Londoners Magazine

My mind has become utter rubbish. That’s what happens when a person primarily defined by their cynical complaining gets caught up in the rosy glow of a whirlwind romance. Instead of clever, biting bon mots, clichés are spouting uncontrollably out of my mouth. C’mon! “Rosy glow,” who says that kind of crap? People high on Oxytocin do. Oxytocin is the “love drug” our brains release when mating. It’s the natural enemy of the cynic. 

I met the reason for my recent brain failure at a party a few weeks ago. I was wandering, semi-lost, in Brixton with a friend, looking for a house party, when I noticed him.

I don’t know what stood-out to me first: his tall, angular good looks, or the fact he was carrying a bottle of wine and looked like he knew where he was going. Somehow I felt I recognised him. (That’s the Oxytocin speaking again-that retrospective, “I don’t know how, but I knew he was special” tripe.) I had a feeling he was going to the same party.

My friend and I followed him to the party. We found our friend, the birthday girl inside, fixed ourselves a drink and were settling in for a nice chin-wag when the guy came over and introduced himself. Within 10 minutes The Lad had me laughing so hard I choked on my drink-twice.

Claiming foot fatigue, we heel-clad women left The Lad and tottered to a blanket in the yard. He joined us a bit later. I had a feeling he was interested, but I still couldn’t tell. After eight months of unsuccessfully interpreting British men’s vague flirting signals, I was cautious.

But all credit to The Lad. He was undeterred by my evasiveness. He kept finding me and stopping me to chat. He touched my arm to get my attention, called me “love”, and was seemingly always there to light my cigarette.

The Lad and I became involved in one of the deeper conversations I had since I moved to London. And then he kissed me.

Later, I was supposed to leave with friends but he invited me to his flat nearby. To my surprise I accepted. I never go home with strange men. Especially after I tell them not to expect anything.

The next 12 or so hours were bliss (yes, I said bliss-bloody Oxytocin). We spent as much time talking as we did fooling around. He proved to be intelligent, oddly funny, deliciously liberated (i.e. kinky) and completely respectful. It was one of those nights you enjoyed so much you knew it couldn’t be repeated.

As he walked me to my bus the next evening, I mentally prepared myself not to be disappointed if he didn’t ask for my number. 

 He surprised me and said: “We should keep in contact. But I’m really not very good at relationships.” To which I smirked and said, “So, you’re telling me: You’re a guy,” while thinking inwardly, “Ok, he wants to be fuck-buddies. I can do that.” Then he said: “And you’re too beautiful and too intelligent to be fuck-buddies with.”

I turned my head from him as I made my surprised “O-Face,” composed myself quickly and covered my disappointment by saying in a bemused tone: “So, you’re telling me: Don’t expect to hear from you.” I smiled. We exchanged numbers. I kissed him goodbye. And watched him leave.

My cynical mind comforted me the way home. I appreciated the night for what it was: A wonderful one-off with a British man, something I thought would never happen.

A day later The Lad texted me. And my mind has been an Oxytocin-laden-lump of rubbish since. But, damn me-if it isn’t delightful.