Stand-up Sam - The Final Part

I couldn’t stay mad at Sam. Just talking to him again made his whole absence – notably legging it from Liverpool Street to virtual vay-cay – seem so minor in the grand scheme of… Love? Things. He only offered one additional apology, in half grunt. I silently accepted. I knew an apology from Sam was a major declaration which only the influence of toxins in overzealous consumption could begin to express. And with these low expectations I accepted less, less than I deserved. My anxious heart longed for him to beg and grovel as he capably did that night at the awards: when [he] “…would do anything* to have me” (*T&Cs apply: see appendix 1.0 Travelling and Attending Meetings).

I lied to everyone, telling them Sam was pleading for my forgiveness. I couldn’t face being the face that framed hopeless, AGAIN. The consortium of women at work, from good friends, to the lunch-listeners, insisted groveling was to be the bare foundation of him accessing my time alone, but he never did grovel, not once.

So, it reprised: the minutes of our initial texts and calls rapidly resumed to hours clocked as nightshift before the office again at 9:00am. I subconsciously refrained from making any plans on the evenings, awaiting his calls. It was only a matter of minutes before my phone rang again and then it was May.

It was the first Friday when Sam called me later than usual. I picked up the phone pretending that I hadn’t made a complete mess of all ad-hoc tasks in the meantime: such as piecing together my beige à la freezer dinner while completing circuit training that was me looping back every other minute to check my phone status – staring as it desperately pumped itself full of recharged enthusiasm.

When I answered Sam was merrily drunk having been in the pub at least 4 hours post-departure from the office. He narrated who accompanied him and their antics for what seemed like an hour I was never going to get back – until, through the rabble and raving there it came – none-the-less slurred from his pissed posse – “Sam’s SORRY – he won’t do it again – he, he LOVES you!” Again in crescendo. Sam laughed and agreed. I could feel my face rouge, (possibly from the ketchup accompanying my potato croquette missing my mouth), at the outburst, the information! The rest of my body gleefully warmed (with the croquette reaching its destination upon second attempt and now burning in my mouth-off as I failed to chew)…

We made the arrangements – de.ja.vu anyone? Take two of: Lovers in Liverpool Street: #coupleswhotraintogetherstaytogether, (literally.). He openly called me his girlfriend by this point, not that he had asked me to be his girlfriend. I remember a close friend quizzing me on why I was so accepting of his status updates and timeline of this ‘relationship’? Where was my agenda and more importantly, input!? Blurred lines indeed. But I couldn’t help it. I was right back to where I started.

I was performing in London the coming week and had booked extra time to enjoy the city on my Birthday. The thought of Sam seeing my sexy alter-ego in action and us then celebrating together was a real Belle De Jour meets Hallmark moment.

And there I was again. Standing as casually as my body-popping anxiety would allow for at Liverpool Street station. I had a back-up plan this time. I looked better this time – not that he would realize from the last time I was stationed there. I hoped that this time our meeting would not be so much of a train-wreck, metaphorically speaking of course.

Sam covered my eyes from behind and I turned to greet him with a kiss – the first ever kiss… It was Mediocre, but we were in public, I guess? I pulled away to reveal a man dressed in jeans and an ill-fitting grey jumper, topped-off with an overflow of unwashed ginger hair. HITS PAUSE. I stammered in my speech a little trying to return his coy “hello”. This was not the chapter I’d read from The Notebook, nor the maintenance of a man about to meet ‘his girl’ after two years and more recent sleepless nights of bondage talk!? This man looked like he didn’t ever own a suit. I needed his former self to have a word with his present self, immediately! He asked where I would like to go… Great. I love a well thought-out plan, I thought.

After another mediocre experience of grabbing a bland takeaway latte before closing at Costa Coffee I skipped the train (by accident BTW), back to Essex with this bloated bastard – the imposter masking the slick mother fucker I used to know. The train was fairly quiet and Sam decided it was the opportune moment to grab my hand and tell me he loved me. WTF!? I hesitated. It felt off, I felt off. But, I said it back, as softly as I could to avoid any prying passengers overhearing and measuring the sincerity in my tone.

Then shortly afterwards I gave myself a mental slap in the face, demanding to know: a)Why I was being so weird? b)When did I become so superficial? c)What did I expect? I guess when all you bank from someone’s social shares is imagery of suits, watches and cocktails on the riverside you start to fill in the blanks of the #yolo lifestyle. I reminded myself that I was not that person; the woman who only merits a man on his core-work and not his core. Besides, all of my other boyfriends had been kinda, well… fugly – as often highlighted by my sister and my friends, but mostly my sister. So, I stopped focusing on the aesthetics realizing I’d forgotten just how articulate Sam was.

We walked down a solar-lit driveway into a large white modern house. Everything was new, polished and over-sized. The old Sam would have fit in nicely there. We tip-toed straight upstairs, by-passing any opportunity of some drinks, or a drink. It was clear what the offering was. Sam unlocked his bedroom door and I strolled in, greeted by what appeared to be the room of a 15 year old boy who only stopped playing Xbox to masturbate, and sometimes probably not. There were no sheets on the bed and the carpet was decorated with pop cans. That feeling from earlier came straight back, with a sting this time. He was talking still, but I wasn’t listening. He then caught my attention when he then threw a ball of creased sheets on the bed, informing me that they were still a little damp as he attempted to spread them out. I wanted to leave, but I had no where to go this late in this town. I quizzed myself again, telling myself it was my fault for having (undiagnosed) OCD.

I put on my perfectly ironed matching shorts and cami pajamas – apologizing to them as I lay down in the cold bed. Sam, on the other hand, stripped down butt naked and launched himself into the bed like a thousand quilted Persian pillows laid upon it. I laughed a little, before expressing how cock-sure he was. I already knew the agenda was sex, after all we had been talking about it for so long, but the setting and the scenery were somewhat far from my fantasies. He asked if I had any condoms...

If I now described having sex with Sam it would simply be a motion of shaking my head, not my fucking tail feather. Where’s a “What were you thinking!?” slogan tee worn by your best friend on Snapchat when you need one? But, at the time I played-up to the part – it’s always shit the first time… is what I told myself. And after a long unfulfilling shower in the over-sized bathroom I got dressed to the dulcet tones of Sam abusing his friends on Xbox live.

We went downstairs and Sam offered to cook me breakfast for lunch, (formally known as brunch to Londoners and fucking lazy everywhere else). His housemate appeared just as he was serving the grease infused sausages and Sam introduced the sturdy weather-beaten man, pointing out his room was adjacent to his. I momentarily died a little with embarrassment knowing how loud I had been in my pursuit of pleasing Sam. So I gestured to the patio doors advising we should sit outside to eat – “…nice to meet you too (pal). Cringe.

As I subtly attempted to pull the fat from my bacon Sam didn’t have much to say. I said it was nice that we were obviously comfortable with each other to sit in silence, glazing over the irony. About an hour passed of this suddenly slow Sunday, and seeing as I had run out of questions and obvious observations I decided to make a move. I had nowhere in particular to be until later, but I had the impression I was not part of Sam’s agenda for the day. A little conflicted under my smile I gave Sam a kiss before reaffirming if he was still coming to my show the next night. He confirmed and I hauled my suitcase in a taxi, heading back to London. I spent the rest of the day attempting to hang-out with my brother, to the apparent theme of not being on his agenda either. I couldn’t blame him though, I was earlier than planned. I tried to shake my melancholy mood.

In the late afternoon of the following day, I fastened my corset and posed my feather headdress in the dressing room that was the back of a rockabilly meets death metal pub with chairs in theatre style. I was performing for “The Tattoo Review” that was part of London Burlesque Festival . I was looking forward to seeing suited-and-booted Sam again; to babbling over red wine again. I was so nervous for him to finally see me perform, remembering how his face lit-up in the early days of training when he discovered I was a burlesque dancer – FYI my passion project.

I suddenly got a text from Sam and my mouth dried: “I’m here.”. He had come straight from work and was early. I pulled a satin dressing gown over my costume to greet him. I was excitable and anxious. I saw his grey suit trousers at the bar and before my eyes could creep further a field he turned, revealing a creased white shirt (probably from the same pile as the bed linen), and hair that was greasy enough to cook another brunch on. My heart fell. The voice in my head told me to stop being a judgmental bitch and appreciate he had come.

He just had to sit in the front row, didn’t he? Or so I thought. I took my position on stage as Lana Del Ray’s “Young and Beautiful” started to play. I forcefully ripped the petals from a white rose while seeing Sam’s stare from the corner of my eye. It was all very dramatic; illustrating the destruction of perceived “beauty” by mental state. And as I tastefully removed gloves to corset and then some, Sam sat there in front of me, legs stretched towards me and fixed on the video he was currently recording on his phone. The music moved into the jazz section, complimented by my more upbeat ass-shaking as I straddled my 8ft fur boa on the floor, and I was watching him as he was watching his iPhone uploading parts of me. I bowed and felt unusually deflated as the audience applauded. Sam watched the remainder of the show and waited for me to get changed while bantering with the host.

We walked under the Camden lights to the tube station holding hands; Sam and I, accompanied by Riley (the host). The two guys laughed and I did too when I found my queue to. I was still feeling odd, introverted. Although I was painted in glitter my soul felt in the gutter.

We arrived back at the over-sized house. I was thirsty from the adrenaline so drank from the bathroom tap before getting into bed with Sam. The sheets were still cold. Sam was pumped full of energy; gushing about how hot his mates thought I was and how he’s “done well” – that statement used for when the ugly weird guy pulls the pretty popular girl. Insulting to both, yet still rewarded to men.

Sam forcefully started kissing me as he pinned me down on his bed. I gasped receiving. His hands were all over me, grabbing my ass, my thighs and my tits hard before he pushed his fingers deep inside me. I yelped with the pain of his nails ripping through me. He had one of the most menacing looks on his face as he then rammed his cock inside, notably bareback and too late and too awkward for alternative plans. He fucked me so hard, porn hard. And I felt so mortified I lay back and wailed my artificial orgasm out, hoping it would encourage his and end. I wanted to have sex with him, I wanted him to touch me, just not in the way he was. I felt stupid afterwards. I should have known better – it was my 29th birthday in two days.

In the morning Sam left early for work, leaving me to sleep. But, as soon as his bedroom door closed I jumped out of bed and started collecting cans – queue the stereotypical imagery of a homeless mans hobby. My boyfriend had left me unattended at his place and I was meeting him for lunch, now this was much more my scene. In 20 minutes I had cleared his room just enough to relax my tension, but not too much that he would freak-out thinking I’m going to move in – although he did previously offer and I did try all his old suits on. I paused to think of the night before, remembering the MAP was an absolute essential on today’s shopping list.

After my interrogation from the nurse at Boots chemist – clearly not buying my “the condom broke” tale as she spat her saliva as if it were holy water on me – I made my way to London Bridge, near Sam’s place of work. I walked by an array of Starbucks and Prets’ trying to find an independent coffee shop, something a bit more quaint, special. It was the last time I would see him on this trip and a pre-birthday treat (to myself). I ordered a coffee waiting for Sam to arrive having started his lunch break. 15 minutes later I waved and he strolled in. His hair was washed and curly, but not styled. He slumped in his seat for 5 minutes and so I asked if he wanted to order some lunch. He informed me he had just eaten as he’s been on lunch for 30 minutes already and has to leave in 5 to return. The HANGER inside me boiled, having only undergone an almost two hour trip and detour to this destination. I internally asked myself to calm down and stop being so dramatic when I was surrounded by food. Silly me. He told me some of the office gossip and gave me a peck on the lips before departing back to the office for the rest of the day. I stared at the pill in the coffee shop. I hadn’t taken it ’cause I hadn’t eaten. I ordered some food in a ridiculous huff. We were meant to have lunch, does he not know it’s for my birthday? I thought.

I walked around London, preoccupied. I felt really uncomfortable with myself: emotionally because I was pissed off at having to take the MAP, but also physically. I felt like I needed another shower, I felt smelly, dirty and with that hanging over me I returned to my brothers place to shower, having to perk myself up for the next day, for it was my actual birthday.

My phone rang and it was Sam on his lunch break wishing me a happy birthday! We chatted and he had me in a fit of giggles. I was making fun of him for trying to reenact hardcore porn our first time and we then joked that he could have got me pregnant LOL. It was so juvenile but it was good to have our banter back. I told him I wished I could have seen him today and that yesterday was a shamble. He agreed.

I text Sam when I arrived home and he didn’t call, so I threw myself in a almost scolding hot shower and took myself to bed, not before noticing my thighs covered in bruises. It really was hardcore, I thought. I woke the next morning feeling positive about life, ready to go to work knowing the girls (and some of the guys), would want the details and of course I delivered. I told them about his big white HOUSE and him coming suited to my show; the kinky sex and the lunchtime meeting in London Bridge as send-off. It really was romantic when I romanticized it. I almost believed it and in doing so it drove my motivation to make my relationship with Sam work, in spite of the distance and the reality of his #Londonlife. We had too much drive and too much chemistry to not, I thought.

Days passed and I barely had heard from Sam. He told me he was fed-up with work and feeling low so I wanted to give him space. It felt so unusual for my phone not to ring, but I still cleared my social schedule to wait for him to come ’round; to call me when he was ready. I text him to remind him I was there for him.

Those days turned into weeks and I started to feel very anxious. I hadn’t been feeling well at all, particularly the last few days: my body ached and I felt discomfort all over again. My recent anxiety seemed to have taken its toll on my health and I also felt like I was coming down with flu. I hadn’t heard from Sam and he wasn’t answering my calls. He must be in a bad headspace I thought. I stalked him on Instagram where he appeared to be a fully functional #tfif man – but, I reminded myself it was just a platform for the best version of yourself. Still, the anxiety made me sick. Physically sick.

I sat staring at my feet late one Thursday night in June and I asked myself: how could someone be so cruel!? Weeks had passed and I was struggling to cope with how both mentally and emotionally ill I had become over his silence, the fear of the unknown which was oddly familiar. Worst of all I was hiding it from everyone, especially at work. That was until my best friend reached out to me, reading between the li(n)es. So, there I was, questioning myself about everything, trying to pin point where I had went wrong when I was willing to accept the reality of Sam and all it’s flaws, not the fantasy he sold to me.

I held the test up, ready to face my fate and I dialed the phone.

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