As it currently stands, the most prominent love in my life is a branded marriage of plastic and circuitry.
And by that, I mean my new tablet. Not a roboticized sex doll or something weird like that. Because that’s a thing now. Did you know that?
I didn’t, until I looked it up just now for the sake of a joke I was going to make and it derailed my post.
One company is working on a sex-robot with a programmable personality that you can trade with your friends if you’re particularly proud of it (the programme, not the sex doll). Another claims that after purchasing their doll (£4000) you’ll never want a real girlfriend again!
God, it’s horrific. But, if anything, has cheered me up somewhat.
Anyway, as I said, what I was originally alluding to was my new tablet. It’s an early birthday present, and it works like a dream. Even WordPress seems better on it. It just makes everything better. Except my love life, which is in fact the reasoning for this post.
Some time ago, me and one of my housemates were walking home after a night in the club, and he began informing me of a tryst he had had with a girl we know. Although I would forget this in my drunken haze until a flashback at a later date, I congratulated him. It was somewhat obvious that he had had feelings for her, and I was happy to hear that he had secretly made his move. Nothing came of it in the end, but that’s not the point.
More recently, another housemate, who was previously my pick for most likely to come out as asexual, hit it off with a girl in film society. We were all impressed with how well they clicked, and when he returned from his Christmas holiday, it was clear that they had begun some sort of relationship. Rightly so, he refused to divulge any details to us, not that I myself asked, but still.
I found his relationship especially amusing because in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I remember several occassions where me and him sat in the twin couches that occupy our living room and joked about how in our final year, all of our interactions with other people had been in decline, and as such, this trend would lead to us dying alone. “Ohhh” we’d sigh jokingly, in as depressing a tone as we could muster. But although we were joking, my mind would always wander back onto the subject of my love life, or lack thereof.
Each time we jested back and forth, it would again remind me of the various people who would periodically ask me what was new in my world of romance. “Nothing”, I’d always chuckle, and normally that would be the end of it. But more recently, one began to enquire further. She asked me why. I thought about it quickly, and responded that whenever the opportunity presented itself, I would always be too drunk to do anything. I realised immediately that this was definitely the wrong choice of words, as she empathetically gave a questioning gesture hinting at erectile dysfunction; her hand immitating a penis struggling to get erect.
I quelled her suggestion with a story relayed to me by a housemate:
We were at the club, joking around about stupid dancing. I demonstrated one such move, waving my arms about in a ludicrous fashion, and accidentally knocking a drink out of a girls hand. I turned and apologised, offering to buy her a new drink and escorted her to the bar.
From the edge of the dance floor my housemate watched, intrigued, as he later explained that me and this mystery girl were really hitting it off. From his perch at the side of the dance floor, he watched her gesture for me to join her to dance, to which I made some indication that I would be right there, before returning to my friends. Confused, he demanded to know what I was doing, and exclaimed that he would help reunite me with this girl if I was willing. I was, and so he led me down the stairs that he had seen her and her friends depart. Finally, he laid eyes on her, and pointed me in her direction. I stared for a moment, before turning back to him and simply saying “Nah mate, that ain’t her”, before wandering off, completely oblivious to what she looked like, where I was going, or what a mess I was.
As I reitterated to my inquisitive friend; performance wasn’t my issue, so much as drunken idiocy. To this, she responded with her own tale about me and one of her friends. This one I did remember, and wasn’t so much my fault as I had briefly left the group to say goodbye to some friends who were departing to America for the year. Upon returning to where I had left the girls, I found they had disappeared into the club, having thought I had simply abandonned them for the night. These two tales told in quick succession reminded me of several other times where alcohol had denied me romance.
“We just need to stop looking for love and that’s when we’ll find it”, my friend told both me and herself. I chuckled and went to get another drink. Story of my life, that last bit.
Returning now to the present day, I found myself once more in the aforementioned couch conversation. It was now me and the first-mentioned housemate making the same jokes as the one who’d found himself a lady. The depression-filled moans returned, as he asked me where the other half of our quartet was, and I responded that they were both on dates.
And then it hit me; out of the four of us, I’m the only one who hasn’t gone on a date in the past year. The situation is even bleaker than I had feared for these past few months.
But low and behold, as I come to conclude my tale of love and woe, a reply on Tinder doth appear from someone I contacted earlier. Is this the end of the loveless abyss I find myself struggling to be free of?
Taking bets on how quickly I can kill our conversation.