My living situation has gone from steady to not. I’m used to being a waif, though now I feel like I’m just too old for it, too tired, too comfortable with being clean and unwrinkled. My absence from posting is obviously due to not being near my laptop. Anyway for the past six days I have stayed with different boys. Collecting a shirt here, a cardigan there, slight differences in what I wear each day, just to make me feel like I’m not completely homeless. I’ve carried around just my purse for the past six days, without my luggage, and to be honest without a plan.
I’ve always lied about my age for good reason, when people know how young you are people feel responsible for you. I never want anyone to feel responsible for me, I’m responsible for myself and whatever bullshit I do. I land on my feet, and I will do whatever is necessary. I’m big on survival, and I’ve done it all before.
I’ve never been one that needs to be saved, but who am I to deny the sincere worry that people have for me? If there wasn’t that I really would go without a place to stay. So I accept it.
The first night of my waif-ness, I hopped from friend to friend; luckily I’ve become acquainted with a few bartenders who are keen on giving me a few drinks in turn for my dramatics. Jamie says, “Where are you going to stay, you idiot, you can’t do this, you’re 18, in a different country. You can’t be like this, you’re so aimless, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” I don’t know, what am I supposed to do? I’m not particularly nervous because in the back of my mind I know Nathan is done work at 3, a safety net.
Kyle is djing so I go and see him, he’s a waif in the best possible way. He’s been like that since I met him two years ago. He always carries around a bag with everything he needs in it, always staying out late so he can stay at someone’s for the night. Almost admirably he works in this way.
It’s 3am, I go back to Jamie’s and we smoke some hash and I ask him if how many times he’s been in love. “Twice, but they didn’t love me back.” I told him that I had been in love before and it was mutual and exact and he said, “No, doesn’t exist.” It does, but it’s horrible.
Jamie is a musician, his face is perfect, and aggravatingly always in a daze. He knows every girl in London, at least that’s what it seems like. When he’s not drunk he’s always miserable. In my mind, he’s what my next boyfriend would look like. I’ve thought of trying to “be on it” with him, but with that sort of boy, it’s always better to wait for him to advance. Why? Because sex makes no difference to him, he can have whatever girl he wants and with that knowledge he is apathetic to the idea. He’s the kind where when a girl advances and he’s miserable he will just tell her to fuck off and turn his back to her. Nothing fucks me off more than a boy with his back to me.
In bed Jamie pulls me towards him, he does this whenever I edge further away. The motion of him pulling me closer isn’t of attraction or lust or infatuation, it’s not even sexual, it’s just an action for him. That’s when I decided I would never have sex with him.
I lay in bed all night half dreaming, half awake. I wanted to be held, but not like that.
