When I’m going to London again, I’m expecting the worst.
Or better: I’m not expecting anything anymore.
But I’m slightly curious.
I’ve done my work.
Coaching, constellation work, inner child work, a lot of it.
When we had agreed on me spending this early September week in his house in London, it was still spring. I was still in love. Or caught in a drama that felt like love, but was a distorted caricature of it.
I consider canceling the week, but my flights from Berlin to London and from London to New York are already booked, so I stick to my plans.
Let’s be pragmatic, darling. Hotels in London are expensive.
I’m nervous at the bus, but when I walk the familiar path to his house and see the red door entwined with untended plants, I feel warm and at home.
So warm.
So at home.
He welcomes me.
Hands me my keys.
We have a tea and a chat on the small sofa with the sheepskin.
He says he had missed me.
He says he had forgotten the intensity of my unique radiance.
When his kids are asleep he fucks me.
Once he shivers for minutes and says he’s having a full-body-orgasm.
But he never cums inside of me. He jumps up quickly and breathes heavily every time he’s close.
He never falls asleep in my bed.
He leaves my room after fucking me.
There’s not even an afterglow.
I wonder if that’s an agreement between him and his girlfriend.
I’m fascinated by how little I care.
When we make love in his kitchen and he’s wrapping my long white legs around his perfectly shaped Indian prince neck, I smile.
„Now we’re an old couple“, I say.
Then SHE arrives.
I never see her.
They’re coming home on Friday after midnight. They’re drunk and on drugs. They laugh, scream and dance. They’re turning on music and the bass is droning through the house until morning. She screams, he moans. Again and again.
They seem to have forgotten I’m there.
They seem to have forgotten I will teach an important online-class in the morning.
I don’t sleep at all.
I plug my AirPods in my ears so I at least don’t hear every single groan.
I get up at 6 am, totally whacked.
But somehow clear.
I leave the house to get some oat milk from Sainsbury’s around the corner.
The security person is trilling a friendly „Good Morning“ when I enter, and says „Have a good one“ when I leave.
His kindness is infectious.
I say Good Morning to the garbage guy and smile broadly. He’s smiling back.
„Yes, I will have a good one“, I think. „Fuck you, handsome man. Fuck you, I’ll not allow you to determine if my day will be good.“
I teach with glory.
While I’m on Zoom, they fuck once more and I hope my students won’t hear them.
When I’m done, I plug my ears again, listen to loud music, pack my bag, leave the house and take the train to Cambridge to visit Benjamin and his girlfriend Sarah.
My brain is incapable of integrating the contrast.
The handsome man’s house is old, scruffy, noisy, cramped full with books and musical instruments. And for some reason, it’s also peaceful and I love it.
Benjamin's house is new, super neat, spotlessly tidy, exquisitely furnished, and his fancy hybrid car is parking at the carport.
He and Sarah have cooked dinner in advance. They welcome me warmly with wine and food. They are the most attentive, courteous, lovely hosts. My bedroom is prepared thoroughly. It feels as if I was visiting an exhibition. For some reason, I love that, too.
The next day, I go back to the handsome man’s house to pack my suitcase.
The music’s still on, I can hear them in the bedroom.
I don’t say goodbye.
I book a tiny hotel room close to Paddington station for my last night in Europe.
When I’m at the bus, I feel full of dignity, although a heavy migraine seems to burst asunder my head.
„He’s like Jekyll and Hyde“, I think.
I love who he is when he’s sober and without her.
I can’t stand who he is when he’s drunk, on drugs and with her. And so I move forward.
I wonder if it’s possible to love only one part of a person.
I wonder who I am to love such contrary people and places.
Maybe I’m nobody.
Maybe I’m empty.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
