Not Getting Lucky

Not Getting Lucky

Yeah, sometimes there will be posts on here that are more about present-day stuff than what happened decades ago, though the past informs the present and all that...

You won't have missed the news that some men feel their human rights are being outraged because no one wants to fuck them - and some of them are so outraged that they feel hatred and violence is completely justified. Despite the fact that the reason no one wants to fuck them is that they are bursting with entitlement, hatred and violence. Someone else came up with the perfect term to describe such men: unfuckable hate nerds. They are, basically, horrible, and they need to learn how to improve.

Everyone knows that it isn't nice to go without sex or be without a partner when you would like to have a relationship, or a kinky session, or even just the delicious giggly thrill that comes from having someone you find appealing do something that at least implies they rather like you, too. But sometimes you just don't 'get lucky.'

In all the years of club reviewing, I almost always went along to that night's club by myself. (There were suggestions, from time to time, that I take a photographer along, which I always refused to do; there were a few occasions when I either went with someone I was seeing or agreed to meet a squeeze-of-the-time at the venue.) If I was doing a club in London, there was a fair chance I would run into a few pals or acquaintances (or people I actually couldn't fucking stand, but that's a topic for other posts), but if it was one of my mystery tours outside the M25 I probably wouldn't know anyone at all. And sometimes a person who was both appealing and available would appear, and fun would ensue, and sometimes I'd just spend the night either wandering round and round the venue or making increasingly strained conversation with the promoter and the bar staff. No guarantees. Not ever.

Additional complications, mostly in London clubs, would happen if there was someone I really rather liked, who liked me well enough to talk to but was not interested in doing any kink or sex with me, and this would get extra-complicated if that someone was someone I saw repeatedly.

Unless you have been very lucky (if that's quite the right word) in that the first person you ever took a fancy to at the school disco was equally smitten with you and the two of you have spent the rest of your lives in blissful monogamy, you're likely to have experienced the misery and thwarted resentment of wanting someone who doesn't want you, or at least doesn't want you in the way you want them to. And this is a wretched state to be in. But, here's the thing, you get over it. If you're remotely worthwhile, you get over it without doing anything obnoxious to anyone else.

My usual method was getting pissed and blubbering in the toilets, sometimes followed by the writing of epically awful poetry when I get home. (No. I will not be sharing any of that on this blog. Don't panic.) Or the final option of the narked fiction writer - putting a version of that person into a story and either Mary-Sue-ing some sex with them, or letting their avatar get eaten by hamsters.