When the Priest bound their hands, at their bizarre, disorganised, beautiful wedding – the same Priest who would Christen their children – I realised it was all I would never have.

Twice, it hadn’t been right.

Twice, I’d shrunk from the question.

And instead, I would stand, years from now, bound in sequins and red cloth, shaming my parents and his.  Twice, I would be blessed by Gods I thought I cared nothing for – his and mine.

And stood in that church, holding flowers, holding hands, I knew I’d look back on that day, breathless in a corseted dress, afraid in the unfamiliar eyes of God.  I knew right then, in that moment, that I’d look back and I’d wish that that day had been mine.

And, it could have been, would have been.  I’m not sorry, not regretful, but ashamed.  Of what he is, of what we are, of what I have become.

Holding on, keeping faith, and all the time knowing – I’ve given up the world for someone who can’t shake the shame of me.

On his wedding day, my Best Friend held my hands in his, and whispered,

“It’s all wrong.”

And I’ve searched and searched, at the bottom of every bottle, to find the meaning, find the answer.

My first thought was that he meant his marriage.  But seeing how happy he was, erased any doubts I might have had.  He wasn’t talking about his relationship, or mine.  He wasn’t talking about us.

Our relationships are built on different stones, with meanings and reasons that couldn’t be more different.  We might be wrong together, but does that mean we’re right with the people we’ve chosen?

He loves his wife, and she loves him – the only thing that stands in their way of happiness is her lack of desire for children so early on in their marriage.  But he knows he’ll turn her to his way of thinking, whether it’s right or wrong to do so.

And me?  The only thing really standing in the way of my happiness, is me. 

I’m all wrong.

I am a quarter of a century old today.
(And coincidentally, this is also my blog’s 100th post)

I have done nothing I had planned to do before I hit this milestone.
And I am nowhere near.

I have done little I am proud of, and little that I regret.
My mistakes make me who I am, and my achievements are few and far between.

I am not a mother.
I am a substitute – a teacher.
Someone who borrows your children until 3.15pm, just to feel a little bit of their joy.

I am not a wife.
I am a dirty little secret.
Someone who is not quite good enough to risk a family for.

I am not myself.
I am treading water.
Someone who only knows the path home.

I am 25.  I have a whole lifetime ahead of me.
And it doesn’t feel like enough time.

A frumpy old woman pinned me into a bridesmaid dress that was made out of what I can only describe as scratchy, crappy, cheap material.

She said I looked beautiful, but we both knew I actually looked ridiculous.

When the Fiance had said, “I don’t want anyone to look prettier than me!”, she wasn’t kidding, and she was going all out to make sure no one did.

I felt like I’d borrowed my mum’s dressing up clothes, and I looked like I had, too.

I was the only bridesmaid who had boobs that didn’t resemble fried eggs, and so, unfortunately, the strapless dresses the Fiancé had chosen weren’t going to exactly work for me (something which had, perhaps, been intentional..).

And whilst the frumpy old woman pinned straps onto my strapless dress, I had a revelation.

It took me a little too long to realise.
- But I got there in the end.

Some people are too special to let slip away.
Some friendships are too precious to let fade.

We will fix this.  Because, I belong arm in arm with you, dickhead.

“Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.”
~ David Grayson

Nearly four years ago, despite me being in a relationship, someone asked me to marry them.  Granted, it was after we’d slammed three shots of tequila in a row.  But he meant it, and I knew.

He asked me one more time, one last time, before I walked away from my job, from him.

I never said, “No”.  I never needed to.  There was a mutual understanding that the answer was not, “Yes”.

Nearly four years ago, I kissed a cheek, held a hand – and walked out of a life that had never begun.

I sat in a room with over fifty people tonight, listening to speeches and shaking the hands of people from another world to mine.  People knew my name – either because they knew me, they knew my family, or they knew that I had been loved.  I had sat in rooms like this before, but with The Other-Half at my side.  Tonight, I didn’t feel small.  My smiles were not fake, and people laughed with me.

I tried to pay attention to the ceremony.  But to my right, there was a man in a turquoise tie, whose feet tapped quietly on the carpet.  And although he never looked across at me, I struggled to keep my gaze from him.

You can be whatever the people who love you, believe you can be. And as soon as I put the key into my front door and greeted The Other-Half through a haze of red wine, I suddenly became so much less than I had been tonight.

A lot of people will argue that you can’t love two people at once.  I would argue that you can, just never as much as they deserve.

There’s no love between us now, just the sad ache that takes over after love has left.

We live different lives, with paths that seldom cross.  But when they do, there’s a spark that burns a hole right through me, and a voice that asks, “What if..?”.  His face betrays him, and I know he feels it too.

I wouldn’t change those 12 months.  I regret not letting him know how much I felt, but I don’t regret not having to say no.

I often wonder what would have happened if I had said yes, if I hadn’t been a coward, if I hadn’t been afraid..
I often wonder what difference one word would have made.

Because sometimes, staying still, hoping that what you have will turn into everything you need – simply leaves you with nothing at all.

Tonight, I kissed a cheek, I held a hand – and again, I walked away from a man who truly deserved more.

After ignoring my calls for a significant amount of time, my best friend called, and said the three words I dreaded most..

“Can we talk?”

And so, we talked.
(Well, he bullshitted, and I listened.)

“I didn’t mean it, any of it, it was just pre-wedding jitters, and I’m sorry.
I know I’m an asshole for complicating things, so can you just punch me or something so we can go back to normal?”

How can it be ‘pre-wedding jitters when they have literally only just got engaged? Everything should be full of excitement and love!

I tried very hard to explain what was preventing us from going back to ‘normal’, but he just didn’t get it.

It wasn’t that I wanted to marry him, it wasn’t that I wanted to entertain the idea of anything more than friendship between us, it wasn’t that I didn’t want him to marry her. It was quite simply just that I didn’t want him to make a mistake.

As far as I’m concerned, we’ll probably both end up settling for someone who isn’t quite everything we’ve always wanted. But I don’t see why that matters, if you go into it with your eyes open. I don’t need a husband who’s going to be my best friend, I just need a husband (applications in the post, please!). I see no problem with keeping those roles completely separate. He, however, seems to have an issue with being closer to me than he is to his fiancé. But you can’t steal someones history, all you can do is make your own, over time.

He loves her, she loves him, I like her – how could I possibly think that their marriage will be a mistake?
Because, before he’s even got the ring on her finger, he’s trying to change her into someone else.

And that, is a recipe for marital suicide.

As for us, we’re trying. Everyone makes mistakes, and our motto has always been to forgive and forget.
We’re not ‘back to normal’. The dynamics of our relationship has changed in such a way that, I’m not entirely sure I know him as well as I thought I did. Forgiving is a given for us, but forgetting.. How do you forget something like that, when wedding plans are being forced in your face on a daily basis?

I think he’s making a terrible mistake, and I hope to hell and back that I’m proved wrong.

I came across possibly the most appropriate animation I’ve seen of a song, since.. Well, since forever.

It’s only love. Nothing else.
It’s not enough, and it wont do.

God bless YouTube for providing me with these little gems of animation and music rolled into one perfect package.. :-)

Once I’d had time for his words to sink in, I stopped being worried, I stopped being concerned that he would make a mistake. And I started being angry with him, for the first time.

Angry that he could have been so selfish. Angry that he opened his enormous man-mouth. Angry with him for being honest, for being so stupid, for proposing to her, for involving me, for complicating things, for ruining things.

I’m angry that he’s ignoring my calls, angry that he’s let his fiancé arrange another wedding-dress shopping spree with me. Angry that I listened to his words, saw his tears.

I’m angry with him, with myself, with her, with everything.

I’m not about to burst into a pre-teen post filled with angst about how awful my life is. Because it isn’t. I have a career I adore, a partner I’m happy with, a house that has become a home. But suddenly, every wonderful thing has become a little bit dull, a little bit empty.

I was offered a job yesterday, right next to where he works – over an hour’s drive away. Months ago, when I applied for it, the idea of driving an extra hour just so I could spend more time with him seemed like no sacrifice at all. But, to the receptionist’s shock, I turned it down instantly, repulsed by the things that had made me apply for it. ‘Nearer to you, closer to you.’

I turned it down because the thought of being near him makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn. My best friend, and the thought of him, of us, makes me feel physically ill.

Why? – Because he isn’t this person. He isn’t the person who proposes without meaning it, he isn’t the person who turns a friendship into a trainwreck of emotions. My best friend, once a little boy with the blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, now a man with the same deep blue eyes and scruffy, ruffled hair – he’s the most honest, wonderful person I know – ten times the person I could ever hope to be. And I feel cheated, as though every memory, every moment, every photograph and phone call was meaningless and fake.

On one hand, I’m just thoroughly sickened by this whole thing, this whole drama.
On the other, I just want to kiss and make up, forget he ever opened his mouth, get my best friend back.
But the truth is, I’m pretty sure the road back to where we were, is permanently closed.

There’s only one person who could fix this, who could find the words that no one else knew, who could kiss things better – and unfortunately, that person is the person who is to blame.

For the first time in a very long time – I’m facing a horrible, frightening situation, without his hand to hold, completely on my own. And it feels impossibly, overpoweringly lonely.

My best friend is getting married. (Yes, he beat me to it, the bastard.)

Thank God we wont have to honour our 30-year-old-and-single agreement though (everyone has one of those, right?). The thought of spending the second half of my life sleeping next to his hairy back and loud snoring is enough to tip anyone over the edge, no matter how desperate and middle aged they might get.

I was over the moon when he told me he was going to propose to her, and even more over the moon (if that’s possible..) when she said yes. I cried (happy-cried!) when they announced their engagement, and almost died of shock (and fear) when his fiancé asked me to be her bridesmaid (let’s face it, it’s not like I could have been best man).

And so, we celebrated their engagement in the traditional way. We went out, got ridiculously drunk, ate a burger from a van on the way home, and when everyone else collapsed on their beds – my best friend and I carried on drinking, and collapsed on the kitchen floor, about 6am, in each others arms. Just like old times.

Somewhere in between all those drunken frolics, there was the moment when my best friend decided to pull me to one side and inform me (me, the fucking bridesmaid, who was helping his fiancé plan the wedding, choose the dresses, the flowers, the car, the everything) that actually, he ‘probably shouldn’t be getting married’ to his fiancé. I asked why not, and he said

Because, actually, I should probably be marrying you.

F-uck.

I’ve known my best friend since we were kids. We’re actually more like brother and sister than we are friends. He’s probably the only person in the world that I’d actually and honestly lay down my life for. I love him more than anyone I’ve ever met or will ever meet. But I don’t love him.

I dealt with the situation in the most mature manner I could muster after one (or twelve) too many beers.. I handed him a shot of tequila and told him not to be a tit.

An arguably more sober attempt at the conversation, the next morning, revealed more than I wanted to hear.

No one understands me like you, and no one understands everything about you like me. She’s not you, she doesn’t compare. I love her, but she’s not everything. She’s not you. I’ve never tried to love you, I ruled it out, I just stopped at platonic.. How can I marry a woman who I’m constantly hoping will be more like you? Better with kids, better at listening, better at making me laugh. Better at loving me. Better at just being you.

I’d known this man before he could even be called a boy. I had known him when he pulled my hair and knocked my sandcastles down. I’d never even entertained the thought that we were meant to be anything more than best friends, phone-calls at 4am friends, share a bed and actually sleep friends. And in that awful moment, somewhere between wanting her to be better, wanting her to change, wanting her to be more like me, and wanting me to just be more – we lost everything we’d built over 15 years.

And now, I’m torn between helping his fiancé plan this farce of a wedding, and telling my best friend to pull himself together, and pull out. She is perfect for him. But in all honesty, I get it. I get that no one compares, I get that no one will ever be enough. I get that sometimes you stay with someone who isn’t quite your everything.

But truthfully, I expected more from him. And honestly, I’m scared that everything we had was built on a lie. I’m scared that we will never find anyone who comes close to what we are to each other. That we’ll never find anyone who has 4am phone calls with Joni Mitchell playing in the background, that we’ll never find anyone who doesn’t judge us, who doesn’t forgive and forget like we do.

I’ve never met anyone who I can honestly say I’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Not even the-other-half. Because I’ve always known that I’ve got a proper other-half, one who I don’t need to marry to spend the rest of my life with – one who will just be there, no matter what.

It’s not about settling. It’s about knowing when you’re lucky, knowing when you’ve got something that most people spend their whole lives searching for.

And knowing that, has, and always will be more than enough for me. Because we’ve got more than most people find in an entire lifetime. And to risk friendship for love, for marriage and sex, and all those traditional, expected mistakes – would be giving up something more precious than we will ever be blessed to find again.

I never loved a man
I trusted
As far as I could pitch my shoe..
’til I loved you.
I’m a lucky girl,
I found my friend..
( Joni Mitchell – Lucky Girl )

We’ve all dated twats. Some of us have even loved, lived with them. Finally, a Bible for the subculture of women who put up with these incessant idiots, and somehow – still find the energy to love them.

When the other-half moved in, he bought me Zoe McCarthy’s book: My Boyfriend is a Twat: A Guide to Recognising, Dealing, and Living with an Utter Twat.

I’m sure he thought it was a hilarious gesture, subconsciously informing me to deal with the fact that he was a bit of a Twat, and to just consult The Book for advice. He had, however, practically lived with me for years before he ‘officially’ moved in. The only difference was all his shit suddenly took over my house, and I got a tiny bit of financial help towards bills. I didn’t need a book, I needed a babysitter.

The Book didn’t offer me any advice I hadn’t already figured out for myself, but it showed me how to find humour in the daily grind of living with, cleaning up after and managing a Twat. More importantly, it provided some hilarious bedtime reading, complete with quotes I could relay to my Very Own Twat, much to his disapproval.

Admittedly, it isn’t a book I’d have bought myself. It’s not quite the Tony Parsons-esque literary paintings that I usually read, filled with tear-jerking quotes that I remember word-for-word, years after reading them. But what it is, is a humorous and brutally honest book written by a woman who isn’t afraid to lay it all out on the table, and then courageously laugh about it all.

I knew from Zoe’s blog that the book would be funny, but it goes far beyond. It’s utterly hilarious, and for that – I recommend it to anyone, no matter what your tastes. It’s utterly inspiring to see a blogger get her own book published, and personally, I’m waiting (im)patiently for Eileen to pull her socks up and crank out some literary genius of her own for all us mere part-time bloggers to bask in.

The money shot – arguably the most highly featured ejaculatory scenario in porn. What is it with this visual?

Men may enjoy seeing some scantily clad (if at all) Lolita kneeling before them while they shoot their load all over her submissive little face, but quite frankly – I don’t.

I’d love to say I have high enough morals to find this degrading, an insult to women. In reality, I just find it.. *yawn*.. boring.

Ms Naughty highlights that this is an opinion shared by many women:

They, like me, wonder why on earth a man would have fabulous sex for half an hour and yet withdraw at the last minute and masturbate to orgasm.

They, like me, can’t help but wince when they see the woman kneel before the man and smile subserviently at him while he deposits globs of semen in her eye.

They, like me, roll their eyes at all the worshipful fuss made over a few spurts of bodily fluid.

They, like me, wish they could see the man’s face as he reaches orgasm, because male facial expressions are primarily what most women experience when their man is in ecstasy.

So why are we still subjected to this scene in nearly every piece of supposedly erotic media?

It’s not the actual visual that I find stale and boring, it’s the notion that the money shot provides ‘closure’ for any pornographic sequence..

While the woman’s enduring carpet burn on her knees, smiling and licking semen from her lips (which have undoubtedly been subjected to infinate amounts of botox), I can almost visualise her thoughts..

“Thanks. Wait! What?!?@#!? That’s it? Are you fucking kidding me?”

And there we have it – the male orgasm remains the be-all-and-end-all of even modern porn movies.. It’s over, as they say, when the fat cock shoots.

* Link to Ms Naughty’s blog post.