I love boys. I love their energy, their excitability. I love their toys. I love their boy bits. I love playing with both. Toned, defined, muscly bits of boy will forever be a source of aesthetic (and manual) appreciation. I even, upon occasion, love the mind of a boy. But all things Boy fail miserably when up against a Man. Homoerotic fantasies notwithstanding, in this instance a man is simply that breathtaking creature that makes a lesser man feel so much more the boy when in Man’s presence.

The other day I received the following text: “What are you up to tonight?” As I had come to the conclusion that some boys just aren’t good for us, or more truthfully, “Woohoo, contact means he’s most definitely into me, can no longer deny his feelings, and can’t wait to see me again,” I decided it was best to make the boy await my reply. Isn’t that what we were always told? – Making them wait makes them want us more. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Although, I’ve always been quite partial to the more realistic “Absence makes the heart go wander.”

Colour me a striking shade of cynic.

And so I hopped on the District Line, fully prepared to (eventually) respond with the news that I had already left work and was well on my way to a fantastic party in Blackfriars. It’s always a wonderful thing when the excuse; that our lives are far too full and fabulous to make time for the boys we secretly want notsosecretly wanting us back, is true. The fabulousness of the party was guaranteed. It was in honour of a sparkling gay birthday boy, which all but promises tequila hangovers, tantrums and tiaras. I feel it necessary to let you in on a little secret. All the men in my life are gay. My closet is full to overflowing with drama queens, leather queens, gossip queens and ickle pocket princesses. (Skinny little bitter queens in the making.) This is hardly hyperbole - Every man in my London life is gay. Which might better help you understand my fixation on the Military Boy who isn’t for me.

Military Boy, (affiliating this one with no particular branch as a girl can’t possibly give away all her secrets,) replied with the following: “I was texting you to meet me after work. I’m in London, and on the train behind you… Get off.” Not the most gentle of persuasions, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work. Hammersmith Station found me watching one train go by, then another, then another. Great, now the guy I’m supposed to not be able to care less about had become the source of the rise and fall of my anticipation and excitement.

Soon the “right” train pulled in with Military Boy’s face pushed up against the window. Don’t let his gleeful, excitable puppy-like, jumping all over me fool you, this boy was far from a spring chicken… and didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.

The conversation flowed. I was looking just the right side of sexy and he was sporting a suit, something these eyes had yet to behold. Suffice it to say we both passed that “Whatever you do, look stunning when you randomly bump into your crush” test. Although something tells me he felt he was looking a little TOO good. That was, until Gorgeous Man stepped into our car. This man was the physical embodiment of YUM. (And I just so happen to have a very deep and profound appreciation for all that which is yummy looking.) Military Boy and I were both awestruck at Gorgeous Man’s presence. I was still mouth agape when Military Boy leaned in and whispered, “He’s one of mine.” (In the Military. Not gay. Keep up.) He then realized just how taken I was with this stunning interloper. I could barely utter the word “Wow” when Military Boy gave me a tap and a “What are you like?!” Was this, jealousy I was witnessing? Could Military Boy possible be… and he was. Of course, this tall, sculpted, suited and booted, MUCH younger vision of loveliness was Military Boy… done better. Alas, the man who could have quite possibly fathered my future beautiful babies left us at Westminster.

I was left with a gibbering Military Boy, feebly attempting to joke off Gorgeous Guy’s perfection, while I sat there on the District Line watching as a Military Boy’s playful charm quickly faded when brought up to light against a real man.

It was my stop.

I guess it was the loss of confidence that lead to my loss of interest that night. Don’t get me wrong, Boys, military or otherwise, are indeed fun to play with. But I’ll take a strong, steady, stunning Man any day.

I’m still waiting for the flowers.

I mean, I never expected breakfast, and I had lunch plans anyway, but surely… flowers weren’t too much to ask for. After all, it’s not like I even asked for them. They were offered – practically promised. In light of the evening we’d just shared, a girl should expect nothing less.

Picture it ladies, you’ve got that fresh out of bed, dishevelled look that all but invites your man back into bed with you. Only you don’t have a man. This stunning dark-haired lovely standing in your doorway isn’t yours… yet. He’s tall. We like tall. The street lamp catches a definite sparkle in his mischievous, yet sincere, eyes. And when he opens his mouth to apologize, a lovely Irish lilt escapes the lips that you’re almost certain are begging to be kissed by you. Tall, dark and Dublin. Just the way I like ‘em.

Have you ever awoken at 4am from a dream of your home being broken into? I have. Still in dream state, my eyes barely open, I awoke to see ― through the French doors that lead to the private garden outside my bedroom ― two dark figures. The only other way into the garden is through my flatmate’s room, but she’s on the Isle of Wight this week. Discarding the “I’m imagining things” impulse… I stepped closer, pressing my face up against the thin sheet of glass that separated me from them. I’m all alone and there are two men breaking into my flat.

“You’re going to want to get out of my yard!” I belted, rather authoritatively.

This resulted in convincing frightened cat impressions from the two of them, as they sprung backwards, two feet in the air. Not far enough for my liking. What then ensued was the most blundering of apologies and drunken backstory. It soon became evident that these boys were but drunken visitors to the brother of girl who does indeed live one floor above me. Just as I was listening to the two bungling would-be criminals discuss roof slants and tiles amidst colourful expletives, my doorbell rang.

Enter Tall, Dark and Dublin. At my front door stood the type of man women dream of magically showing up on our doorsteps. He smiled a winning (and pleading smile).

“Please don’t call the police. My friends are idiots.”

We were in agreement. I wouldn’t call the police, but I would let this silver-tongued, crisp shirted, tasty looking boy apologize to me a little longer. After all, the more we spoke, the greater his chance of looking passed my baggy unmatching men’s pajamas and envision the physical perfection my “Hot Chihuahua” pjs enveloped. (Yes, I’m afraid it’s a definite that when a gorgeous man unexpectedly walks into your life in the middle of the night, you will be wearing your most unattractive nightie.) After clearly coveting my every curve and longing to run his hands through my silken, dark, glorious (bedhead) hair, this dark stranger would soon find himself no longer able to make excuses for his trusty sidekicks and instead turn his focus to making amends with me. Clearly he’d startled this damsel out of her (hardly needed) beauty sleep. A gentleman could do no less than make the following promise:

“I owe you breakfast. Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

As desperate as I’d know I’d be to see this welcome intruder in a few hours time, I knew there was no way these guys would be awake for breakfast. And if he was sober, he’d know it too.

“Flowers then. I have to get you flowers. Thank you for… being the kind of woman every man goes to bed longing for”… is what he said in my head. His actual thanks was for “being so great” or something equally lame. With that, we said our good nights.

It’s been two days now.


I’m still waiting for the flowers...

I could have inserted Helen and BekBek in lieu of Laziness and Procrastination, but we all know I’m the spring chicken in this terrible twosome so the question hardly leaves one to ponder. Unless of course, you start questioning which of us lead the race in failing to commence the pursuit of our potential. Are we actually all that bright, or can we continue to fool the world with caustic wit and profound insight without ever having to prove otherwise? We’re colourful characters in this universe. If this isn’t enough, can we not simply argue “Tough Titties!”?

Only those that know me will raise an eyebrow (and a swift backhander) when I sell myself as lazy, so I’m hardly offending the masses when so doing. That said, in bringing my friend down with me, you may very well question my quality of character and the nobility of my friendship. The fact is, I believe it is in recognizing our friends’ quirks, flaws and curious ways, and loving them all the same, that one builds a true friendship. Occasionally though, we can’t let our friends get away with allowing themselves to believe they’re meant to make certain mistakes. We won’t let one another lose sight of who we truly are.

This is what my mates and I delight in referring to as: “Calling each other on our shit”. This is that magical moment we’ve all experienced when we’ve got a better handle on our friends then they do during a particular moment of self delusion, and we’ve got no problem telling them so. We intervene in moments of nutty boy ponderings. After the hundred and twentieth excuse your friend comes up with for why “he didn’t call” you get her to snap out of it. When she says she’s not obsessing, you have shoe polish on standby. You’re also not going to let a good friend get away with giving up on herself. When you recognize that wickedly intelligent, refreshingly witty, unfathomably creative friend of yours is settling for less than she’s supposed to be doing in this world you get your boot ready.

As human beings, we’re programmed to seek the greatest reward for minimal effort. If we can get away with less stress, less late nights at work, less exercise, less putting in the effort and still receive all the kudos, promotions, fitness and accolades, then that’s just what we do. We do what we enjoy. The rest is work.

And so, when your best mate makes a choice you can’t back, you need to find a way to continue supporting that friend without supporting their decision. Easier said than done. That friendship then becomes work. And there’s nothing wrong with work – when you’re not lazy.

That’s me. Laziness personified. Perhaps I haven’t discovered my muse. Maybe I just need to be inspired. More honestly, I just need a kick up the arse. And a good friend will do that to you, for you even. What I need, is someone to keep me from clinging to the security blanket of laziness, an equally clever and imaginative mischief maker to prompt my inner scribe.

BekBek is that friend. Together, we’ll be bringing you our thoughts on life in the Sunshine State, The Big Smoke, personal beefs, boys, boobs and otherwise. And whilst we’re arguably a couple of tough chicks, I assure you all things breast related remain as soft, supple and delightfully bouncy as ever.