Lonely

Twenty years ago (or therabouts), as we lay entwined after a few shared orgasms, Alicia drummed the chorus of Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo on my stomach.

Why this comes to mind should be no surprise. I’ve been watching a lot of Disney recently. Cinderella – which, as it turns out, is rather dull; I hadn’t seen it since I was very young – does have a few decent songs. Quite why Alicia chose the fairy godmother’s signature theme I’ll never know. Maybe it was a hint and she actually was my fairy godmother. I’ve been waiting for her all this time, and maybe she just appeared when I was 21 and manifested as someone who actually wanted to have sex with me.

A miracle, I know.

It’s not unusual, for another reason – this time, something both out of my control and very little to do with which type of subscription I’ve got to Disney Plus.

Over the last few weeks, I have been sleeping less. Probably the heat, although there’s that, and the fact that I’m taking Wegovy^® and that’s doing odd things to my stomach. This time last year I was prepping to go to Japan and getting quite excited by it all. Then there are the constant worries, about physical and mental health, uncertainly about the future, and the part about the one that got away.

And when I do get a few snatches of sleep I’m invariably having dreams about my exes.

It’s not always my exes. The other night I dreamed up someone who appeared to be a mixture of two people I follow on social media. Most of the time, though, it is – an older Catherine; a treacherous Louise; a mixture of Rebecca and the Seamstress which means I get a Seamstress cheating on me. (I’ve recently come to wondering, as I lie awake, if at any point the Seamstress was cheating on me. She was certainly out of my league. I don’t want to consider it, when you take into account how my first relationship ended, but it’s an unpleasant thought I just can’t shake.)

And there are the “almost, what if?” type of dreams I have which are probably inspired by Fesshole. What if I’d kissed her? What if I’d felt her up? What if I’d said something different to her? What if I had been thinner, fitter, hotter, or more confident? What if, what if, what if…? You get the idea.

Even the dreams about my actual wife are against me. They include cuddles in bed, or lengthy messy kisses, or sex… none of which we do any more.

None of these things are new. But I know why they’re happening.

I’m lonely. Not as in the sort of single person lonely I used to have as a single person, more as in the sort of “you have lost of friends but there isn’t anyone you can just fucking talk to” lonely. The sort of lonely where the only real contact you have is with your parents and even then you feel like you’re being little more than a bother.

Lonely, as in, summer used to be time for friends and they’re all occupied with having children.
Lonely, as in, I was meant to be going on holiday but I’m so low on money I may be stuck in my flat for all of August.
Lonely, as in, I’ve got a freedom pass and a disabled person’s railcard and I’d totally travel around Britain to visit someone, but who? Where? Nobody’s invited me, anyway, so here I stay.
Lonely, as in, I want to scream.

I want to S C R E A M…

…but there’s no point. Nobody’s listening, anyway.

It’s too hot. The lights aren’t on. I’m inside and I can’t go out because my wife has ordered yet another package and I need to wait for that. I don’t have anything to do, anyway.

The silence is heavy.

And I’m so fucking lonely.