L('s)OML

I sift through my memories. 

Is it this LOML, or that one? L for 'love', 'loss', or 'loser' of my life?

There’s the boy when I was nineteen; I bought his favourite film and (don’t ask) chocolates after three dates, and he said “Thanks! I’m going to take these with me to beg for my ex back. This is her favourite film too! We watched it together.”. Not cool.

Or, my first influencer — a sickening habit, but then isn’t everyone an ‘online personality’, a ‘creative’, these days? Same. We went out a few times and I phoned weekly seeing if we could go on another. (To be fair, very much my mum’s influence. She inspired most of my phone calls).

No - this is the one. The man I met in the middle of the road spitting drunk.

He’s beautiful, tall, and built like a God—not like a Jesus god, like a morally-grey, sexy demigod, like Achilles. He reads the same books as me. (Now... Because I read them after he mentioned them.) He’s open in all his thoughts. He has sisters, so automatically he must respect women.

For some background, we literally texted for about a week before I made the choice to get a taxi from Clapham to Belsize at 4am and meet him. He is an important figure in the succession of my obsessions because of his impact. We met at a time when I had more money and freedom than ever. So much so, I am sat now in a £200 hoodie I bought from when I tried to carve myself in his image.

To be fair, he was a narcissist, so it might’ve worked.

I arrive in Belsize. All I have is the postcode and his live location. With these two things, even a child would be able to find their way.

But no. Not me. I wander the streets of Belsize for half an hour, trying to find where this sodding stranger is.

Should I have left? Yes. Did I? What do you think?

On brand as ever, I phone him 10 times. No reply. Am I about to get murdered? At least I’m going doing what I love. Stalking men.

With no sense of self-preservation in sight, I send another text. Where u?

It comes out as: whdrt ?yi??

I am magic.

Eventually, he drags himself away from the harem- I mean... party.

“Fuck! You called a lot.”

“You wanker. I’ve been out here for an hour.”

“It’s been, like, 10 minutes.”

“No it hasn’t—“… He leans in to kiss me.

I swing back sharply, “Fuck no!”

“Shut up.”

We kiss.

Magic.

This moment is important because I genuinely fantasised about it for months. Years. A man telling me to shut up.

Honestly, yeah, it got a little romanticised in my head. I read a lot of books, shoot me?

Romantasy books have a lot to answer for, and I'm coming for you first SJM.

A couple of weeks later, after his friend has texted from his phone, he doesn’t want to text you and I take it as a silly joke, I get him a job.

Let that sink in.

I wish I was joking.

So does my dad.

He’s struggling, lost, and handsome. No, he’s the heartbreak prince and I am the jester dancing around hoping he smiles at me. Omg, he glanced at me!! He works in a pub and somehow, it’s the hottest thing ever. I visit the pub. Luckily; he wasn’t on shift. I visit again, make my friend go in (sorry Maja). He isn’t there. Looking back, he probably didn’t even have the job.

Just kidding, I know he did. I screenshotted it from his BeReal before I knew BeReal was a snake for that kind of thing. Nowadays, so is WhatsApp – beware.

He sends his CV in, and somehow, they wrangle a way to help him with—deep breath— a 27k job. Post interview, of course, but come on, what is wrong with me? (So much more than we mere mortals could know.)

It gets worse. He declines the job. and leaves the country.

So, naturally, I buy a dress for his brothers’ wedding. I’m obviously going to be invited? That’s a normal thing to think? Notably, it’s also in another country.

He gets back home (not native to London. Shock.) and promptly sleeps with 3 girls. And tells me about it. He also drops in that his ex is pregnant, and she thinks it’s his. She phones from the ambulance.

I take this as a sign our stars are aligned, because he’s calling me. He’s opening up about these struggles to me. So hot.

The dress is stunning. Tight, lilac silk with a feathered trim. It has its moment - just not at the wedding.

Obviously not at the wedding.

Next thing you know, we stop talking and I’m seeing someone new. He’s actually on his way over and I’m convinced he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend — and then jobless boy calls. It’s a sign. I am no-one’s girlfriend. (As of then).

I get him another job. And a place to live. And make his bed for him. And move him in, folding all his clothes. And buy him another birthday present (yes there were two.)

Obviously. We are now estranged.

Yes, I've learnt my lesson about foreign men.

---

It's always a beautiful thing when a man leads you to magic.

No - I don't mean love. I mean spells.

I mean this:

If you can zoom in on those words, honestly don't. I don't remember what it said. Gives me the ick

For reference I don't make a habit of doing this on a specific person anymore. Half the time, it just messes me up. Yolo.

I'm in my flat, post-photoshoot job. The outfit is very cute and very not me, so I won't be putting it on again soon. I make the most of it. It's a red mini skirt, and a top that's more of a suggestion. It's by an Australian brand - with their weather, they don't need clothes.

I scroll through apps, replying to date requests at random. Sadly this does seem to be a habit, but it's how I meet the L('s)OML, so a win is a win, right? One replies - and he's kind of woof and kind of questionable. Lani says go, that he looks like a 27-year-old-hot-sleepover-buddy slash husband, so the leather trench is on and I'm on the way to a cute pub called The Fox & Hounds.

Unfortunately, I am known to the staff here. I somehow always tend to be there with men... I swear it's just because I really like it.

I arrive, and he cycles by me. Sorry, but ick. Even more of an ick watching him fiddle with the mechanism.

Romantically, we're both an ick - I stand in the shadows too scared to approach. When I follow him in, exactly one panicked-lani-call later, he is sat staring directly at the entrance. It's a little unsettling.

But, meow, he's fine.

We have a very charming time discussing how many celebrities he knows. I accidentally kick him maybe four times. He has blue eyes and he uses them to their full capacity - he doesn't blink. Not even once.

He gently caresses my hands as we play NYT connections. It's intimate until we're both stunned to find out the English grad is shit at english.

Sent to my mum, the superior quizzer, while he goes to the toilet.

He walks me home, and doesn't kiss me. I love it.

On our second date, I really commit. It's perhaps one of my hottest outfits ever. Brown thigh highs, knee high boots - he's 6'3. He can take it - loose off-the-shoulder, shag-me sweater. Moschino belt. Black mini skirt. Big, 80's hair. He loves it. I'm not going to tell you how much - but he does.

We head to Below Stone Nest, and it rains. He whips out an umbrella, because he checked the weather. It's JUST for me. Yum.

At this point, I'm four cocktails in and giving him all kinds of eyes. He's giving my mouth the same. It's a beautiful thing. He puts his jacket on the floor for me to sit on, as we drink through the whole menu. Big on tasting new things, I guess.

We head to this underground pub called St. Moritz, and for once, it really is magic. He tells me his hands are cold, so I offer mine to warm him up. I still think about how he absent-mindedly stroked his thumb over my knuckles. He nestles in next to me, for warmth you sickos, and we kiss. You will undoubtably see this as a scene in my book.

We meet Ruby and her boyfriend, and he offers his services in fluent Russian for her. Jaw - only the jaw - on the floor. He speaks many languages, he explains, holding my coat, staring into my soul as he speaks to her. I'm in heat.

We leave at an ungodly hour for a second date, and we're both flying. He, weirdly, gets four Maccies wraps of the day. He tries to get me to eat them and it's - sweet and sour - rank. We stomp around London chomping at the bit, trying to find a way back to his flat. I never said I had common sense, or willpower.

He stays at mine, and he's definitely been in this situation before. I find it really, really, hard to care.

After that, my outfits are off the charts. Red mini dress, kitten point heels, little black cardi that, my best friend's brother assures me, shouts WIFE.

We have drinks and dinner in Notting Hill, and it goes downhill. He's horrendous at texting before the date, and I have been known to vehemently hate that. I let it go.

We're at The Pelicon, and it's rammed. He points out two girls he's had a threesome with. I sip my drink. We talk an ungodly amount about Tiktok, but I am an expert, so I let it go, again. He makes me sit outside, in the rain, in my delicious little dress. Even the security guard gets it - he goes inside to find me a seat. And finds one! I get his number.

Just kidding, but I should have.

We go to dinner at Canteen. He had given his number so that we could definitely go, as I had said I wanted to, and it was charming.

He gets a wine I like, even though he doesn't. We share plates. He is upset it's not Italian - though, notably, I had only said "I think they do a pizza". I feel, for the most part, like I'm at a very odd Eggheads interview. He questions literally everything I say. Even goes as far to fact-check and google if Milton is Early Modern. I actually believed for a long time after the date that I was, in fact, stupid. Lani has since told me Milton is EM, and has thus restored balance in the universe.

Ultimately, he's still hot, so I unbutton the cardigan after every glass of wine. When he makes me laugh, or happy, I undo one. When he quizzes me on the construction of cast-iron pans and how, precisely, to make lasagna, I do two up.

It comes off all the same. I got impatient and hot.

It does nothing.

Is he gay?

He was frothing over seeing my shoulder two days prior, but doesn't meet my eyes now. It smells like an ex is back in the picture. I let it go.

Why didn't you kiss me?

I don't know how I feel.

I think about getting his Soundcloud banned in revenge. I resist. Growth.

We still speak, and I'm more of a consultant now. I listen to an uncomfortable amount of his garage DJ'ing to help his base grow. Weird vibes.

Even weirder - I meet his DJ friend (on a date, yes, but who's checking?). This one is affectionately refered to as vinyl DJ. He is open, if not proud, to explain his best friend is a self-proclaimed 'Volcel'. Yes, like incel. A voluntary incel. I have since decided DJ's are not the right ones to date.

Did that stop me from using a spell to get Hot DJ to text me? No it did not. Did it work? Yes. But I had blocked him. Made it a bit awkward, actually.

---

Now, this is a good one. An influencer. Stunning. (It's not intentional it just seems to happen).

He’s got… well, yeh… definitely has hair... He’s honestly quite short. He’s really, incredibly funny. Nice eyes. Blue in that way blue-eyed people always open their eyes super wide.

Most importantly: he’s obsessed with me.

I say jump, he says which cliff?

He reads my work. He brings me to his flat. He serves me champagne. He tells me how great at makeup I am — not in a homoerotic way (I don't think...). In a halloween makeup way. He gets a taxi, across London (sound familiar?) to the club I’m at so he can say hi.

(Later, we say hi on the famous sofa. Sorry, Balham girlies).

Not only does he do this, but queues for half an hour to get in. Then, once he’s in, he texts (again).

where are you x

I’ve left darling haha

what

i’m at the tube if you’re quick x

He was indeed quick. Fair play. A very funny photo of my friends and I came from this experience, so I can't complain. "Lily, arch your back!" He shouts in Balham underground. Lily is about to throw up. Lily arches. Slay, Lily.

"Arch your back!"

He has since told my ex’s best friend that he is now, weirdly, quite close with, that I am ‘cold’.

This friendship was borne from me. Obviously, I don’t know this for certain. But with a hook and a line, you have a rod. It’s a pretty damn good guess, given they had never texted prior to him saying:

hey mate do you know Sophie slape haha

yeah why

we’ve been on a few dates just wondering what your thoughts on her are haha

He did not reply immediately, so obviously the lovely influencer went into a panic. In his defence this was quite charming. Something about men caring just gets me, you know? Like seeing them with children. Stunning stuff.

With his head on my lap, in the middle of a film, beers in hand, I felt like Bridget Jones meeting Mr. Darcy. Everything was quite charming. 

“Why are you never nice to me?”

Apart from me, apparently. 

“What do you mean?” I say.

“You’re just so sarcastic. Go on. Say something nice.”

I take a sip. Think for a moment. “No.”

“Can I come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

And he does. Perfectly on time. He puts on the hoodie I’m wearing now, the one I bought to make another guy fancy me and makes me (I was completely willing) listen to his podcast. I wear his jumper that I plan to steal. (It doesn't go that far). 

Because I’m trying to be nice, I listen. I also listen to him tell me his 10-step-skincare-(and fake-tan) routine. Then I make dinner: sweet and sour fried chicken, with a creamy stir fry and homemade sourdough. I put vanilla extract in the oven so the flat smells of baking (hot, right? Oh - you think that’s weird? Well... you're wrong).

Tucked up in bed later, I even admit some secrets to him.

But first- he admits some to me. Like the tattoo he got, on his actual body, with actual ink, that is exactly what I suggested he got the day prior. I took inspiration from lover number one, so I remember this clearly.

And there it was, in black and beige and wrapped in cling film. He asks me to help adjust it, and my wicked grin isn't even subtle. Maybe I am magic?

Back to my secret.

“I saw you on hinge and I X’d your profile because it would make me pop up on your feed, and I knew you’d like me.” I say. Nice hack for all you Hinge-goers. “And you did.”

I giggle as he leans over and sets a timer for 10 minutes. This is how long he has promised not to rib me about it. While he’s forced into silence, I also admit I had messaged him a year ago after seeing a TikTok of his. And he had aired me.

Now, now he is practically bursting with the need to laugh and go in on one, given comedy was his suit of choice. He waits politely the full 10 minutes. He also grabs me and pins me down (hot) so that I can’t lock myself in a room to hide from the shame.

Still — my point is I was nice. Nicer still, I had planned to make him a birthday cake (I like to give men gifts - give me a BREAK) because no one had ever given him one. It was, specifically, the cake Harry receives in The Philosopher's Stone; I still remember the poor spelling, pink and green theme. I was going to change Harry with, well… client confidentiality.

The next day I wake up. Draw him a bath, with incense and bath salts and a soft soak while I make him breakfast. It’s a full English with all the trimmings, and honestly, was some of my best work.

Then, for two weeks we don’t speak. I’m confused. I text, and he admits he went on a coffee date with a girl he used to see. He super fancies her.

The moral of the story is - you should always be mean to men. Once you start being nice, they get bored. No one likes the nice girl. Well, sometimes they do, but they’re probably ugly. Or boring. Or mature.

He tells my ex’s bff that I ‘never opened up to him’. I can’t help but wonder what he wanted, to be my therapist? How much more information did he require? Did he have a side hustle in the government?

These days, I am trying to be nice more often. Life truly is too short. (Unless they deserve it). I meditate. I reflect. I delete phone numbers (thank God). I don't make hoodies in designs they'd like.

I am proud to admit I haven’t stalked any hinge’s, checked any Instagram profiles (or following lists… if you know, you know), or scrolled through my Instagram views.

I am not proud to admit this is only because I’m seeing someone with good chat, and that makes all previous obsessions fade into nothingness.