I hear my neighbors fucking, almost every night. Some afternoons, too. I remember when that was me. Ah, those glorious days! They seem like fiction now; stories made up in the haze of depression and aloneness, to cope with the alienation of cold and gray Copenhagen.
“I don’t understand how you do it,” my friend Elyssa said, eating her eggs Benedict in Wonderland, this hippie coffee shop we were at. “How can you be with so many women? I couldn’t do the same. If I really like somebody, it’s really hard for me to let go. I can’t move on so easily.”
“Neither can I,” I replied, feeling a lump in my throat that I couldn’t wash down with my overpriced cappuccino. “But I do it because I always wanna meet the next one, and the next one after that. But I never move on, really. I fall in love a bit with each of them, and they take a piece of me when they leave. And they always leave.”
“That must be tough.”
“It’s okay. As long as there is a new girl to help me forget the last one, it’s fine. Kind of. It haven’t really helped me get over my ex. Not yet.”
Sent a picture of the dentist’s waiting room to S, killing time before my appointment. “At the dentist, waiting to get 300 lucas worth of work in my beautiful mouth,” I wrote, afraid of her answer. It felt too mundane, like entering a sort of “relationship territory.” I didn’t want to develop any feelings for her. I did not want to be vulnerable, nor being turned down once more. Yet there I was, texting away, tempting fate. “Good luck!” she wrote back, after a few minutes. I sighed in relieve.
I came over to her apartment on Friday. We hadn’t met since the time we kissed, so I assumed this was it; the night where we were finally going to close the deal. I packed four condoms in my jacket, showered and put on some perfume. Brought some snacks and a couple of non-alcoholic beers with me, ready for it to happen. Months and months of no sex were coming to an end with a blast. I was gonna sleep with a smart, independent and empowered African-American woman. Things couldn’t get better than that.
There was something odd in the air. Her body language, the tone of her voice, the whole situation were different. I have been there before, enough times to know when something was wrong. “What’s going on?” I asked, uncomfortably sitting across the table from her. “What do you mean?” she said, dipping a tortilla chip in her homemade guacamole. “Between us,” I said. “I’m feeling more like a friendly vibe, you know?” she replied. And our dialog was followed by some confusing and awkward couple of hours, and a defeated, fuck-less walk of shame at 2 AM.
Today is my last day of holiday. During this last three weeks I was supposed to write a lot, get a literary agent to help me publish my first serious novel, and fuck a lot of Chilean girls. Did not do any of that. Went to the dentist, retook therapy with my old psychologist, started taking anti-anxiety pills, quit drinking and spent a lot of time with my mum. None of that is better than fucking, nor it helps me calm down and tame the beast in my pants. But, why the fuck do I have to screw around so much? Why, if not to fill a deep hole of existential angst and loneliness in me? Not that pills and sobriety are the answer, either. Though, maybe, it’s worth trying a different approach. Just to see.