What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. No more.

Haddaway (some time in the 90s) 

 Love. It’s what we’re all seeking. It’s why we date. It’s why we torment ourselves date after bloody useless date. Relationship after goddamn awful relationship and why we keep returning to the dating scene after being burned and hurt so badly.

In an attempt to find love.

In an attempt to find our other half, our soul mate, the one, Mr/s Right.

In an attempt to find the love of our life.

But like Haddaway asked back in the early 90s. What is love and does it have to hurt?

I’ve been in love a few (two for sure, maybe three or four depending on what you count as love) times and each time, rather than being what I imagined it to be: sunshine, rainbows, strolls through the park, hand in hand, gazing lovingly at one another then getting home and ripping each others clothes off before making intense, passionate love on a rug in front of a roaring fire. It’s been like hell on earth.

Each and every bloody time.

It does make me question why I still chase love; as from my experience being in love fucking hurts, hurts like nothing else on earth.

I’m speaking from personal experience here but also I’ve seen it from the outside; watched family members and friends have their hearts stomped and trampled on in their quest to find love. I’ve watched beautiful, intelligent, sane women sob their heart out over fuckboys, players and arseholes who treat them with zero respect. Watched them go back time after time, to be hurt and broken all over again. All in the name and quest for love.

It’s hard to recognise what real love is when love itself comes in many guises and different forms; like F Scott Fitzgerald said, ‘there are all types of love in this world but never the same love twice’ and whilst we easily seem to recognise love when it comes to platonic love (with our friends and family) we seem to get much more easy confused when it comes to romantic love or ‘true’ love.

The characteristics of ‘true love’ such as that found in classics such as Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights and the modern classic 50 Shades of Grey are desire and obsession. But is this really love? Or is seeking out this breed of love why we keep getting hurt over and over again?

Let me go over some of the types of love I’ve experienced myself…

Unrequited love or Little Mermaid Love

In the original fairytale, oposed to the saccharine, sugary sweet Disney version. After selling her soul and voice for a pair of legs – which incidentally cause her agonising pain with every step she takes. The Little Mermaid ends up committing suicide because her prince marries someone else.

Little mermaid love is a type of love that literally pulls your soul apart. This type of love has no redeeming features and I’m not even sure it can fully be classed as love, it just feels similar. For me, little mermaid love was like having chronic heartbreak; it was always there, the emptiness, like a big gaping whole. The feeling is very similar to heartbreak but just less severe and it lasts longer. People also aren’t as sympathetic to your cause and just tell you to, ‘get a grip and get over it’. Little mermaid love is ghastly, it’s the obsession and desire of true love but its only felt by one person and not reciprocated by the other: It’s like a schoolgirl crush on steroids.

I’ve had a little mermaid experience once in my life; I was just out of a very serious relationship and I guess it was my attempt at rebounding.

The guy (whom I shall call Devildick Fuckboy) in question was already in a relationship. Yes, I know how awful that is and I feel ashamed of my behaviour. It is simply not cool or okay to go with guys who are already in a relationship.

I literally obsessed over Devildick for a good twelve months, during which time he manipulated me and feed me scraps: telling me how unhappy he was in his relationship, how he’d break up with her after X,Y,Z event.

I waited patiently and cried in bed. Alone.

Not a single day went by when I didn’t think about him: how to see more of him, how to ‘steal him away’ from his girlfriend (now wife), how to make him love me in the way I ‘loved’ him.

I literally would have done anything for Devildick Fuckboy. I cancelled plans with friends and dates with other guys to fit in with his ‘schedule’; basically I made a massive mug out of myself. On one occasion we’d arranged to meet on a Saturday. I spent all week preparing: waxing, tanning, getting my hair and nails done. I bought a few new Jo Malone candles, had them burning all over the house. Bought in oysters, fillet steak and champagne for our dinner. Only for Devildick to stand me up to play golf with a friend two hours before he was due to come over.

My moment of enlightenment came about 6am one morning in a hotel room, watching him drool and listening to him snore. We had gone out for drinks and dinner in a large group. Afterwards, Devildick and I went back to a hotel, for which I paid- he didn’t so much as offer a penny. After an hour or so he fell asleep on me, snored all night and made me drive him back home at 7am in the morning because he and his girlfriend had a wedding to attend. It was after that point something inside finally clicked and I realised that my feelings on Devildick were wasted.

But those twelve months were excruciating, agonising, painful: unrequited love is horrendous. I guess the pain that I felt was some sort of karma, my punishment for going with a guy whom I knew already had a girlfriend. I should have perhaps known that no man who cheats on his partner that way could ever be capable of love or real feelings. But there are some instances of little mermaid cases where the love is just simply not reciprocated for no other reason than one side just doesn’t feel it.

Unrequited love is by no means real love but it hurts just as much. It’s why every time I read or watch The Great Gatsby, I cry at little. I feel Gatsby’s heartbreak, his pain, his emptiness. I pity yet emphasise with his willing to change all he ever was and give his entirety to someone who is not worthy of him. I know what it feels like to stare at that green light across the bay night after night. A beacon of hope that one day, with enough of your love, things will turn as as you hoped.

Comfortable Love or Old Slipper Relationships

Another type of love I’ve experienced is comfortable love or as I’m going to call it, an ‘old slipper relationship’. Because like an old slipper it’s warm and comfortable and a bit boring. An old slipper relationship is much better and less painful than little mermaid love  as, for the most part, both sides feel the same way about each other. But for me, this type of love just feels like settling. There a quote that I’ve seen a few times on Instagram that resonates with me, “unless it’s mad, passionate or extraordinary love. It’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them.”

Unfortunately, my way of thinking is likely to see me getting left on the shelf for the rest of my life. But I’d rather wake up alone at 50 than settling for a slipper.

Advocates of this type of love will claim they are ‘best friends’ which is all very lovely. You should always be friends with the love of your life but if that’s all you are; you really need to take a good long hard look at your relationship. Don’t get me wrong, there are some hung over Sundays were I just need someone to cuddle me, watch TV in bed with me and bring me pancakes. I get very envious of people in these types of relationships and consider finding my self a nice warm slipper and settling down. But I remind myself that emotions are meant to be raw, ugly, brutal: I want my love to be a roaring fire not a candle.

A major problem and regular occurence in old slipper relationships is that after years of slipperness; one side can become resentful. Suddenly, wising up to the fact they’ve `wasted’ years of their life; this may lead to affairs or even worse, one slipper leaving the other. Then all that’s left is a sad, battered, old, lone slipper whom no one wants.

It breaks my heart when I see these battered old slippers, trudging on with their day to day lives. We all know one as well, we all work with one: the lady in her 40s whose just gone through a divorce. Past her prime and a bit frumpy. Always looks a bit sad, the sparkle in her eyes gone…

Want to know if you’re in an old slipper relationship ask yourself this. Does your partner excite you? How many times in the last week have you got it on? And do you look at the person sat next to you and want to rip their clothes off or would you rather make yourself a cup of tea and watch a bit of TV? If it’s the latter. Congratulations you have yourself an old slipper relationship.

There may be old slippers out there who genuinely couldn’t be happier being slippers. Personally, I think love shouldn’t be routine and just about being happy or being comfortable and if that’s really what love is about then my friends or my sister are probably the love of my life as when I’m with them, that’s exactly how I feel-  happy and comfortable.

I have no label for the other time I’ve been in love: it wasn’t little mermaid as it was felt by both sides, it certainly wasn’t an old slipper as there wasn’t a day that went by that I felt ‘comfortable’. In fact, it was more like a rollercoaster, hurricane or whirlwind. It made no bloody sense at all. But despite, the turmoil and the ups the downs, I knew I only wanted to be with that person as the one thing in the world that could make me feel better was being held in his arms. I idolised everything about him, accepted him for his faults and failings (and their were many) and all I wanted was to make him happy. But even that love wasn’t, ‘true love’, it had a toxic element, it was too volatile, too fraught, too destructive ( for both us and everyone around us). Whilst love shouldn’t be smooth but it shouldn’t feel like you’re a daytripper to Alton Towers on acid. How does that saying go? ‘Find a man who ruins your lipstick not mascara’.

Maybe love is ultimately something we can’t explain, something that makes no sense. Maybe everyone has their own personal type of love that they are looking for or Maybe there’s no such thing. I mean even Disney have revised their view of love; in Maleficent the kiss of true love comes not from the prince but from Auroua’s mother figure: Maleficent herself.

What’s my idea of love? I want something so electric, lightening is jealous. I want someone to infuriate me and soothe me in equal measure. I want to be with someone whom I am never going to get bored of or with, someone I can talk absolute shit with at 2am in the morning, someone both whose body and mind excites me.

I don’t need a man to provide for me, save me or take care of me; I’ve got that covered. I want my equal: the other half to my lunatic, alcoholic, perverted, sarcastic, cynical black soul.

I randomly met Politics Guy on Facebook, he added me as a friend and started to message me. Despite the fact he had be-friended a perfect stranger, with whom he had 1 mutual friend, on a social media platform, he appeared to be relatively normal so I thought that I would at least give him a chance.

One of my pet hates is meeting a guy online and becoming his penpal for weeks and months afterwards. Look mate; I have a life, I have friends, I have people to see and places to be. I really can’t be doing with inane conversations about your day. If you’re hot I might tolerate your behaviour for a tad longer than I probably should. But, after a few days you really should be asking me out on a date or swerving the messages.

The politics guy was very direct and I like that. Direct, to the point. You know where you stand.

He seemed to be my type: tall, intelligent, the posh boy accent I like, a few rugby pictures- legs looked decent. And after a day or so, he asked me for drinks and dinner.

“Alicia. I’m unexpectedly at a loose end this evening. If you are too, would you like to join me for some food or drinks?”

“Sure. Why not Politics Guy, I’m at a loose end as well. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I’m a member of the RAC club in Pall Mall. Do you know it? We could head there for around 7.30?”

Half an hour later I received another phonecall.

“Alicia I think I should just explain how you should be dressed this evening.”

Oh bloody hell, I thought. It’s either fancy dress or some swingers’ party were I need to be dressed in Latex or Leather. Typical bloody politician. The dirty dog, my grandma always said the guys at Westminster were kinky. I don’t even mind, he doesn’t even know me and I don’t own any latex outfits…

“The RAC club is very conservative and you need to dress appropriately. What did you have in mind to wear?”

“Well I was thinking Black latex catsuit 30 seconds ago until you told me that it was conservative. Guess I’ll just go with a pencil dress.” I joked.

Him, completely missing any humour: “I think the pencil dress would be suitable.” Wear that.

After hanging up, I fumed for a little while about the audacity of him telling me how to dress for a date. Like I was some sort of idiot. I always dress well for dinner dates and felt quite patronised that he would feel the need to double check on my attire for the evening.

I arrived at Green Park tube station, ravenous, having missed lunch. A little Marks and Spencers trip was in order so I didn’t make the same mistake I did with the Trader and eat half my body weight in food at dinner.

So I bought myself, a sandwich, some Percy Pigs and was going to go for a can of coke until I spied some Mojitos in cans. Can of coke or a mojito for Dutch courage? Mojito it was…

By the time I arrived at the RAC club, I had finished the sandwich and was happily munching on my Percies and finishing off my Mojito. I stuffed a couple (six) more sweets in my mouth whilst I delved into my bag to send a message telling Politics Guy I was there. When I heard…

‘Alicia?’

‘wweloo’,  I tried to say with a mouth full of Percies, cocktail can in hand (pure class me). He laughed and I attempted to make the situation better with offerings of jelly sweets, ‘wanfpt a Wercy Wig?’ Gulp. Swallow. Whilst I stuffed the remainder of the packet along with my empty can of mojito into my Chanel. (I’d never normally do this with a nice handbag, but the mortification made me panic and I didn’t know what else to do with them). He looked at me like I was simple and asked, “Shall I dispose of the rubbish properly rather than you having to put it in your handbag?”

I nodded and reluctantly handed over the Percies and mojito can (which had drenched my handbag). Oh I am so special needs at times.

“Shall we go inside? I should warn you my friend has unexpectedly turned up with a date. So there are four of us eating. Is that ok?”

I thought, ‘it’ll have to be wont it’. But after the Percy Pig/Cocktail Can introduction I thought I had better be more polite and told him, ‘of course’.

My Chanel continued to leak mojito as we as we traversed through the numerous grand, empty rooms in the RAC club; It was like a little alcoholic Hansel and Gretel trail. “There’s lots of rooms, what are at they all used for?” I asked as we wandered.

“Well, this is the drawing room and over there is the knitting room.” He explained.

“Pardon. The what room?”

“Knitting room”, he said for a second time.

“Knitting room?” I screeched back in a very loud, very scouse voice.

I tend to get more Scouse if I am angry, surprised or have had a drink. The disbelief of institutions still having knitting rooms in 2015 took me by such surprise that I sounded much like a female Jamie Carragher.  “Well if you’d let me know I would have brought my yarn. Is that even legal nowadays. Knitting rooms?” I asked as a very large painting of Winston Churchill gazed down on me menacingly and disapprovingly from the wall.

“Well of course. Where are the ladies going to congregate to do their girl talk? There’s also bedrooms upstairs for the guests to use if they wish.” And he gave me a sly little wink. Urghhh. Pervert, I’d just met him. Just my luck to find a sexist pervert.

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? I just gave him a foul look and hoped he’d got the message.

We arrived in the lounge bar and Politics Guy introduced me to his friend and his friend’s date. Politics Guys’ friend was a drunker, posher version of him. His friends’ ‘date’ was a very pretty, 19 year old, 6 foot, Eastern European girl who couldn’t speak English. Whom the friend claimed was ‘a student’. (blatantly an escort).

Champagne and food was ordered. Yay! I have to say I was disappointed that they ordered ‘nibbles’ opposed to proper food. Thank God, I’d got that sandwich and Percy Pigs. Politics Guys’ friend, who worked in The City (Natch!), had finished work at 3.30 and was already off his barnet and it definitely wasn’t just alcohol from which he was intoxicated.

Checklist for City Workers

1. Be a wanker or dickhead.
2. Be arrogant.
3. Think you’re much smarter/better looking than you actually are.
4. Flash cash about distastefully, it has to be salmons though. No 20s or 10s and definitely and certainly no 5s.
5. Be Loud, Be Brash.
6. Have a 22 year old, blonde PA from Essex who doesn’t mind her bottom being groped on a daily basis.
7. Generally be off your barnet for at least 12 hours of every day.

Conversation throughout the evening was mainly had between the two men: the Eastern European girl gazed on mutely whilst pushing a lettuce leaf and a tomato around her plate. And about an hour or so into the date, I became the focus of the conversation, to which there was a distinct mocking tone.

The two public schoolboys were most certainly bullies. I am not the type of person to freely allow myself to be bullied by anyone. I was given a tongue in my mouth and a brain in my head and I was not going to let these two talk to me like I was inferior.

“Oh Liverpool, how unfortunate.”  Declared the friend.

“What do you know of Liverpool? When was the last time you visited?” I asked.

“Oh I’ve never been North of Oxford unless you count Edinburgh.” he proudly declared.

“That’s the type of thing I find unfortunate, you’re missing so much of our beautiful country by being so narrow minded about ‘up North’. I pity you.” I snidely said.

To this comment, politics guy scoffed. “ ‘Tis rather grim up North though. I lived there for a few years when I was at Durham Uni.”

Now I know Durham, I lived there myself for years, the place is absolutely beautiful. It has centuries of history, beautiful countryside and the most magnificent architecture that people across the world go to visit. So I felt I had to defend my little, old Duzza and put Politics Guy in his place.

“Oh, Durham isn’t that the OxBridge rejects university? And you’re in Politics. Sad how that someone who is a representative for the political party in control of the country feels that way. What policies does your party how in place to distribute wealth in the UK, lower unemployment levels ‘up north’  and make life generally ‘less grim’ for us?’

Politics Guys’ face was most unhappy and I knew I was NOT impressing at the RAC club. Presumably going to an all boys’ boarding school, working in Westminster (ladies only make up 29% of parliament) and socialising in clubs were woman were sent to a ‘knitting room’ had left him unable to converse with the fairer sex.

I thought it was time that I made my excuses and tried to leave, “I’m awfully tired Politics Guy and I’m up terribly early tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go home.”

“How about instead we get one of those bedrooms upstairs?” he ventured with a sleezeball stroke of my arm.

“We shan’t be doing that. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that, I waved goodbye to my escort friend, picked up my drippy Chanel handbag, blew a kiss to Winston as I walked passed the knitting room and searched for my Hansel and Gretel mojito trail out of the building.

When I got off the tube, I had a message awaiting from Politics Guy.

“I want to get you naked.”

Wow. What a gentleman he was. He was promptly blocked on everything and I was left shouting

‘Next…’