You wouldn’t necessarily know it, judging by most of what I’ve written around these parts, but I know love. I know all about it. I know about the butterflies in the chest and the longing in the heart. I know all about late nights and early morning conversations. I know all about passionate sex and the passionate fights. I know all about the tears and the laughter. I know all about the emotional tumult, the primal and inexplicable yearning that singers sing about and writers write about. I also know that making love last has nothing to do with all of that shit and everything to do with choices; with choosing to love someone, even when you don’t feel like it.

But I’m not here to talk about love. Not really. I mean, pretty much every song, movie, book, recipe and user manual ever written is about love in some way. So I figured I wouldn’t add to the clutter. And it is clutter. Clutter designed to sell you, me, all of us something. Don’t believe me? Google love, and see what happens. Actually, you don’t need to because I did and I’m sharing with you my thoughts on a few of the most popular search results. Consider this my Valentine’s Day gift to you. Enjoy!.

LOVE POEMS? YES!

So, love poems are a big deal. I guess that shouldn’t be too surprising. I mean, who doesn’t like a good love poem? And according to the site “if you are looking for love poems or love quotes, you have come to the right place”. Well, I wasn’t really looking for a love poem but hey why not? So, I clicked on the “love poems” link. You can view the entire collection or select a number from a list and you’ll be directed to a poem. I like the number 10. I chose poem number 10. Love poem #10 was written by Meghan. This poem has a nursery rhyme like quality to it. And it expresses the typical love poem stuff. The stuff that usually makes me nauseous/snicker/guffaw and reminds me that modern conceptions of love make it sound like a disease or syndrome. Don’t believe me? Check this passage:

“I love you with my heart,
My body and my soul,
I love the way I keep loving,
Like a love I can’t control”

Really? All your body? And your soul? The way you keep loving you can’t control? That sounds suspiciously like Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I don’t want anyone loving me like this. Nooooooo thank you. I want to be wanted. Not needed. Like a crutch. Or a laxative.

LOVE MATH

Who doesn’t love math? Who doesn’t love love? Who doesn’t love the love calculator. This is frankly ridiculous. And a time waster. I like ridiculous. And I love wasting time. I proceeded to match myself with some of my favourite female bloggers. The results are not very promising:

Sam Sharpe + Her Lil Black Book = 43% Love. This might have worked better if I entered her real name. But isn’t it funny that the Love Calculator doesn’t discriminate and accepted “Her Lil Black Book” as her name. Brilliant.

Sam Sharpe + Skye Blue = 53% Love. Apparently we have a reasonable chance of working out. The Love Calculator is clearly not good at love math.

Sam Sharpe + Elizabeth Rose = 63% Love. Yes! Finally! A C-! Now we’re getting somewhere. And clearly my love increases in 10 per cent increments.

Sam Sharpe + Nikki B = 15% Love. Yikes! So much for that 10 per cent increment thing. Oh well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be….screw it, I’ve got my own math. I’m gonna say that other 85% is lust. I know Nikki likes lust. God (and math) knows I do. So yeah, we can definitely still get down!

Sam Sharpe + Man Shopper = 61% Love. It’s a little disconcerting that I still haven’t broken 65%. What, is there something wrong with my personality? I guess a 61% isn’t too bad but it could never work between us. She travels too much.

Sam Sharpe + Max-Logic = 56% Love. I can’t believe I’ve wasted my (and your) time with this. I guess that’s what the pursuit of love does to a man.

THE BIG SELL

Okay, does anyone know what the hell lovingyou.com and thelovemagazine.co.uk are? I sure as hell don’t but they must have something to do with love right? A quick glance suggests Lovingyou.com is Cosmo-esque while thelovermagazine.co.uk is giving me a headache the likes of which I haven’t had since my sister forced me to watch FashionTelevision with Jeanne Beker when I was young. Though lovingyou.com did teach me that Kim Kardashian is a pear, Audrina Partridge is a wedge, Natalie Portman is a rectangle, Jennifer Hudson is an apple and Beyonce is an hourglass. And sooooo one named. Hmmm, two sites designed to sell a certain lifestyle to women are among the most popular search results for love. I wonder what that could mean.

HOW DOES THIS LOVE THING WORK ANYWAY?

Ever ask yourself that? Ever wonder just how this love thing works anyway. Well, just Google it. You’ll see there’s a Wiki for that plus a howstuffworks for it too. The howstuffworks spiel is pretty standard love stuff and come to think of it the Wiki is as well. But I’m partial to the Wiki because they’ve got a video on the very first page. And I’m a sucker for video. Anyway, if you watch the video, fast forward to the woman at the :33 mark. She says, and I quote “…where you’re so hot for the person you can’t breathe, eat or sleep.” Seriously people. Tell me this doesn’t sound like Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Folks, I owe you all an apology for falling down on the job yesterday. All I can say is that my post was pretty much ready to go, but as the computer gods have not been on my side this week it’s stuck on the hard drive of my desktop computer. The one attached to the monitor that faded to a very picture-less black on me last night, where my post will remain until I have a chance to run out and find one to replace it later this week. Needless to say, the month of January came to a rather lack lustre end for me, so believe me when I tell you, I’m overjoyed that it’s…

Finally it’s February!

Now you all know how we do here. A new month, means a new topic and for the next few weeks we plan to keep things light, lively and full of L-O-V-E. Of course as we’re not at all inclined to get all soft and mushy in the name of St. Valentine and his spend in the name of love because engaging in conspicuous consumption is the only real way to show you care ‘holiday’, there’ll definitely be more than a bit of our trademark lewdness this month too, because we’ll all (that’d be myself, Sam, our girl Coco and a gaggle of guest writers) be penning posts on the following theme…

What do you L-O-V-E?

Which means you can expect all sorts of gushing and over sharing on all the things that really turn our cranks when it comes to dating, relationships, sex (cause let’s face it, what’s not to love?) and even love.

Good people, our month long love-in starts to tomorrow and it’s bound to get real interesting, so make sure you come back soon to check out what we’ve got going on.

See on the other side,

SB

When it comes to sex as a performance, it’s not a matter of whether or not it is, or whether or not one should approach it as such…but simply…to what degree. Life is a performance and sex is no different. The real question is just exactly who am I performing for? Because I assure you, it’s more often than not, not the easy answer of but your partner of course. And then more than this is the why behind the escapade or depending on degrees, more aptly titled the charade.

Sex is like ice cream. It comes in any flavor you can imagine. And here are just a few of the flavors that drip themselves upon my tongue. Power sex. Makeup sex. Hate sex. Hotel sex. Vacation sex. Novelty sex. Sampler sex. Revenge sex. Love sex.

Power sex is about me. And you. It validates me. It’s a pat on the back not to worry sweetie, you’re hot, you’re desirable, you can get what you want when you want it. Sure enough you might be in the audience, but the show is for me.

Makeup sex is about us. Together. And apart. I ‘m sorry and you’re sorry and this is how we say it, even if we’ve already said it with words, or maybe exactly because we didn’t or couldn’t. Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cathartic. But the slate is getting washed clean. You wash my slate. I wash your slate. And then the curtains close and the show is over.

Hate sex is about putting me before you. Because I hate you. And also probably love you. But mostly hate you. Maybe because you broke me. Or maybe you just chipped me a bit and I shed a tear or two but we’re through and this is how I say it. I’ll be more aggressive. The sex will be louder, and faster, and harder, and when we’re done I’ll have my clothes on before you can even think to reach for a towel. It might happen only once or I might come back a few times. Really, it just depends on how much rage I still have to work out. But you can be certain. You won’t come out of this without a scratch. And more than just a few bite marks.

Hotel sex is about everybody and nobody. It’s a show for anyone within listening distance. These aren’t my neighbors. These aren’t my sheets. And I haven’t a care in the world. But it’s also something private. And intimate. Because I’ll likely do just about anything, try anything, be anyone, go ahead and ask for your greatest fantasy. Hotel rooms are like little chambers of time and space that don’t exist outside of the four walls encapsulating it. They are a safe space. And while I’m not moaning louder, panting faster, or yelling out fuck me harder for anyone but you. Unlike at home, I don’t care if anyone hears. You’ll fuck me stupid and then I’ll send you out for donuts. With sprinkles!

Vacation sex is about me and my friends, and my spank bank. I’m putting on a show for myself. Look at me, I’m so daring, I’m so scandalous, I’m so indulgent, and I can do whatever I want. And then I do. And it’s a fantasy. And it’s amazing. And you’re so attractive. And everything is just so tropical, or foreign, or spontaneous. And then I’ll go home. And tell all my friends about the amazing sex I had while on Vacation. And I’ll think of you again, warm against my flesh when I’m wet and warm under my sheets. You’ll get me through many a cold winter night when who has time to go out and date when all I want is to help myself off to a good night of sleep. And I’ll cherish you. And what you did for me.

Novelty sex is a grab bag. Sometimes it’s for me, because I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be with two guys. Sometimes it’s about you, because you wanted to see what it was like to rip a whole in my nylons and do me through it and I’m nothing if not a good sport for someone who deserves it. And sometimes it’s about both of us, when there’s role play and suddenly I’m performing for you and you’re performing for me and suddenly the role of audience becomes intertwined in our interactive live show.

Sample sex is about me. And testing you. Though you may or may not really be able to control your performance. Maybe we’ve gone out on one date and you were absolutely fucking tedious we just didn’t click but you’re super hot and I could use a good booty call. Or maybe we’ve gone on three or four dates and we have a good time, not a great time but good enough and frankly I’m trying to figure out if our time together is worth the effort to put on makeup and shave my legs. Either way. I sleep with you. And it’s a test. Not one that you might pass or fail in the sense that you have any real control. But more like a litmus test. I’m testing to see if your acid balances out my base to form the most intensely balanced pH. I’m testing to see if you can fuck me science…er…I mean silly. This is sampler sex, and I’m dipping my toe in your waters. Whether or not you have any idea.

Revenge sex is about you. Because it hurts. Because it hurts me. Because you’ve hurt me. And so this about me trying to hurt you. Or at least make you flinch. Two for flinching!! And the thing of thing is, you’re not even the one getting laid. Maybe it’s your best friend. Maybe it’s your brother. Maybe it’s your cousin. Or even just your roommate from college. But it’s a sad bad mad thing that I’m doing. And no one will come out the better for it. But people do it anyway. I’m going to do it anyway. The revenge is about you, it’s a show I’m putting on for you and the other guy, my co-star…well…I barely notice him. And the whole thing is so misguided and childish and spiteful and unhealthy but dammit if I’m not going to fall down the rabbit hole anyway.

Love sex is about us. I look into your eyes, run my hand along your jaw line. Trace my thumb across your check until just before it touches your lips. Those are for me, waiting for mine. Lips kiss. Part. Wait. Pant. Hold. Nuzzle down into my neck. There are slow times. Soft times. Fast times. Hard times. Passionate times. No secret times. Sharing everything even this moment times. We lock fingers. Intertwine like highschoolers walking through a county fair. It borders on sappy and gross. But we don’t care. Nobody is watching. Nobody else matters. This is for us. You. Me. Us.  Love.

And I’m sure you. He. They. Her. The other person. Has their own view, another side to all our fantastical sexcapades. These Performances of Passion. These Luaus of Lust.  These Dances of Desire. These Operas of Orgasm. But sometimes I’m just fucking for myself. Sure you’re there. You’re necessary. You’re an integral ingredient. But the reasons why you’re there. Why I picked you. Picked now. Picked here. Or there.  Well that’s about me. Narcissistically nuanced sex. And don’t pretend you don’t do it to.

And sometimes the sex is good, healthy, stable type sex. And sometimes it’s false, destructive, broken type sex. That’s life. A mix bag. A grab bag. You just never know what you’re going to get. But just remember that the next time some young 22 year old lets you fuck her in the backseat of her car, parked down some dimly lit rarely used street, at four am after the club…she’s probably just doing it for the feeling of power it gives her. And if you’re cool with that, then fuck away my friend. But know that she’s faking. And that’s really the biggest problem with performing sex. A girl not getting off, and a boy not knowing.

It’s a new year. Many are making resolutions. I don’t really do resolutions but the powers that be around here have bullied me into making a few, so I will grudgingly offer some of my own. However, before I join the ranks of the newly resolved in 2012 let me take a moment to reflect on a few things 2011 taught me about myself, sex, and dating. And love.

One man’s freak is another man’s vanilla: In 2011 I attended my first kinky party. I saw whips. And chains. And leather. I saw a woman give a blow job to another woman. I saw paddles. And harnesses. And benches. I saw a man “punching” a woman’s buttocks. I saw studs. And body paint. And piercings. Nudity was everywhere. It taught me one thing; in some quarters I’m considered lewd, a little freaky and a bit kinky but the truth is I’m pretty vanilla.

Private Parts: Everyone loves a little voyeurism and exhibitionism right? Or is that just me? Anyway, as I’ve already mentioned, I’m not a total stranger to being watched or to taped sexual activity. I discussed some of my exploits with a lady who was curious and game to take a “peek”. My curiosity was piqued. My loins peaked. And she got her peek. In the end I felt strange, I think she felt strange but we’ve haven’t talked about it since and perhaps never will. The lesson here? I might not have any shame.

Gentleman’s club? No thanks: A close friend married his “soul-mate” this past summer. The bachelor party featured an evening at the rippers. The joint was jam packed with fine a$$ women with fine a$$ legs & a$$e$. I’m a legs and a$$ man so you’d figure I was in my element. Nope. I was bored out of my skull. If you’ve seen one naked t*tty jiggling to Usher or the Black Eyed Peas you’ve seen ‘em all. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It just reinforced something I already knew: nudity is only arousing in certain contexts. Oh, and as I’ve said before women worry way too much about what happens at bachelor parties.

Private Parts, Episode 2: After an evening of food, music, dancing and mucho alcohol a (I think) lucky lady convinced me to perform my best sexual chocolate strip tease routine. I shimmied. And shaked. I turned. And twisted. I bumped. And grinded. And at the moment of truth, when it came time for the big reveal; someone, something, somewhere in the depths of my reptilian brain–let’s call him/it my inner moron–decided it would be a good idea to rhythmically and forcefully move, nay, shake my hips from side to side thereby propelling my erect penis back and forth like a rigid hose possessed by Lucifer’s minions. What happened next? That, I will not share but I feel duty bound to inform you all that the lady in question has requested another Sam Sharpe Stripperpalooza. The lesson here? Yes, I might not have any shame (unless of course it powers my sexual imagination). And some girls like demon possessed hoses.

So, if you’re scoring at home, we know 2011 taught me that I’m not all that kinky, I might be shameless, bachelor parties bore me and yes there’s actually no might, because shame is just the sexual lubricant of my mind. But what about 2012? What are my resolutions? Simple. I, Sam Sharpe, resolve to embrace my lack of shame and indulge my inner moron as much as possible without breaking laws or offending the slightly less moronic. And of course I’m going to come here and share it all with you. Shamelessly.

Oh, and based on what I’ve just written I realize I apparently learned nothing about love in 2011. So I’m going to try rectifying that, I’m going to try and learn something new about me as it pertains to love. Why not? There’s no shame in learning about love is there?

We humans are subject to the eclectic variations of a vast array of external influences. We are the products of an ever changing assortment of external factors, and the formation of our characters is the result of our personalities being moulded by these outside forces.

I believe that through no fault of my own, I was unwittingly influenced, changed by one such force. The most terrifying, dangerous, beautiful, amazing and truly life changing event each of us will ever experience:

S-E-X.

It can really change a person. Unfortunately for me, no one ever stopped to tell me just how much my approach to sex could and would change my life…

When I was a wee lad at an all boys academy in England the only prior knowledge of sexuality that I was privy to was delivered to me by my father; an Irish Catholic, yet very liberal. For him my education on the birds and the bees was to place me in front of the television with a VHS of an old Bond movie in the recorder whilst he slouched back with a glass of whisky. Before long my life had become some what of a child’s fantasy (in essence I wanted to be James Bond) and I treated women with the same dismissive nature as Connery did whenever he would slap a girl on the arse and say “run along sweetheart, it’s time for some man talk.”

Perhaps it was the violent way in which my parents would treat each other, their smouldering glares, my father’s love of other women and scotch, or perhaps it may have been their divorce that sent me on this path. However, one thing was very clear to me from a very early age:

I had a deep distrust of love!

Thus when it came to my formal sexual education I found myself aloof throughout the deliverance of one long, rambling essay by our ill at ease and ever blushing school nurse. The most notable part of her cringe worthy monologue was the fact that it was liberally peppered with “you must behave like this,” or “that is bad and can lead to this.” Her decision to highlight only the most negative aspects and most dangerous ramifications a young man might face as he set upon his voyage of sexual exploration made it impossible for me to hear, much less digest, the few useful bits information she did share. One thing was for sure though, the more dangerous she made it sound the more eager I was to consummate the act; in my mind it was the key to me achieving the ever elusive concept of masculinity.

We weren’t told what to expect upon engaging in sexual activity or how our lives could eventually become consumed by our desire for sex. None of us were informed about what we might feel before, or how changed we may sense ourselves to be afterwards. Nobody bothered to tell me how pressured I’d feel to complete this rite of passage, or how competitive it would become between younger males to win the position of Alpha in the sexual realm.

Needless to say, twelve months after sitting through the unbearable lecture that was the beginning and end of my formal sex education, when I was about to have my very first sexual experience with a girl who lived just up the road, I was completely unprepared. So, I did the only thing I could think of to quell my mounting fear: turn to drink.

I wasn’t afraid of the act, instead I was quite astute in researching a woman’s body and its erogenous zones, but what I was unprepared for was how insecure I would feel the second I took off my clothes in front of a girl for the first time. How intimate and vulnerable I’d feel in giving myself completely to one person.

I lost my virginity to a girl called Michelle…and a bottle of Jack Daniels!

In my fear-filled and drunken state I paid little heed to my lover’s feelings. Instead I focused on making the event as cinematic as I could. In my mind I saw every love scene I’d ever witnessed on the screen and threw as much passion into it as my inebriated body could muster. However, regardless of any passion or skill the act itself was completely devoid of one thing: emotion. In the silence of the moment and in the dark of night I sensed her unease and vulnerability, but the only post coital phrase that I offered to her was a mumbled,

“Why are you putting your underwear back on?”

when I noticed she was hustling back into her clothes, giving me a clear and rather demoralising indication that she was not up for a second go. I’d allowed that deep distrust to creep back in, and in a moment that should have been about the fusing of two people into one I’d allowed my own narcissism and fear of intimacy ruin the first time of a girl that I haven’t seen since.

My sexual experience was a hasty and utterly un-emotive act that provided me with the earliest foreshadowing of the emotionally devoid young man that I would eventually become. Since that early age I have found myself struggling with three addictions:

The need to be the Alpha Male,

A problem with excessive drinking and

An insatiable need to fuck virtually everyone I meet.

However, I cannot help but feel that if someone had explained to me that sex was more than just a physical act, somehow impressed upon me how incredibly powerful and life altering an experience it would be, that I may have learnt to deal with its emotional aspects a little better. If someone had been wise enough to move me away from the misogyny of those sixties films and the influence of my father’s warped sense of masculinity then perhaps I’d be capable of love. Alas, we are all the products of those external forces aren’t we? Though it may only take a moment to plant a seed of thought it can take a lifetime to try and chop the tree of its influence down.

And there you have it ladies and gents; the thing I really wish they’d taught me in sexual education is the importance of exploring your feelings in connection to sex. That although it may be a rite of passage if you approach sex like it’s a race just might leave you a very different person than you ever imagined you would become.

Until next time…

Love and Only Love,

James.

He tastes like a conversation. Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches. Ablaze. That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries. He stands trial before me. He stands there. Not here but there. Where. In a moment long before I forget him. A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me. My eyes roll back and I wonder how I’ve managed to last this long without his Dictionary inside me.

Roll my hand across the spine. Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me. Me. I stand there. Not here but there. Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we’ve even begun till a hand something like his stops mine.  Bookmark this moment he says. Take this hand. Take his hand. Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me. Hush.  Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip.  Kisses hard and fast. Wet and warm. Tastes something like cinnamon.  Synonym. Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance. Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger. Something bare. Bear with me he says.

Pause. Silence. A moment. Take a breath. There is a break. Here. Not there but here. We break apart in this moment. And look each other in the eyes. Long like Johns. Buzzing like summer nights when there’s trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones the rate at which I fall in love. He is. Empathetic. Pause. Silence. A moment. And when it’s ready. When we’ve stewed. In the wanton wanting. I hold what’s akin to arms wrapped in armour. Out to him. Stripped bare. Next to naked. Stand patient and waiting. Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear. He is my bear. Fish for fun to feed him. Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us. Our love is a cyclone. Cylindrical. Circular. Cyclical. Our love is an Encyclopaedia. Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours. Spreads apart the folds of my blankets. Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet. Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold. Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath. Fresh and sweet. Fun and simple. Find and set free. He is my hero. My soldier. My Professor. Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle. Partners. Patterns. Palpable. Our love is palpable. Our love is passion. Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast. Jam type love.

And he is my reference text. Indexing the moments I can’t decide. He is my anchor. Sailor’s hands. Rough and sea worthy of my every inch. I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice. Sounding vowels to find guidance. Breaking rules to form poetry. I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements. Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I’m turning his similes into smiles. He parades parables down my throat. Panting. Panting. Panting. Hold close in sweat and pheromones. Fall prey to moments I can’t control, for him. Let him hold me in the one moment I finally become vulnerable.

Want to be his  diatribe, want to write his soliloquy. Hold words like babies until they stop crying. A life of possibility. Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it. 3am feedings from fountains of feelings. Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity. Syllable. Sellable. Seeable. See me able. To breathe. Just this once. Bearable. Bear with me he says. Take this moment and bear it. Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way. And that’s when it happens. Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth. Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.

Euphony he says. What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules. You funny he says and kisses my cheek you were always my baby you know. Long before I ever knew you existed. And we fall asleep. Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the boldness and beauty of each other. Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context. I kiss him once more. And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

For as long as I’ve been a part of The Urban Dater I’ve written of my distaste for weddings and the whole idea of marriage. I’ve stated that I don’t think you need the formal ceremony to let people know you’re committed. You can read about it here. With so much attention on the Royal Wedding along with my sister’s upcoming nuptials I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about weddings and marriage. Why does it make my stomach turn? Why does it scare the hell out of me to even consider entering into that arrangement with someone? Why does the thought of being a mother give me nightmares? My aversion to all these things can be dissected in therapy until even I don’t understand it, but after some thinking I realized why I have such a bad taste in my mouth about the whole thing. There are two reasons: my ex and love. Allow me to explain.

I was in a serious relationship that came thisclose to marriage. When I was with him all I wanted was to be married and start a family. I saw that future with him. It didn’t scare me in the least. I loved him and I was anxious to settle down. I was ready to be a suburban soccer mom. But it ended, I was broken, and the idea of building that life with someone else and then risking losing it was too much for me to endure again.

After our break up marriage and kids became an incredibly scary scenario for me. I was terrified by the thought of how easily a relationship could end because someone stopped loving you or realized you weren’t the one after all. The scars he left on me run deep. So deep that I vowed I’d never get married or have kids. I went from really wanting those things to being repulsed by them. Don’t get me wrong, kids are scary, and loud and needy and messy. But they are also cute, funny and possibly a blessing. However, the idea of being responsible for another life frightens me. At times I feel like I can barely take care of myself. To quote Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don’t have any kids yourself.