Hi Guys,
What a week it has been. So, after last weekend Bank Holiday antics I have recovered quiet nicely thank you, although the fact that my ex-boyfriend otherwise known as Mr. Workaholic keeps plaguing my thoughts. I mean seriously. GET OUT OF MY HEAD! I suppose it all started with a weird dream I had about a week ago including him and Miss Tweedle-Dee, but strangely no Miss Tweedle-Dumb. Unable to wake from such nightmarish slumber I was forced to relive the last scenes of our relationship in dream-state, full-blown hysterics included. But since then Mr. Workaholic seems not to have left and is there in my mind, constantly reminding me of the good times. I'm glad my conscience takes over and reminds me of the bad times though. But amongst the raging battle inside my head I try to reason with myself. Yes Mr. Workaholic was a brilliant lover, the best maybe, indulging in all manner of fantasy and wild exploits - but you have to remember that this was also the same person that left you screaming and begging in absolute turmoil as he drove away, leaving you in the home you used to share. Upon this boiling pot of emotion and memories I am able to pluck out a good tale for you all. Now I warn you it is a tad odd, especially for a man just out of a long-term relationship, but rest assured it is truth and is something I would like to share with you all, something I have wanted to pollute your minds with for a while ...
It was a warm summer morning when I stepped off the plane from Dublin after visiting family in Southern Ireland following the split. I had a lot of time to think it out and come to the conclusion that this was it. Since everyone I knew was working I had no-one to pick me up from the airport and take me home. All but one. I had no choice but to call Mr. Workaholic and ask him to help. Of course he obliged and picked me up, probably out of guilt that he had caused this all but regardless when I saw his girlie white car pull up to where I was standing outside the terminal I couldn't help but think that things might just go back to normal and we could make it work. After what I was about to hear nothing could be further from that statement. I attempted making small talk and avoiding eye contact with him for a good few miles down the motorway until Mr. Workaholic asked how my trip had been. I replied honestly and described it as one of the worst experiences of my life, working out how I was going to function without him. I was courteous though and returned the question, feeling anxious and not wanting to talk about myself for once. Starting normally, Mr. Workaholic stated that he had gone away for a few days to clear his head and visit his sister in the North-East of England. Watching the world whizz by on the M1 and struggling not to throw up in his presence, Mr. Workaholic told me he had gone out and had a few too many drinks. But my heart nearly stopped when he told me that he had hooked-up with someone. As Mr. Workaholic began the gut-wrenching tale I felt myself crumble inside, the car spinning and my head once clear now drowning, flooded with pictures and thoughts. He asked me if he should continue or if I needed fresh air. Stupidly or not I decided that I needed to hear this and that it would do me good, maybe even help me to move on. And so he resumed.
After some heavy pre-drinking at their hotel to lift Mr. Workaholic's mood (As if his mood needed lifting any further up his arse), his sister and their cousin went to a club and were continuing to drink when a young man came over and struck up a friendly conversation. As the night wore on, Mr. Workaholic needed the loo and so left in search of the 'little boys room'. Once there he relived himself and turned to leave, however, so intoxicated was my Ex that he was approached by another male whom started sizing him up. Now for any normal person you would think this wasn't unusual - You know, two men squaring up in the bathroom alcohol, women, ego's and possibly drugs involved it could get messy. But oh-no, this wasn't any old bathroom. This was a bathroom situated in a busy part of the city centres Soho district. A place where Mr. Workaholic wouldn't usually attend. His sister and cousin are both Homosexual's and Mr. Workaholic was in a bathroom of a very busy and well-known gay nightclub. Swaying from side to side, Mr. Workaholic was offered oral sex by the stranger he had bumped into. Mr. Workaholic accepted. The strange man got onto his knees, unzipped my Ex's jeans and placed him into his mouth.
As we flew past a service station Mr. Workaholic recoils as he remembers how the stranger's bristly beard brushed his private parts whilst his member continued to stay soft. "Your not getting hard, are you not turned on?" the knelt man asked looking up holding the still limp extension. Not saying a word Mr. Workaholic adjusted himself and walked away, leaving his dignity and his self-respect behind. A few hours later after kissing a few women, and men, Mr. Workaholic was drinking at an empty table whilst his sister and their cousin hit the dance floor. Another young man approached the lone Mr. Workaholic and asked if they could be friends. Being naive he befriended the party goer and before long more alcohol was consumed and a seedy friendship formed. By this point apparently a fight had broken out between his cousin, his sister, his sister's girlfriend and her girlfriend's ex-partner back at the hotel. Shattered, Mr. Workaholic took the invitation from his new found 'friend' to spend the night before heading back to the hotel in the morning when everything had calmed down. And so as the sun rose over Northumberland, Mr. Workaholic left, to a flat in a part of the city he didn't know, with a man he had only just met. Classy. Upon arriving at his 'friends' address, my Ex was encouraged to undress and share his bed. Consumed by fatigue and intoxicated as he was it happened and before long Mr. Workaholic was fast asleep.
Pulling off the motorway I was hoping that one day, Mr. Workaholic would get a rude awakening for the way he treated me. Little did I know that the story was not yet finished. Moments after slipping into a deep sleep, Mr. Workaholic was roused in a way many females are accustom too. Only this was a man. A 'friend'. And this 'friend' was now poking Mr. Workaholic in the lower back with something hard and moist. Realising what this was, my Ex, not being freaked out or disgusted at all simply rolled over and said to his 'friend' that he was not gay and did not want to have sex with him. Reluctantly the 'friend' stopped pursuing Mr. Workaholic and shortly they were both asleep again like nothing ever happened. But it wasn't long before long though that there was a loud knock on the door of the apartment, although no-one heard until it was too late. Suddenly the bedroom door flew open, and with this Mr. Workaholic jumped out of bed, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. "What the fuck are you doing in bed with my boyfriend!" Shouted the large, muscular man fizzing with anger at the rumpled sheets and a nearly naked man accompanying his partner in bed. The frightened boy that was the love of my life ran to the bathroom and locked the door. As Mr. Workaholic's hangover crept in, he searched the bathroom for a way out, but all in vain. Spotting some cash on the sink and grabbing his clothes Mr. Workaholic made a dash for the door, using the stolen cash to pay for a cab back to the hotel.
As we arrived at the beautiful terraced house we used to share he asked how I was. What could I say? For once I was speechless, only able to mutter something about how disgusted I was and how sick he makes me feel. For some odd moment I started to laugh. Almost uncontrollably. Crying tears of amusement, grief and shame. Pulling myself together I got out of the car, only to see a large green and yellow 'TO LET' sign next to our once happy home. I stood there. Shocked. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked quietly. "I didn't want to upset you." was the pitiful response from Mr. Workaholic. Unlocking the door and walking into the house I barely recognised it. Mr. Workaholic continued to explain that his cousin whose girlfriend was pregnant at the time was moving into a new home and needed some stuff so he had sold it to him. Our sofa, stuffed with memories watching TV, making love and cuddling. Our side-dresser that Mr. Workaholic's mother had given us as a moving in gift that I loved and he loathed. Gone. Upstairs our beautiful iron-posted bed had disappeared, the very bed we first slept together in and the one where our story together began. Our second, smaller bed in the spare-room was also amiss, as was the dining table and chairs. Our whole lives were just gone. No warning. No preparation. Just gone. After dropping my luggage indoors I begged him to stay and not leave me alone in the house for fear of my 'dark-cloud' returning. He didn't. He left. Mr. Workaholic just kissed me on the head (inappropriate as it was) and left.
That night was my lowest, but I am proud to say that the 'dark-cloud' has left now, and gladly has not been back since. I am in a much better place, with friends and family around me. I have come a long way from the girl crawled up in a ball reading and watching television as an escape from a reality she wasn't ready to face. I am stronger now. Stronger than never before. But one day he'll realise, yes, Mr. Workaholic will realise that I was the best thing he ever had ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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