'm not sure exist and if they do I'm not certain I am guaranteed action there. Nor do I want it. Sex is only really good when it's someone I really care about or someone I am attracted to on an extreme level. Half-measures suck. Sorry, imaginary Brookes person. Sorry, Jesus. In the end, I give a strong maybe and odds are I will go to Heaven or Soho or wherever with the intention of a good night but end up asleep on the streets of London till an early train, probably actually crying.

I get home at 3am and write a blog in which I can't be assed to change anybody's names. I'm not sure how to make Facebook recognise the publication of my blogs but I'll figure it out. I wonder if I should allude to the night's other subplot: the guy with the mixed signals. Well basically, I don't know what to think. Do I interpret certain words as flirting, or certain actions? I can't be more explicit in a blog... but I wish he'd more explicit with his words. Or, with his nudity. I'll settle.

Thanks for reading my extra-gay, extra-uncensored edition of Liam's depressed rantings. I don't normally write so unambiguously about my motives. It's kind of Brat Packy. The novelists, not the actors. Although, Molly Ringwald...

Only Ever Me

Whenever I'm... somewhat innebriated, as I may be in writing this, it is clear that I'm the only one. That is to say, I can never be part of a group drinking experience. I'm either the sober one - the designated driver, perse (more accurately, the guy who gets everyone back to the Brighton station before the last train departs), or in fact the roaring, embarassment of a drunk. When you're drunk, every look cast upon you is to some extent, a look of disdain. Gentle pity, or irreverent disregard? The underlying sentiment, in whichever case, is negative. I am a leper, a freak, a twat. I am, a drunk.

I'd rather be the drunk idiot than the sober guy, though. When I'm drunk, my sensitivity to the subtleties of human suggestion and interpersonal relations are heightened. My social autism is inhibited. I realise key points (as I will term them) about my place among large groups. The differences that make me (in polite terms) "unique" or in less forgiving but altother more precise ones, unwanted. The rugby guys sit there, with their physiques about them and the eyes of girls cast upon them, and embrace what is essentially working-class rowdiness under the auspices of middle-to-upper-class boisterousness. Or, snobbery. Get out of jail free. Pass go, do whatever you like.

I'm accutely aware of laughter. I mean to say, I know who is and who isn't laughing at me. Someone tells a joke. On the surface, it's about someone else entirely. However, my presence as the drunk guy has inspired them to think of this anecdote. They are, implicitly and unspokenly laughing at me. I cut a glare, but it is unseen. Except for when I, taking leave of my senses, commit an act which is horrifically (and always uniquely) embarassing, I am invisible. Invisibility. My super power. That, and supernatural gayness. I'll elaborate. Why is it that who I fuck (and not even exclusively, might this drunken me be so pedantic as to point out) is so important to defining my existence amongst peers? The faggot is the faggot is the faggot and must be treated as such. So say God, so say rugby, so say northerners, so say the French. Ooh, subtle.

Where was I? Oh, right. Drunken epiphany. Don't you love it? There's something so fantastic to be taken from the simple pleasure of knowing. Even when what you know, is that everyone, admit it or not, hates you.