Big girls don't cry

I turn 30 and reflect on life's biggest problems

Birthdays are quietly dignified events in my family. We feel awkward receiving calls from people we rarely hear from otherwise and are not big on presents (if you want to buy something for me, you have 365 days a year to do so, is our unexpressed contract- and to be fair to us, we do buy stuff for each other unprompted regularly). But we do have one tradition we keep as often as practical: the surprise birthday cake. The ritual involves the non-birthday celebrating family acting nonchalant through the day and hiding with the lights turned off as the birthday girl/boy enters the house, at which point we ambush them with a song and cake with candles. Despite our family's tradition of not demanding birthday attention, the first time my mom forgot my birthday, it left a crack in my heart that I am still smoothing over. It was evidence that her life had become so difficult there was no space left for our birthday choreography.

Since then, I have been reflecting on how best to lick my wounds every time my birthday arrives. Being addicted to melancholy as I am, I cling to my tiny heartbreaks like a child poking at a rotten tooth. When I was convinced I was a misanthrope, I thought I would start my own tradition of spending my birthday entirely alone- take myself to my favourite restaurant, watch a movie in the cinema etc. But the years passed, and my life was too full of people for it not to be weird that I was spending a whole day alone. Here and there, my friends would make small gestures to celebrate my birthday, taking me out for dinner, surprising me with gifts etc., and my wounded childish heart softened and it’s cracks merged. Here, these gestures said; your birthday is not frivolous, you deserve to be celebrated, it is not awkward for people to spend time and money on you.

So, on my 30th, I thought I’d bite the bullet and throw a party. I have thrown parties before, obviously, and to raucous results, but usually with a different excuse. The last one was to celebrate my ten years in the UK, and it had a London tube dress code theme. I was dressed as Crystal Palace:

I have written here before that I have changed a lot over the last decade or so. For most of high school, I had zero friends. Now, I can populate a small town with them. Obviously, I was going to invite absolutely everyone to my party. I avoid triggering pangs of jealousy at all costs.

The only photo I have of me from the day, good thing my friend Bobby likes taking photos.

As it was my birthday and I deserved a little treat, I invited an assembly of beautiful, intelligent men. I am not suggesting I had any nefarious intentions (for most of them, anyway), some are even taken, and as we all know, I am not a home wrecker. Nor am I suggesting I would not have invited these men if I did not think they had a certain je ne sais quoi, but like an entrepreneurial club owner lets young pretty girls in his venues for free, I thought I’d staff my birthday party with life’s simplest and most joyous pleasure: a dick buffet.

To my delight, all but two confirmed they were coming.

On the day of my birthday, I couldn’t sleep from excitement. I woke up at 6:00 am and started preparing. I went to my favourite bakery and bought bread and sourdough crackers. I went to three supermarkets and cheese shops to buy snacks for one of my most treasured arts: assembling charcuterie boards and cheese platters. I baked a quiche and savoury tarts, whizzed guacamole, roasted nuts with honey and chilli, and as a private tongue-in-cheek joke with myself, I prepared a platter of tiny sausages pierced with British flag toothpicks.

I had ordered a cake in advance with an edible map of Labour’s electoral victory. For drinks, I ordered 25 Prosecco bottles and 60 bottles of my favourite beer, Asahi. I bought a gorgeous dress from Reformation, my current obsession, that I would not have dreamt of daring to wear when I was 20, but frankly, at 30, no type of clothing is outside my league.

My friends started pouring into my flat and soon my little Waterloo flat was overflowing with all my favourite humans.Like a puppy on adderal, I spontaneously screeched with delight whenever a new face came in. Smart, interesting, warm, thoughtful, weird, idiosyncratic, but always eternally loveable people I have collected from all corners of London. When I was assembling my incredibly liberal guest list, I cackled like a witch at the mischief of having such a wide range of people together in one room. Poor, rich, right-wing, left-wing, gay, straight, British, Greek, Foreigners of all shorts. People who are into politics (too many of them), media, tech nerds, start-up bros, artists, doctors, lawyers and quite a few losers, because, as I said, I don’t discriminate; everyone is special and worthy in my Queendom.

But let’s go back to my meticulously curated dick buffet.

Like a chaos agent, I swirled around the crowd, too overstimulated to spend more than ten minutes talking to any one person and just too damn excited at the constant stream of my favourite people coming through the door. My unofficial, secret guests of honour hilariously found each other throughout the party and spent much time getting acquainted with their fellow sausages.

Unsurprisingly, they were nerding it out with each other, arguing about politics. My equivalent of a straight man watching bikini-clad girls fighting in a pool of jello is watching linen-wearing men fighting over politics. If I stood in one corner of my kitchen, watching my friends picking at the buffet I lovingly prepared with one eye and gorgeous boys debating with the other, I had all my feminine needs covered. If I could bottle the satisfaction of that moment and carry it with me, I could win any war and defeat any enemy.

the snack buffet…

The night was rolling on, and the first dick buffet shift started making its excuses and leaving. Satisfied that I had gotten most of what I wanted and the night could not get better, or indeed worse, I started picking at the grapes (the fruit at the buffet, you animals!) for hydration. At that point, like Mosses parting the Nil, my favourite cherub of a man appeared through the crowds, birthday card in hand, to the soundtrack of my exhilarated screams. He had not said he’d come, and I assumed he wouldn’t. He’s had what I would describe as a tumultuous and no doubt emotionally draining few months linked to national political events, and I have not seen him in the flesh in years.

Backstory: This man is in my top 3 now¹, but he was the number 1 for the longest time. He is aware of all this because I, of course, tell him as much. Feelings of infatuation should be enjoyed twice: once when they are experienced and again when they are aired in public.

Earlier that day, I had a funny thought about one of my female guests. She is a woman who looks a lot like me, to the British eye at least and has a lot of similarities with me: gorgeous, talented, political, left-wing, Greek. On our way to pick up the Proseccos, I joked with my flatmate, lol. I bet you the men I invited for my wiener buffet are going to fancy her because she is a younger, quieter version of me (the ideal woman, amirite gentlemen).

I had initially envisaged that one of my other sexy male friends would try to poach her, but he mercifully did not show up (I’ve been keeping him for, erm, emergencies).

But the one who did show up, my longest-serving cherub, flew to her as soon as I left him unguarded. A tragic sight for any woman to experience, even an Iron Maiden like me. I excused myself to my room for a pep talk. Listen to me, me said to me. You’ve come full circle. The truth is that I have unlimited legacy fondness but no romantic interest in the original cherub. There are newer versions in my life. The pang in your chest is your ego, not your heart. You don’t own the man, but most importantly, you are no better.

Because the truth is, dear voyeur of my personal life, that me and this man are friends. We had our fling in the past, but it was abundantly obvious it wasn’t a match. This is not a cope, I swear, but even if it is, what is some saving face between friends?

Like the boy in 500 Days of Summer, I project on men all my romantic ideals about them and reject any evidence that points to a fuller 360-degree human. My therapist tells me I am not in love with the men themselves but the pieces of me that I see in them. All the men that populated my sausage fest are, to one degree or another, intelligent, handsome, charming, witty, ambitious, competitive, tasteful and that most overused English word in Britain: kind. They are a bunch of very kind boys indeed. These are all attributes that I claim for myself, and in my desperate need to maximise them within me, I look for them outside of me.

If you were to ask me, Stella, why has it not worked out with any of these men? There was nothing there to work with most of them. It wasn’t a relationship; it was a projection.

A teacher who flirted with me in high school told me, Stella, we don’t get married to the people we fall in love with. And I am starting to understand what he meant.

Infatuations are selfish acts. Relationships are built, not dreamt of.

That’s not to say I concede that my infatuations with men are the same as their indiscriminate hornyness for women. Can reply guys write an essay on their favourite e-girl? Motherfucker I can write a whole book on each of my boys! Their bestselling, unauthorised biography! Here, world, who did you call a mediocre white man? Their mom and I would like a word.

Around 2:00 am, it’s me, and a few boys left. I am chugging flat Diet Coke to keep my eyes open. I have admitted defeat in the heart department, and my higher self is working overtime to pick up the pieces of my humbled ego. The boys are talking about Labour factionalism, but my inner life meaning narrative Czhar is explaining to me why the need for men’s sexual attention makes me weak and is not serving my life’s mission to save the world.

The OG cherub stands up to leave, but before he exits, he turns to one of my combative politico friends (one of the many who low-key bullied him through the night because he worked in politics in a controversial position and has relations with politicians who have received, but also given a battering) and gently picks up on an earlier debate on tax policy. He worked on a party’s previous manifesto and was asked to defend it, but their conversation was cut short. Methodically, he breaks down the argument and says he did not want to leave without addressing it; he never runs away from a debate.

I am awash with fondness once again at a man who won’t leave a rhetorical challenge go unmatched, even in the small hours of the morning, and from a man he owes nothing to. There’s my boy, I thought. He deserved every moment of lust I felt for him.

Most gratefully, I am no longer a 21-year-old incapable of controlling or understanding my feelings; I can now see my intentions for the men I collect like pebbles on my mantlepiece lucidly. I never intended to date them. All I ever wanted was to skin them and wear them.

I get lazy and overwhelmed when I am pushed too hard on some debates. I don’t have enough detail recall to put meat on my arguments even when well-rested and alert, let alone drunk and tired. But not my boys. My boys stay and fight.

At 5:00 am, the last of my guests head off to their morning media grift shift. They insisted they should stay to help clean up. I insisted I want to saviour the mess like a cum slut (sorry). The summer sun is starting to peak through the windows, and I walk around my flat. It’s unrecognisable, like the site of a nuclear test gone wrong. I pick at the cream cheese frosting of my leftover cake and wash down my nighttime supplements with lukewarm bubbles. Magnesium for recovery, L-Theanine for relaxation, Agnus Castus for my hormones, NAC and milk thistle for my tormented liver, Rhodiola for the hippy vibes. I jump into bed and feel a sinking feeling. I am gonna have to write about this, aren’t I? That’s right bitch, you better get typing.

a thing of beauty

Time may prove me wrong, but at this point in my life, I feel like it is very possible I will fall in love with one man and will stay with them forever. I am certain the stars will align, and I will write the most moving essay, book even, about how that man is the most special of all the boys who have passed my bedroom door.

But what of all the delicate feelings and insightful observations I had of you? And you? And you? How can I let you grow old and weary without knowing how you made me feel?

You will undoubtedly meet women who will have the same depth, or even more intense, of emotions as I do.

But will they have the words to describe it? The humility to admit it? The courage to say it?

Caitlin Moran, still here to put words to feelings decades before I felt them:

I always do it for a boy.

All of it.

I told him I had written about him. He is one of 3 men in this blog who have left their marks but I am certain no matter how many times he reads my essays, he won’t be able to identify himself. Boys are sweet like that.

My friends scold me for boosting men’s egos. But I don’t do it for them. I do it for me. I said I used to think I was a misanthrope. Age has taught me I am the opposite. I am humanity’s biggest lover. When I meet a man who moves me, and they reject me, I don’t stay bitter. I smirk with delight when I think of them. You exist? I can’t believe a man like you exists! A man so witty and intelligent and charming. Had I not been trying to impress you, who knows where I’d be? Not in London, not in politics, not in the media. I couldn’t muster the motivation to write, to speak, to tweet, to post, to strive like my genealogical line dies with me if I don’t check check check. Damn it, this whole blog started because a man left me! An online trail of crumbs in case he changed his mind. It’s for the best he didn’t.

God bless your magic dicks. Lifesavers.

1. Personal league table of the prettiest silver-tongued boys