Obviously, Morag is not her real name. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine that Morag is anyone’s real name. But apparently it is.
Scottish people can be so cruel.
This was Morag’s opener:
‘I’ve read your blog from start to finish and I think you should probably come to Brighton and bugger me.’
That was my initial thought.
Blogging is by far the best thing that ever happened to me.
She went on:
‘I think we have a lot on common. You’re bright and funny and can write well; I’m bright and funny (and modest) and can write well. You’ve got a very large penis, or so you claim; I’ve got a very large vagina, or so my ex who shall remain nameless claims. You have a weight problem and physical appearance issues; I – according to my ex who shall remain nameless – would also benefit from dropping a few pounds and having a couple of moles removed. You’re looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with; I’m looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with. You see? It’s almost like it’s in the stars.’
I had to agree. It was eerie. It was like Derren Brown was sharing our virtual space, squatting on our fat pipe with both of our names written on a playing card in his back pocket. But I had my reservations. It wasn’t just the fact that a complete stranger was approaching me and asking me to do her up the bum. It was also the fact that she kept mentioning her ex. Nameless or not, it sounded ominous. Like there were still feelings.
But of course I emailed back. And before long we were chatting on IM.
This was about three weeks ago now.
At the beginning of last week, we had this exchange.
Morag: So what about Wednesday? Is there a tiny window in your busy programme of self-abuse?
Morag: What’s that? Dot dot dot. What are you trying to say with that?
Scat: Touché. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared.
Morag: Oh come on. Ya big Jessie. Where’s your sense of adventure?
Scat: It’s in my head, Morag. It’s in a tiny little box in the back of my head.
Morag: Then it’s time you opened the box, Scatmuncher. Because life is short.
She was right of course. We had been talking late into the night every night for over a week. We got on really well. It was time to meet up. The fact that we still hadn’t seen each other’s face was, as Morag put it, ‘all part of the adventure’. Even when I offered to swap photos, she refused. She said that if either of us was repulsed, then we could just have a drink or two and call it a night. Or we could become friends. You can never have too many friends, she said.
By the time we got round to meeting, I already knew quite a lot about Morag. I knew some basic biographical stuff, like this:
- She is Scottish, born in Glasgow.
- She is 26.
- She loves film and works for a cinema. Bad Lieutenant is her favourite movie of all time.
- Her parents are separated. Her father lives in Edinburgh with a new wife and three new sons. She gets on with them OK, but doesn’t really have much in common with them.
- She doesn’t get on with her mother however. Her mother is a writer. She lives in London and writes historical novels, apparently with a fair degree of success.
- She is allergic to cats. (Morag, that is. Not her mother.)
- She loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez and has a thing about Magic Realism. I barely know what Magic Realism is. That’s not really about Morag however. That is about me.
Also, I knew this, specialist information, reprinted with permission:
Scat: So. Did you have any pets as a child?
Morag: Yes. I had four guinea pigs and a dog.
Scat: What were their names, please?
Morag: The guinea pigs were called Edmund, Baldrick, Percy and Lord Melchett. The dog was called The Dark Lord Tiberius.
Scat: Nice names.
Scat: When you were shouting for the dog to stop chasing squirrels or stop humping the vicar’s leg or whatever, did you say. ‘The Dark Lord Tiberius! Stop that at once!’
Morag: He didn’t chase squirrels. Squirrels were beneath him. He did hump the vicar’s leg though. But we never tried to stop him. To answer your question however, no. We called him ‘Tibs’.
Scat: Awww… Do you have any recurring dreams?
Morag: Um… apart from the usual stuff about going to school with my muff out…
Scat: Your capacious muff.
Morag: Hush now. I dream a lot about my ex-boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. He fucked me over in lots and lots of ways and sadly, horribly, he has burrowed his way into my subconscious, where he will probably forever bubble to the surface in all of my worst nightmares.
Scat: I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your favourite flavour ice cream?
Morag: Rum and raisin.
Scat: What do you think of bats?
Morag: You’ve asked me that already. Don’t you listen? They’re alright. Nothing to write home about. I like vampires though. Vampires are sexy.
Scat: What’s the most valuable thing you’ve ever stolen?
Morag: Um… honestly, probably a car. I went through a troublesome phase in my teens. I didn’t keep it though. I just drove it around for a bit then left it in a park. Actually, I stole a bus too. That’s probably more expensive than a car.
Scat: You stole a bus?
Morag: Just a single decker.
Scat: Ah, OK. What’s the most unusual object you’ve ever had inside of you?
Morag: That is a freaky, borderline scary question.
Scat: I’ve got to press you for an answer.
Morag: Um… let me think. It depends on your definition of unusual really.
Scat: I’m happy to go with your definition.
Morag: OK. Probably a bible.
Morag: No, just kidding. I did once and for the briefest of periods have an action man doll pretty much all the way inside of me, so that just his boots were peeping out.
Morag: Impressive huh?
Morag: Fuck off.
Scat: So. Do you believe in God?
Morag: God is Harvey Keitel.
Scat: Oh, OK. Thank God for that.
Morag: Thank Harvey.
Scat: Thanks, Harvey. Have you ever had a threesome?
Scat: Hmm is not an answer.
Morag: Alright then, no.
Scat: You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
Morag: But I have had a couple of foursomes.
Scat: Oh my.
Scat: Oh me oh my.
Morag: I know, I know.
Scat: I’m simultaneously aroused and frightened.
Morag: That seems like a reasonable response. Ya big Jessie.
Scat: Thank you. We will talk about this in more detail at a future date. In the meantime, and finally, what’s the most important thing in the world?
Morag: The most important thing in the world is Love.
Scat: Aaaaaaah. Thank you, Morag.
Morag: No, thank you. And I hope I’ve passed the audition.
Then, last Wednesday, we met.
And for a short while, it was everything.
The worst thing about… well, about life I guess, is disappointment. Actually, no. Cancer is worse. But disappointment is up there. I hate disappointment. It’s tough, and it’s hard to bear.
So when I met Morag in Brighton, at the train station, and she curtseyed and shook my hand and kissed my cheek, I was happy. I was not disappointed.
And when a couple of drinks into our evening, I asked her if I could kiss her and she said yes, and then we kissed, I was happy. I was not disappointed.
And then when we proceeded to get a little bit drunk and to fumble our way into Morag’s bed together, and then when we made love as best we could with our lack of knowledge about each other’s bodies and the things which give us pleasure, I was happy. I was not disappointed.
But then, some time around 1 am, when Morag told me that she really liked me but didn’t think that what we had on our hands was a long term relationship, I was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that I had a little cry.
The next morning we went for a walk on the beach and we talked about things. We kept it light. I came back to London that afternoon feeling elated and deflated in equal measure. I was still disappointed, but I regretted nothing.
The next night we spoke on IM and Morag said to me, ‘What do you think of fuck buddies, as a concept?’
I had to say that as a concept, I thought it was potentially a predominantly good one. I said so.
‘Good,’ said Morag. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’
So now I guess that the difference between ‘being in a long term relationship’ and ‘being fuck buddies’ is the level of emotional investment, or at least the level of spoken emotional investment.
I have to say, there is something in me – something slightly old-fashioned perhaps – that balks at the idea and feels that it's a kind of failure, a kind of settling for second best. And I don't like that. I don't think it shows either of us in a particularly complimentary light. But there is something else in me – something slightly desperate perhaps - that craves consensual physical contact under any circumstances, and that part of me shrugs, says ‘Fuck it’, and dives in. Like an action man. Till just my boots are peeping out.
So there we have it.
I was looking for a love buddy. I found a fuck buddy. It’s not ideal, but my God, it’ll fucking do.