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Wednesday, November 15, 2006


“Hey [my real name], how’s it going? Wat u up to?”

The text was from a number I didn’t recognise. I hit reply:

“Who is this? I don’t have your number in my phone book…”

He texted straight back. “It’s ‘A’. Long time… How u bin?”

A blast from the past. I’ve been getting a lot of those recently: hearing from people I haven’t spoken with for years; people I haven’t seen since I was at school. None of them randomly contacting me; all of them know one way or another.

With strangers (and press) calling me, my modus operandi now is to ignore a call if I don’t recognise the number on my phone, so that I can then prepare a suitable response after listening to my voicemail - I’ve been in this self-protective-mode for months... A friend recently recommended I also add the letters ‘DNA’ - ‘Do Not Answer’ - in my phonebook to the numbers of people I don’t wish to speak with: a good idea I think, though really there’s only very few that applies to (A being one of them).

This was, after all, the man who when his orgasm was achieved, would stand up, put his clothes on, and tell me he had to leave. When I pointed out that I was pre-orgasmic, and needed some relief, he responded with,

“I’m sure you can sort yourself out.”

Well yes, of course I can, multiple times over, but that’s not the fucking point, is it? I spent many a night frustrated – in every sense – when A and I were seeing each other. I have no idea why I fucked him so many times when it was always so unsatisfying; possibly because I was at a low point in my life and thus behaving somewhat masochistically - I still haven’t figured it out.

It was too late for regret. I berated myself for having deleted A’s number some time ago; I would have to reply to him now. But I paused before sending the text: Did he know? I dreaded finding out, as I have done each time an ex-lover has been in contact with me over the last three months. I waited a few minutes, deciding on an appropriate response and then texted back.

“Hi A. Long time no speak. Things are good – very busy, but all is well. How are you?”

My phone beeped instantly: he wasn’t wasting any time. “Good. What have u been busy doin?”

Besides retching from txt spk, you mean? I replied, cautiously: “Working; was on a film, then writing, it’s all good. You?”

“Wat u writing?”

Gulp. “Just stuff; this and that, nothing special.”

“We should meet 4 a drink!”

Why? It’s not like there is much we can talk about if we did meet – it wasn’t exactly an intellectual connection which brought us together. Whilst I’d be more than happy to debate the Spine all evening, I imagine he’d assume I was moaning about my back if I did. Nor could we chat about the waste of resources in the movie industry, or the repression of women’s rights, or even whether ‘celebrity’ Myleene Klass will be making a statement against forced labour in textile workshops.

No, what we have in common – the only thing – was that we both liked to fuck. And fuck we did. But it wasn’t even that good: I certainly don’t want to go back for more. And if he does know about the book, I really don’t want to be grilled about it or whether he is in it: I get that on a daily basis already…

I sent him a polite text back declining his offer and he left it at that, much to my relief. But, such is the way my brain works, almost immediately I couldn’t help but think about his beautiful cock, and I was very tempted to use that image for some quick, short-lived ‘material’. Then I remembered how selfish he was, and went off to make a cup of tea instead, knowing that I would enjoy it far more than any of the sex we ever had.

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