The One

Warning: This story ends in heartbreak. If you’ve just come out of a break-up, save this for another day. Or do read it and you can tell me your story and we can cry together.  If you’re falling in love, stop reading now, I’ll only depress you and you’ll have your turn soon enough. And if you’re single and alone, this’ll show you why you’re better off that way.

“I don’t mean to beat around the bush, but I really wanna beat your bush.”

That’s how I made it shift. From friendship to something else. I smsed her the above on a drunken night out with my buddies. They coaxed me into doing it once I blurted out accidentally that I was falling for my new 18-year-old-take-me-under-your-wing friend. 

I was falling hard. She was bright, mature, sensitive, spiritual, and exquisite … and she still wore a school uniform – number uno on my fetish to-do list. 

I sat waiting for her reply. It came only ten minutes later but it felt more like the “ten minutes” it takes to get a bikini wax. Her reply was mixed with surprise, curiosity and shock. 

A rally of playful messages ensued. It ended with me saying, “Sit on my face.” She replied: “You wish.” Game. Set. And Match. 

I invited her over to my place for an L Word marathon because she hadn’t watched more than like two episodes. Poor thing. I had to educate her. 15 hours of lesbians on TV, this gorgeous incredible girl and myself …..oh, and Fluffy. 

Fluffy made sure that everything went terribly wrong. 

I tried to find every excuse under the sun just to get close to her or to touch her, like: “Here, you look uncomfortable, let me fix your pillow”. When I reached over to pull up the pillow, fluffy was watching The One’s chest and I smashed over a china teacup with the pillow instead. 

When she took off her shoes to get comfortable, she was wearing her brown school socks. I said sarcastically: “Nice socks” but then five minutes later Fluffy was staring at them.

“What?” asked The One, confused with that innocent façade look sparkling in her lime eyes. She’s certainly no innocent, but I love how she likes pretending to be.

“Can I eat your sock?” replied Fluffy still staring at her feet. 

“Er… Sure.” She answered, laughing uneasily. 

Astrid stepped in and explained: “I have no idea where that came from, ignore that. I honestly don’t know what gets into me. This is why I’m bad with women.”

Fluffy didn’t stop there. Oh no. At 7am after an all-nighter, watching TV without a kiss or even a hint to show she felt what I felt (I never see the thick lustful tension as a give away. Unless a woman throws herself spread-eagled on my bed, I never know if she finds me attractive) I was frustrated and now desperate to channel my desires. 

So fluffy poked her tummy and told The One that her stomach felt like she was pregnant. What Fluffy had meant to say was that her stomach was firm. But god only knows why it came out that way.

When I took The One back to her place we play fought in the car. But Fluffy accidentally hit the lever on the side of The One’s seat and sent her flying into the dashboard. 

We stopped over at a McDonald’s drive-through to get some coffee and hot chocolate. And Fluffy spilt hot chocolate all over The One’s lap. 

And when it came time to saying good-bye, where there’s that awkward moment right before the first kiss, Fluffy fainted and I couldn’t kiss her. 

That evening I asked The One (over sms of course, where I’m more composed), how many hours we had spent together that night?

“Seventeen, I think.”

“In those seventeen hours, not a second went by where I didn’t want to kiss you,” I said. Fluffy was still unconscious, thank the heavens. 

I can’t describe to you the seven months after that. They were the best few months of my life. Right up until the day I left for London, we loved each other with fury, passion and intensity. It was like a dream. We were perfect. Sex was perfect and both Fluffy and Astrid were happy which, I have to tell you, does not happen often. She brought peace between them. Because she loved them both. And she saw more of Fluffy than anybody else in my life. Because I trusted her. 

And then I left. 

And we still loved. But people cope in different ways with long distance. The dream of us together was enough for me and I stayed loyal to her but, for The One, it was too hard. She was also in first year at Varsity and developing a reputation as the lesbian god of campus. And she liked it and slowly but surely, she forgot about me. Conversation got shorter and distance in her voice lengthened and the number of girls she was putting under her belt (literally and figuratively) was growing rapidly. 

And then one day she did it. She gave me an ultimatum: either I came home in December or we would break up completely. I reasoned. She settled for April. Then two weeks later she ended it anyway. She was icy, disconnected, and her words shattered me into nothing.

“I never stopped loving you, I just stopped thinking about you. I don’t even know what you look like anymore . . . I don’t care what you do with the ring I gave you . . . you’re too high maintenance . . . It’s over. Stop crying. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Fucking knives, I tell you!!!

And there’s plenty more to be depressed about. I had booked a holiday for us in December. I’m going home especially for her and our holiday to Cape Town. I’ve booked her ticket and everything.

Why did I come to London? I’ve lost something special. I’ll never find someone like her again. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing at this computer with shitting rain outside? 

It’s been five days and I haven’t got out of bed. I’m still wearing my white sweater from last week. I stink. I’m unemployed. I’m alone and empty. 

But today I’m going to look for a job and reply to these other women on facebook. It’s a start. 

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Read more about Astrid and Fluffy.