It’s Mary’s birthday so I decide to stick to the tradition of making God-awful Moonpig cards, referencing one of our outdated and overplayed in-jokes EVERYONE but us is sick of. I’m looking through our old chat, scrolling through the media when I find the first picture I ever sent her. Before I hit the unmistakable features of the driver of the Groove Express, Bruce Breakey. I end up scrolling through a slew of unedited outtakes from our Crystal Bats photoshoot.
The last time I was in London, studying for my master’s degree at SOAS, I met someone who I fell arse over tit for. He has bleach blonde hair, cool blue eyes and pale skin; some called him The White Prince because of his tasteless moustache, others said he looked like a glossy bow-legged Bowie (or one of the spiders from Mars), I just called him the rockstar.
About eight months into seeing him casually (even though I obviously and therefore desperately wanted more) he asked Mary and I to model his t-shirts for his band. We were featured as babes of the week and under the hashtag CRYSTALBABES (which Mary and Icoined!!)
I laughed hysterically, walking over to the 33 year old (and balding) over-grown fuqboi of a chef, showing him pictures of me straddling a champagne bottle and grinning madly at the camera. I found it particular funny because I hadn’t yet gotten my face fillers and my fringe was crudely cut into the 2017 Alt Gurrrl-Daddy-Issues-Galore signature haircut. Also, they’re a joke.
I, in all earnest, had forgotten they existed (not that it happened). So, I posted them to my story in jest. The reasons being, FIRSTLY, that of course I’m going to brag about modelling for a band, especially the band of someone who I was fucking ritualistically and SECONDLY, because in my new found Fun gyal trope, I wove into the very fabric of my persona my affiliation with this band, however trifling and irrelevant, and THIRD, because it’s funny. It’s funny, ok? I’m self-aware and it’s just a funny picture, I’m straddling a champagne bottle! Whatever.
I post it. I think NOTHING of it. THE LAST THING I EXPECT IS TO SEE THAT HE HAS VIEWED MY STORY BUT OH MY GOD. I just came fresh out of my filler appointment, when I scroll through nonchalantly, to see his undeniable icon and story; OH GOD WHY!?!
He thinks I’m obsessed and he already thought I was CRA-ZY. I mean, I was, I didn’t exactly act like myself at that point tbh and yeah I totally messaged his ex asking if they were fucking but like who wouldn’t? They were! I’m crazy not dumb. I was (Crystal) Bat Shit insane for the lad. All this guy sees, after two years of static, is me…in THEIR T shirts, semi-bragging, still stuck as a self-proclaimed groupie of the neo-synth wave punk rockers.
WHY?!
WHY?! I, of course, immediately messaged Mary with a screenshot to tell her.
So, after my shift, I opened up my dating apps to scour the ever ragged sea of fuqboiz, softboiz and generally undeniable arseholes crawling the streets of London to find Perry.
Oh, Perry! My first ever fuqboi I hooked up with when I arrived in London had swiped me on Hinge. I HAD to laugh.
My first thoughts were the same I’ve always had about London, that this city is too small for the likes of us troublemakers. Then I laughed; maybe, just maybe this circular motion would break the curse of fuqbois placed on my love life. It’s slowly becoming a full circle. Sleeping with Perry again would without a doubt, break the curse, and I would be free yet again to pursue love with hope and earnest. It would end this horrid slew of abusive, manipulative and skeezy balding fuqboiz and I would be a free woman! Either that or I’d start on a similar due course of hedonism and self-destruction. Either one is chill.
Then, last night, another musician of a lover (My Baby! Not bragging – but I’m totally bragging they’re from Amsterdam, are well off, have a MASSIVE cock and paid for all my drinks, tickets and hotel rooms) messaged me saying: Missed you.
What has happened in the last 24 hours? I swear these boys can smell it. The scent of a woman flirting with an aforementioned fuqboi, the musky hilarity of it all, and they come crawling in their one-man wolf-packs, sniffing you out. I have come to the conclusion that they are homosocial/sexual creatures, not so much drawn to you as they are each other. One could argue they are drawn to the idea of pissing all over you and marking their territory, rather than you. One could argue that when given even a hint of not being interested in them, that is when they crawl back into the woodwork. I’m not quite sure, my theory is underdeveloped and greatly requires further field research. I’ll get back to you on that one soon my darlings, tah tah!
PIP 