Leaving London
By Damon Pythias
At Kings Cross Station, he shrank back slightly as I leaned forward to hug him again -
"mmwahhh!", he joked. I could see he was already distancing himself; he didn't
want me to go too near him for the second time in an hour and was concerned about how
others would perceive the two of us being affectionate to each other.
Indeed, it seems he is worried about my feelings for him. But being rejected by him
(despite my numerous pleadings) was ample warning for me. I will not hit on him again. We
will become simply friends, stop talking or he will become frustrated by my aloofness and
try again to win back my affection. Good luck mister!
I shed tears three mornings in a row this week - why? How incredibly unmanly of me.
Because I was in love with a man who wasn't available, who used me for his own selfish
gratifications - to indulge in filthy homo-erotic emails - and forgot to tell me he was
only joking. He broke my heart in so many pieces. As I leave London, I leave behind
illusions created and built up since my last visit. In the short space of 7 days, my
friendship with this man has undergone huge changes.
Tuesday, I tried to seduce him, and regretted it; Wednesday evening, even after the
boundaries were re-set and declared, he willingly held my hand as we sat in private
corners in Covent Gardens and for a couple hours we were very close - talking as friends
while still being able to put our arms around each other as we walked down the street; he
seemed to enjoy us being together alone, away from friends' prying eyes and nosy
questions. We were affectionate physically but emotionally distant; the conversation
focussed on matters outside ourselves. Friday afternoon, we were tennis and horseriding
mates, sparring each other and maintaining a polite distance of a metre between us. We
were best friends, mounting an intensively competitive relationship and grinning broadly
all the while.
But Saturday evening the distancing began again as
we once more put up our Walls. With subtle digs at each other, and veiled threats that the
others of our Algonquin Round Table crowd could not pick up and only making eye contact
when the other was speaking to the rest of the group, we danced around each other in
circles and might not have been in the same room at all for all the emotional distance
between us. Here, in the small but quietly refined Winchester Rooms of the Savoy, it was
important not to give the impression we were almost-lovers; we were in fact, just very
good friends.
And today, as we bid our farewell, we make even higher our Walls. How typical of us males.
The bricks and mortar are the fun we make of each other, the vicious teasing and the
seeming impartiality we project as we exchange a farewell hug and I attempt a friendly
platonic kiss. The cold distancing had begun, the distance was set and the former
closeness appeared to have died like a light gone out in the early hours of morning, just
before the brightness and stunning clarity of dawn wakes us, and we see things from a
different, new-day perspective.
As I sit here writing these thoughts on the train back home, my mind is detached but my
heart fights what is happening. Why did he not love me? Was I not attractive enough? Not
seductive enough? Too available? Not his sort of man at all? Could it be, that next to the
loving dailyness of his wife, I was coldly and plainly too different - a cheap thrill that
couldn't last?
As the Manchester skyline finally comes into view, I am filled with conflicting emotions
and so many questions. Did he not sense there was a bond between us, a connection when we
met? Did he not realise I had found a very special friend? Did he not realise that -
brutally honest person I am - I had believed his seductive words and felt handsome,
wonderful and wanted again? He had brought sunshine and brilliant rainbows into my life.
This weekend, he crushed them under my Achilles hell, ground them to dust and spat on them
efficiently.
I do not know if I will hang onto my illusions, keep the good memories or become sad and
bitter. I do not know what he thinks of me and of the turn our friendship has taken. He
has seen me more honestly, more real, more vulnerable. The real lover stood before him,
with all the criticisms, tough attitude and physical failings - and he probably found me
wanting. I would not blame him.
London in summertime, for all its bright lights and warm friends, seems so cold to me
tonight I might shiver.
Damon Pythias