I like being single , but I would like to have sex more often. I want all the hairs on my arm to stand up when theirs brushes against mine, to tell dumb stories while their eye contact distracts me from my point. None of my friends have cars in London, or flats with walk-in showers to park them outside. He laughs at things I would say are inappropriate. But despite that, we still get on. He cooks well, getting out one of those Thermapens to check the temperature inside the meat.
I was out with him recently and he was flirting with a girl and he misheard her and thought she was a football defender instead of a criminal defence lawyer. Recently, while out with my flatmates, I decided to message him. I felt a bit snotty and a bit crappy about this situation with another guy, and I wanted attention, a chest to rest my head on.
I sent him my location, and he said wait there, then turned up in his car with the screen and took me back to his. We went upstairs and I rolled around in his bed and he ran his hand over my hips and told me I was good at things I needed to be told I was good at and he made me feel good too. He dropped me off at mine and I lay on my sofa yawning and drinking nettle tea in a fleece. I felt fortified, like he had coloured me back in. I felt wanted, less bothered about the situation with the other guy.
Nor did I worry that he might think I was too keen when I messaged him a couple of days later to ask how his trip away was. I feel like I have overcome something, got control over myself. I am not like other girls; I am unbothered, cool, transcendent. Why are no emotions better than emotions?
Why does that always seem to end in someone getting hurt? This link redirects to a third-party website. Save this story Save. Read More. By Annie Lord. More From British Vogue. By Daisy Jones. By Olivia Petter.
