The Long, Dark Soap Opera of the Soul :: An Open Letter to a Friend

So, as you know, I started keeping this blog so that I could help force myself to pursue a healthy lifestyle and, somewhere along the way, find myself a lady. A lovely lady at that. One with silken skin and leathery skirts. Or vice versa. One who would make me giddy with adoration and fill my nether regions with hot blood and gristle. A lady to laugh with and love with, to have and to hold, to tickle and tether from this day forth, as long as we both shall live. Or at least for a couple of months, till the inevitable withering or betrayal.

Finding such a thing of course requires me opening my heart and telling my tales. It requires me sharing my intimates and spilling my beans. And my beans of course are smothered in the brightly coloured sauce of other people, other things. The occasional colleagues. The pets I’ve known and loved. The women I ogle on buses and the ones who give me hope in parks and online. And my family, I suppose. And my friends. Aaaaaaaaah yes, my friends.

I haven’t really got that many friends, and of those that I do have, only Keith is aware that this blog exists. (As far as I know.) Because I told him. Because I had to tell someone. But now, as of last night, I’m kind of regretting it. Because as of last night, I realise I want to talk about Keith. And not in a good way.

I’ve been struggling with this all day.

But if blogging is like therapy, which it definitely is, I can’t just lie here on this virtual couch staring out of the window or talking about America’s Next Top Model every week. There are things that need to be said. Even if they sting. So I may as well say them directly. And I know I may regret this. I may end up not even posting it. I don’t know. If you’re reading it, it’s probably safe to say I forced myself to click ‘publish’. I hope I don’t regret it…

Dear Keith

I’ve known you a very long time and you’re my oldest and dearest friend in all the world and I love you.

But.

I got a call from Patricia yesterday, your girlfriend of more than a year, the woman you love and want to marry, the woman whose children you have pledged to support and threatened to adopt. She was crying. She said that you’d betrayed her, that you’d slept with someone else on Friday night. She didn’t know the name of the woman you slept with, but of course I do. You slept with Ange.

I’m amazed. I’m disappointed. I’m shocked and hurt and totally bewildered. I don’t know how you could do this. I don't know how you could do this to Patricia. I really can’t get my head around the fact that you’ve gone and jeopardised the very thing you’ve always yearned for, that which you’ve described a million times as the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And for what?

Ange is great, don’t get me wrong. She’s a fabulous woman. She’s warm, witty and wonderful. But she’s hardly the most emotionally mature mental patient on the ward, is she? She said to me sometime last month: ‘I’m not a very good girlfriend. I’m a good fuck, but I’m not a good girlfriend.’ I replied that I thought that’s all most men wanted anyway, was a good fuck. She said: ‘Not the ones I meet. Nine out of ten times they fall for me. Or they think they do. And they want to go out with me. Or they want to take me home to meet their parents. I’m sure the fact that I don’t want any of that is what makes them think that they do… But I really don’t get off on being in a relationship. I like my independence. And I like my friends. And I don’t want kids. So what’s the point? I just happen to have a very high sex drive.’

I’m guessing that’s what swung it for you. The sex. I understand it’s a very powerful force. I hope it was worth it.

I could be wrong of course, and I’m sure I shouldn’t be writing all this without having heard your side of the story. But for now you’re not sharing; and I have to.

In a way I hope I am wrong. I hope Ange is the one for you. I hope you’ve fallen in love with her and you both make each other blissfully happy. But even if that turns out to be the case, you could have handled it a lot better. You didn’t have to hurt Patricia like this. She spent most of last night weeping into my arms, trying not to wake the kids with her sobs, wondering what she’d done wrong, what she'd done to deserve the pain she was in.

I can’t believe it.

I know I shouldn’t because it’s ludicrous, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty for bringing the two of you together. I keep thinking, if only I hadn’t got sick, or if only Ange hadn’t got sick before me, or if only I hadn’t got back in touch with Ange in December, or if only you weren’t such a selfish fucking short-sighted arsehole.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about you and Patricia; it’s about you and Ben and Dina; it’s about you and Ange. And neither you nor Ange are answering your phones tonight. Hopefully you’re round at Patricia’s and you’re going some way to starting to sort this out, one way or the other.

I’m sorry I’m writing this to you in a public forum and not in a private email. But I kind of lied when I said it’s not about me. It is also about me. And this is where I write about me and my life. And this ugly mess you’ve made is now part of my life.

I’m sorry I’m coming across all self-righteous too. Maybe if I had the opportunity, I’d be a treacherous son-of-a-bitch too, and maybe you’d be up here, poncing around on the moral highground, all holier than thou and smug as a Samaritan. Maybe. But I doubt it. You're not as self-righteous as I am. And I'm not as selfish as you are.

Most of all, I’m sorry this has happened. And I hope it can be resolved without too much more pain. I just don’t want to see the people I love hurting each other. I know, I know, me, me, me…

I’m sorry.

Good luck.

Love,


Stan.

In other news, someone pointed me at this dating site, OkCupid, which wipes the floor with loveandfriends. Just as soon as I have a moment, I’m going to beef up my profile and find that woman I’m after, the one with leathery skin and the jasmine-scented undergarments. And when I find her, I swear to God I'll treat her well and never ever be swayed by another woman's leather. Or jasmine. I swear.

Oh, crikey. It really is good. I just had someone message me!

I’m in!