‘I am both narcissistic and self-involved. Fortunately, I am also entertaining.’*
I had my first kiss at the age of 18, underneath a weeping willow after an afternoon screening of The Thomas Crown Affair. Laura was also my first girlfriend, the first woman I shared a bed with, and the first person to break my heart. These days she lives with her husband and two beautiful children in a small town near Munich: I visit regularly.
I’ve written before about losing my virginity. The woman who ‘took’ it, Katy, is now (of all things) an Anglican Minister, happily married for the last nine years to the other guy she was dating when I met her. After Katy came Julia, who I loved intensely, and who left me after 12 wonderful months for a wry, worldly Scotsman. At the time, I wanted to murder him; now I ‘like’ their holiday photos on Facebook.
I’m 33, and for the first time in 8-10 years I haven’t been to a wedding this summer: everyone’s already married. My Facebook timeline has been turned into a baby beauty pageant, as my friends compete to see whose offspring is most photogenic. My younger sister has married and divorced one man, and is about to buy an apartment with another. At a recent work dinner for people in my department, I was the only one who showed up without a partner. I am not the only single man in London, but sometimes it sure feels like it.
Why is this? Why am I single? Because I suck at relationships.
I’m good at a lot of things. I’m good at flipping beermats, scrambling eggs and playing pool. I’m good at squash, Scrabble and speaking in public. I’m annoyingly good at spelling, endearingly good at making small children laugh, and exceptionally good at choosing (and drinking) wine. I’ve been told I’m pretty good in bed too…
It’s not very British of me, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with recognising and talking about your strengths…as long as you’re also willing and able to do the same with your weaknesses. For example, I can’t paint or draw to save my life. I can’t change a tyre, or fix a boiler, or put up shelves. I’m terrible at downing shots, and even worse with pints. I’m standoffish around people I don’t know, and frequently tactless or rude with those I do, especially when drunk.
And I suck at relationships.
If that sounds like false modesty, let me tell you now: it’s not. I suppose I was good at them once, but my last few serious relationships have been car crashes of one kind or another, and for that I have no-one but myself to blame. Why? Well…
Fundamentally, I’m a pretty selfish person. Or rather, I’m selectively unselfish, which in some ways is the most selfish position of all. I have a social conscience, I’m a good listener, and I care about people; but I don’t let them get close to me very easily, and I’m quick to put up barriers when I want to focus on my own shit, even if someone else really needs me. I compartmentalise. I can spend two hours talking to someone on the phone, then barely give them a second thought for the next three days.
It all means that as good as I am at physical intimacy, that’s how poor I can be at the emotional side of things, especially in the sort of relationship where communication, openness and dependability are supposed to make up the glue that binds you together. When I was 17, my history teacher told me that I was one of the most gifted students he’d ever taught, but also perhaps the most frustrating.
“Your problem, boy, is that you’re lazy. There’s genius in your work, but it’s not consistent, reliable genius, and that will be what holds you back in the end. You won’t always be able just to pull something out of the bag when you need it, and one day you’ll find yourself failing as a result.”
He was a remarkably perceptive man, that Mr McCullagh. I never did get my academic comeuppance, but his analysis could equally apply to how I approach relationships. It’s not that I’m lazy, but I certainly disengage, and in the past I’ve been guilty of acting as if the odd grand gesture here and there can paper over the cracks left by neglect or lack of consideration.
“Being with you was never dull”, one ex told me, as she gathered up the last of her stuff from my apartment. It wasn’t meant as a compliment. There’s genius in my work, yes, but it’s not consistent, reliable genius, and I am not a consistent, reliable boyfriend.
Then there’s the cheating. I’ve been in five ‘serious’ relationships, and I’ve cheated on my partner in three of them. Two of those were long-distance, but while that sort of mitigates the offence, it doesn’t in any way excuse it. I cheated because I was bored, or because I was angry, or because my self-esteem was low and I knew that sleeping with someone would give it a boost; but mainly I cheated because I could – and because I could get away with it. Sometimes I’d feel guilty about it, but often I wouldn’t, especially in the last couple of relationships; not that I felt any better on those occasions, because when the act itself failed to induce a sense of shame, I’d just feel guilty about my lack of guilt instead.
These days though, I think of the cheating more as symptom than cause. I didn’t suck at relationships because I cheated; I cheated because I sucked at relationships – and because I knew it. That awareness is the main reason why I’m single at the moment. Being single is easy. There are still people I can fail, or let down, or disappoint, but when it comes to love and sex, the only person I’m really accountable to is myself.
I’m not going to pretend that’s an admirable position, or even a particularly desirable one. It has obvious upsides, of course. It means I can see a couple of people on a regular basis, but it also means I can go to Eroticon and hook up with someone in the hotel toilets. It means I can fly across an ocean for a dirty weekend with a woman I’ve never met. It means I can go on dates with Guardian journalists and BBC presenters and award-winning authors (especially when they all happen to be the same person). It means freedom, and adventure, and excitement, and all that good shit, but it also means a nagging sense of failure, inadequacy and emptiness. Relationships aren’t meant to be easy, but they are meant to be something to which we can all commit with a minimal amount of drama or fuss. To admit that I can’t – or that I won’t – is to lay the selfish, dysfunctional side of me out there for the world to see.
My lack of success with relationships is one of the reasons why I write about sex. Sex is easy and I’m good at it. I’m in my comfort zone, and while that doesn’t mean I don’t still have hang-ups and worries, I can largely focus on all the positive stuff, rather than being dragged down by the demons swirling around my feet. It’s also why I admire the people who can write about sex, and sexuality, and love, while also maintaining happy, well-rounded relationships with their partner or partners. In Olympic diving, competitors are scored on the difficulty of the dive, as well as the execution: some of the blogs I read are pulling off inward 4½ somersaults with pike, while my writing more closely resembles a running bomb into the deep end of the local council pool. It’s still effective, but I’m not exactly pushing myself with my choice of subject matter.
When I was 18, and I kissed Laura under that willow tree, I wanted to get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. Part of me still wants that. Yes, I’m single by choice, but that choice is informed by the knowledge that right now I’m not the best person I can be, especially when it comes to relationships. One day that will change, I’m sure.
For now, I will continue to sit on my island and nibble on the low-hanging blogging fruit. Whether or not it’s good for me, it tastes delicious.
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*Quotation stolen from a brilliant friend of mine. Thanks, brilliant friend!
