I was honest, brutally so. I was lucid, calm, emotionless. I did not waver from my points - there were several - and I stated my case clearly and decisively. My position was made unquestionably clear, I’m big on clarity. And with the click of a ‘send’ button, it was done. The Quiet Man has been quietly dispatched. I have not heard from him.

Yes, I make it all sound so cold, don’t I? I make it seem as if I don’t care, don’t have a heart. This is not the case. This has been done with a heavy heart and a great deal of sadness. I care for him very much, more than that really but it shall never be uttered publicly (lest we forget my aversion to the ‘L’ word). It has also been done via e-mail.

E-mail? I hear you cry with a tone of horrified disdain.

E-mail.

This past two weeks he has made himself increasingly unavailable, ever more distant, making it clear that calls to his home would be an inconvenience since his children, after 10 months, have no knowledge of my existence. A good thing in hindsight.

The last time we spoke was to try to once again resolve our issues. It ended however with him spending an hour offloading his many problems once again and in me listening, advising, comforting and consoling.

I AM NOT HIS FUCKING MOTHER!!

He would not hear my words. He did not want to. The quiet man quietly explained his depression to me. I tried to point out that I am suffering similarly. He told me of his money troubles. *Hello* single mum, four kids, £6,000 p.a! He told me about his recent lethargy as a runner. I attempted to tell him how difficult it has been to think that my children may not have had a mother in their teens had my tests turned out differently. He did not listen, he did not advise, he not did comfort or console. He said ‘I love you’, I reciprocated with tears rolling down my cheeks and at that the phone call was over. Other than the customary one text, telling me about his day and saying goodnight I did not hear from again before he left for his holiday. I have not heard from him for a week.

I have been supportive. In all the time I have known him, I have been supportive, interested, calming, consoling. In all that time I have felt alone and isolated. Had my care been reciprocated even just a little, this would have been enough. I am not a person who requires huge amounts of support, just a gentle concern every once in a while - like when I have a cancer scare for instance!

I digress. Ranting is unpleasant and smacks of martyrdom.

So two days ago I wrote. I was calm. I was dispassionate. I had to be so, he needs to know that his last bridge has been reduced to ash. I take no pride in this course of action, in the form it takes but in this modern age of communication and with all avenues categorically closed I felt this was the most appropriate. The chapter of The Quiet Man ends here and true to form it has been… quiet.

If anyone out there should have some sort of direct line to the maker of weather could you please, for all that is sacred, have a word?

Today is LSR day - 14 miles of blissful head clearance has been waiting for me all day. I chose to do the right thing and make a passive attempt at goddess like domesticity this morning. I had two reasons for making this choice:

1) I had a hangover
2) The Potential is coming for dinner and I need a presentable bedroom

Domestic drudgery done with all the enthusiasm you could imagine I would have for such things, a spot of carb and fluid loading and I was all but dressed for the impending run….cue the opening of the heavens.

I have no objection to running in the rain, none whatsoever, I actually really enjoy it BUT when said rain is of the torrential variety from the outset I do tend to draw the line at anything over 8 miles. Last time I ignored my own common sense advice involved an 11 mile LSR, which left me with a stinking cold and the inability to breathe properly for 2 weeks, knocking marathon training back a good few weeks.

Have I wronged someone? Is this karma? Should I offer up a sacrifice of some kind? If so, what? I could certainly offer the weather maker a pair of very smelly Mizuno’s - only 700 miles and a marathon on the clock. Then again, given the injuries I’ve sustained in using them, I may expect a monsoon in return.

So... will it be 7 or 14 this afternoon?

The touch of skin on skin, the touch of lips on lips, of tongues flirting. The feel of a hand in hair, on face, neck and back. The touch - the calming, sensual, soothing post coital sensation - of fingers stroking a bare back whilst the caresser chats quietly to the recipient. There are few feelings better than that of skin on skin. There are few things better than the marvel of ‘hairs standing on end’, the slight intake of breath on feeling that hand in the small of your back. Not many things can improve on the flutter that accompanies a really good kiss, so longed for, or the increased heart rate that goes in unison with being touched just the right way. Not many, but some.

The Potential is fast becoming so much more than that. I think he may be a keeper and one who can hold my limited but demanding attention span. We laugh easily, he’s competitive, he’s already driving me on to do the things I want to, encouraging me rather than putting up obstacles or worse, deriding me. The chat is relaxed and honest - he knows about Gorecki and has been accepting of this chapter in my life, at least outwardly. And after two weeks apart (it is holiday season after all), we met again and picked up exactly where we left off. Well, not exactly, arrests would be made for that sort of conduct in public! His passion suits me well. Shy initially, he very quickly learnt that he needn’t be and has proven himself in many ways, but that is a whole other story.

The Quiet man is there, in the background, proving his love in words whilst disproving them in abundance in deeds. A recent debate about his lack of contact resulted in him offloading his problems and inability to cope on me whilst I continue to cope alone with mine. I tried to explain it to him but emotion and his disinterest brought a swift halt to that. Subsequently the frequent, post row texts have dissipated and we are quickly reverting to our standard once a day habit. My patience has worn thin, I just don’t want to hurt him.

And all the while, through it all and regardless of the pleasure, comfort and ease of my burgeoning relationship with The Potential, there remains the memory of Him. He whose kisses still touch my lips, albeit in memory only. He, to whom I gave so much care, trust and honesty yet who repays me in silence or requests for sympathy. He, who made me tremble at his very touch, made me weep with his gentle kiss. He, who I abhor yet crave in equal measure and who demands, in some twisted and incomprehensible way, my unreserved loyalty. He, who I exorcised so efficiently, yet who haunts me.

He is past, the present is ending, the future holds promise.

My last offering to Him. There have been many lately that I have not been able to expose for fear of ridicule or the assumption of utter insanity. This however, is the clear view. The one that shines through on every run and is my waking thought. I would send it to him but he is worthless and I refuse to give him the validation of his prior importance.

You are a liar. You are cheat. Worse than that, you are a user. An emotional parasite who takes what he needs then detaches when the host is no longer giving as much as you wish. I was there for you throughout. I listened to your endless moaning about how difficult your life is, how little money you have, regardless of the fact that me and mine are on the breadline. I was compassionate, understanding, unbiased. I was sensible when you hinted at leaving her, I was honest when you moaned about her lack of interest. I advised you openly and honestly about her emotions and thoughts, because I’ve been there. I didn’t love my husband when I treated him in a similar way and it would seem like sour grapes for me to suggest that she doesn’t love you, but…..

And what did I get out of this deal? Royally fucked. You fed off me, you sucked me dry and, with your desperate public school boy preciousness, you sent me to despair. And when the chips were down you failed to fight for our friendship. You said you would, just as you said you loved me. All lies. Knowing my feelings on that word - that hateful, false word that has meant so little in my life. Knowing how it scares me, how I reacted when The Quiet Man said it. You promised me that you would only use if platonically and that you would never abuse it.

You are a liar and I no longer want you in my head, heart or mind.

I have removed you from every part of my life. You are no longer important, you are wholly irrelevant, as are your problems, your issues, your feelings and your thoughts. This is my exorcism of you. You are on your own.

In other news...

Running is going very well. I have a number of options becoming available to me, Dublin being one Loch Ness another and the call of a time limit is pushing me on. Tomorrow will bring a 13 mile run and the possibility of seeing The Potential again.

The Potential - tall, too tall for me really, fun, easy going, someone I laugh with and talk with easily. He’s also made his intentions quite clear, both physically and intellectually, both of which have been agreeable to date. I refuse to commit but the offer of drinks tomorrow night may be taken. Texts flow, intentions are stated, passions may be sated if he acts according to my rules.

The Quiet Man - has gone from bewildering to infuriating me. Contact, or the lack thereof, continues to frustrate and anger me. This is supposed to be my committed other but he continues to prove himself unworthy of my effort. A severe lack of contact prior to his latest visit caused consternation. His lack of interest after a car accident this week merely strengthened my belief that he enjoys the distant fuck and uses the L word merely as a rouse, albeit one he has bought into with great belief.

Red has been banished, the novice rejected (too timid), Gorecki is ever in my thoughts but his words now bore me and whilst recent weeks have tried my resolve and I have suffered psychologically from their implications, my health has been proven fit, my worst fears proved false and I find myself settling into some playful flirtations.

http://gorecki.co.uk/lyrics/learn.htm

One other thought. Frozen mashed potatoes? Seriously?

The doctor was visited and the lumps and bumps, of which there are many, were prodded with a level of inefficiency that left me uneasy. The two lumps were felt to be too small to be concerned about though working with cancer patients tells me that any degree of nodal enlargement is something to be concerned about. He also couldn’t see the third lump - we shan’t discuss where this one is - but after the nurse pointed it out we confirmed without a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t of sexually transmitted origin, though being very careful in my activities I already knew that.

The fact that he couldn’t see a very obvious lump, failed to look for the other lumps (which I do suspect are fatty deposits from my previous fat suit) and has largely ignored the two very obvious nodal lumps does not fill me with confidence. Call me a worrier but I plan to consult another GP next week.

Whilst there I also plan to discuss the issue of my fertility. At the age of 34 and with four teenage children I have categorically decided that I do not, under any circumstances, want more children. Nor do I wish this to be an issue in future relationships. I have regained my life, my body and lost my soul to the various liaisons of the past. I do not want the issue of ’should we have a kid together?’ to even be under consideration. The choice is mine and after much deliberation, has been made. Now I need to convince Dr Middle Class 2.4 that this is a good thing.

Question:
Why do some blokes simultaneously kiss and grope arse whilst rocking from side to side with a mild thrusting action? Witnessed today and not understood. So unpleasant.

It is all too easy to tell that the Quiet Man hasn’t visited me in some time. It has been three weeks since he last held his flesh against mine and I have another two before I see him again. Our next meeting shall be one without physical contact though. His children will be there and don’t even know of my existence, regardless of our seven months together. I don’t know when, or even if, I will see him again. It may be as long as another seven weeks, it may be over before then.

What I am sure of though is the ever increasing need. Ten weeks without. Ten weeks. Ten. Long. Weeks. Ten weeks without the touch of another, without hands on my skin, without the warmth of that touch spreading across my flesh, without the kiss on the neck that makes the hair stand on end. The kisses on lips and shoulders, the warm breath close to my skin. I yearn to touch and be touched, to run my fingers along warm skin, to kiss that skin gently. I long for the slow undressing while hands and tongues caress slowly, I need to kiss a chest and stomach whilst removing clothes. I need to feel the anticipation, the passion - the want - that this elicits. To give pleasure with only kisses, knowing that soon there shall be more.

I want reciprocation - to feel his kisses, his tongue and his hands moving from face to shoulders, to chest, to stomach. I want legs and bodies entwined as we slowly, deliberately find our way. No rush, just slow, gentle, passionate play. Two people enjoying each other.

I want to feel the excitement as hands and bodies become firmer in their desire, as clothes are consigned to wherever they may land and obsession takes over - the obsession that accompanies desire for so brief a time. That thing that makes passion so exhilarating. I need the touch, the taste and the smell that goes so well with the acts of passion, every sense blazing, tingling with what is present and with what is anticipated. I crave the sensations, the heart thumping, head rushing delight that is penetration and the intensity of a long slow session with a like minded partner. I need to feel the heavy breathing, the sweat, the testosterone induced frantic desire for climax and I long to hear the fervent words that compliment the moment so well.

It has been so long since I felt these things, far too long. I need to have sex very soon. Is it possible to implode through lack of action?

Am I being unduly paranoid or am I , as I suspect, alone in this relationship?

From me to Quiet Man this morning:
Sorry I wasn't very talkative last night. I've been suffering from really terrible insomnia lately, only getting about 4 hours a night this past week so have been really exhausted. I was really tired last night, which is why I sent you the text early to say I was heading to bed, as it was I could barely keep my eyes open last night while you were talking. I'd also had a couple of glasses of wine in the hopes that they'd help me sleep, which I'd actually drank quite fast so they went straight to the head - and it wasn't functioning well to begin with!

Hope your day at work is going a bit better than the last few, just wanted to apologise for being quite so detached last night.

xxxx

And the reply:
I'm sorry too. I did not see your text, until I looked at my phone this morning.

I felt bad that I'd not spoken to you on the Monday, when I intended to call.

Hope you have a good day and manage sometime soon to sort your sleep patern out. I feel very helpless, I want to help out, but I'm in the same position of being very tired too.

Still having a layers of an onion time of things at the moment - soon to be resolved with a well placed screwdriver.

Take care

xxxx

And a statement: I have decided that I am utterly and completely shite at relationships. Maybe meaningless sex with relative strangers (as opposed to strange relatives) is the way forward.

The quiet man continues to frustrate me. He protestations of love clash with the inconsistency of his commitment. I’m sure he believes but, as I continue to push him away, I’m sure his thinking shall become clear in his mind. This distant affair cannot continue, its neither normal (whatever that means) nor feasible.

And tomorrow, at 1pm, I meet another potential lover. One for vetting rather than action, for the time being at least. As with past lovers he must prove himself not only worthy of the task but capable of stimulation of other sorts. I detest boredom. Sexual boredom is the domain of a long time married wife, intellectual boredom is a soul sapping, tortuous matter and one I am unwilling to accept. Yeah, you can have a great fuck with a stunning and expert companion but what do you talk about in between?

This question brings me back to the point in hand - what do you do with someone who you care about but who continues to be distant in every imaginable way?

What is this pressure to love? I care for him deeply, I would even go so far as to say that my feelings for him are very deeply held. Is this love? Having never really felt it I’m not sure.

Yes, I’ve said that I’ve felt it but in hindsight did I really love Gorecki? I know I never truly loved my husband - not really. And whilst what I had with Gorecki was deep and passionate and intense….it wasn’t really love, was it?

The quiet man confuses me. With his version of love, his protestations of such sentiment but his equivalent dispassion, enforced distance, the regular and obvious detachment of anything approaching his proclamations.

This is not love, nor shall it ever be. I ally myself with those who cannot or will not forsake themselves in this way. Too many years have been given over to loving another. When can I begin to believe that I am worthy of such feeling?

And so the cycle goes. The torment, the torture, the self flagellation and the martyrdom of rejection. I give no more, I chose the numbness and protection of old. The island is built and the wounds are opened.

The quiet man must go.

Ben

Confusion reigns and emotion runs high and once again both words and sanity escape me.

You call last night surprised me. You caught me unawares and drunk, my usual numbed state these past few weeks. Your voice, which has brought such comfort to me in the past, hurt me so deeply last night after what seems like an age in the wilderness. I tried so hard to be strong for you, knowing that the last thing you need just now is another emotional woman but to hear your voice and to be told your news - to hear you say that you miss me - even alcohol cannot dull that pain.

When you told me about the improvement in your injury I couldn’t reign it in anymore. Knowing what you’ve been through, having supported you throughout, I have now been denied the ability to do so and I am so scared that I will never regain that ability and I suspect that her support would be inadequate for you. I wanted to excited for you but could only weep at the fact that it took almost a week to find this out. And once again the level of my selfishness astounds me.

I was coping so well until I saw you on Friday night. To be in your presence, even virtually, has always been such a comfortable, easy, happy experience. Now I feel only pain at seeing you, knowing that we are no longer permitted this happiness and that I shall never see again, never hold or be held by you, never feel that ease of friendship and the bind that we have.

And here I sit, writing this letter late on a Sunday evening having struggled to leave my bed this morning. I now struggle to hold my emotions together but know I must for the sake of my children. I count the days til they go to their father and feel pain at wishing them away from me, feeling that I am a bad mother for thinking in this way. You have brought this upon me, how dare you. But you haven’t, I have allowed myself to be here, willed it upon myself in ever destructive manner. At some point I will find destruction.

I feel grief beyond reason, anger beyond belief. Anger at myself for giving in to these emotions and for allowing myself to enter into such a relationship. I feel anger toward you for allowing this to happen and the sentiments you express. I feel anger because you are ‘OK’ and carrying on with your life, trying to rebuild what is fractured, whilst I continue on in this limbo. I feel anger toward you for your indecision about what you want from life and your marriage. Mostly though I feel anger toward her. You made it clear that you would rather not hear my views on her, I’m not sure why. Are you hiding from my feelings or the truth?

Regardless, I express them here since this is my only true release. I feel anger towards her for her over reaction to our friendship, her utter disregard for your thoughts and feelings, the fact that she has to make an effort to support and care for you whilst I find it so easy to know your every thought and feeling. Obviously I am angry that she has taken my best friend from me, as selfish as that may be and I am fully aware that my feelings are the last in line in this equation but the inequity of it all continues to grate on me, as does her attitude of martyrdom and oppression. As I said, any view I express about her could be viewed as sour grapes and yes, to a certain extent that is the case. I know I have no entitlement to feel such things but I feel them just the same.

So here I am, another day - a fresh day, waiting for your promised call and wondering if I should take it or give in to the fact that I have lost you and that no amount of desire to be friends will ever change that.

GP at 5pm today. Lump 1 is static in size and position, lump 2 needs to be looked at. Blood letting is imminent.

Be well

Me