Dumped, Actually(33)

And yet, here I am, thinking about getting in touch with her again for the first time since the break-up.

Aaaargh!

I should never have come out here!

This crazy notion wouldn’t have popped into my head if I had enough other stuff to distract me.

But here in the forest, all on my own, with nothing better to think about, my brain has decided to throw up this most horrendous of options, and now I’m sat here on tenterhooks, considering it . . .

I pick up my phone.

I put my phone down again.

I pick it up once more.

I throw it down on to the ground, like it’s done something wrong.

I pick it back up and actually open the iMessage app. I’d deleted all of my previous messages to Samantha through teary eyes a couple of days after the break-up, but I still have her number saved. Couldn’t go that far, you see.

I start to write a message. I just ask her how she is, what she’s been up to and how she’s feeling. I keep it light, breezy and in no way representative of my actual feelings.

My thumb hovers over the send button, and the entire universe holds its breath.

Then I remember the horrified expression on her face as she said no. And that long, drawn-out note on the trombone that signalled my descent into misery.

No!

No!

NO!

I literally throw the phone across the glade in which I’m sat, watching it plummet into a thicket of tall grass.

My heart continues to race for a few more minutes.

I was this close.

This. Bloody. Close.

This close to making what would have been a huge mistake. What Samantha did to me was absolutely awful. She’s the last person I should speak to.

Gah.

Loving and hating someone at the same time can really take it out of you.

It’s a good half an hour before I’ve calmed back down completely – after I’ve given myself a good talking to. It would have been nice to have a friend out here with me to do this, but sometimes I feel like my own subconscious is another person, anyway, and has no problem berating me for any stupid decisions I make . . . or nearly make, in this case.

With that taken care of, another full hour goes by before I inevitably become bored again.

I deliberately don’t look over at where I’d thrown the phone. Not even once. That way definitely lies madness.

. . . more madness, I mean.

But what the hell do I do with myself instead?

If I just sit here any longer, the temptation to go pick that bloody phone up might come over me, and that must be avoided under all circumstances.

I have to think of something to occupy myself with.

. . .

. . . . . .

I could, you know, have a wank.

I contemplate this idea for a moment, as I stare back up at the trees – and resolutely not at that tall thicket of grass with the mobile phone in it.

I am alone, after all. There’s nobody around to see me. And if I go into the tent, I will have privacy, anyway, even if somebody did blunder past.

And there’s nothing else to do, is there? Nothing else to occupy my mind sufficiently to prevent disastrous text message sending.

Wolf Moresby went out into the wilds for some constructive self-reflection. I’m damn sure I’m not going to achieve anything like that, but a little self-abuse probably wouldn’t go amiss in its place.

Sod it.

Why not?

With my mind made up, I surreptitiously get out of the chair and turn back to the tent. Quite why I’m being surreptitious is beyond me. There’s no bugger about to see what I’m doing, with the possible exception of the squirrel – and I doubt he’d cast much judgement on me having a quick shufty. After all, he does spend a great deal of his time playing with his own nuts.

I climb back into the tent and lie down on the inflatable mattress, cramming the sleeping bag behind my head to prop myself up a bit.

Then I divest myself of my jeans and boxers, looking down upon my penis after I have done so.

Here we reach something of a problem . . .

Because my laptop battery is knackered, and because there’s no Wi-Fi, I’m not going to be able to find any pornography to assist me. That leaves me with just my imagination.

Now, ordinarily, this would not be an issue. I am the type of person who has no trouble conjuring up convincing daydreams in my head (I’m a writer, after all), and could certainly create a nice scenario that would help me.

The problem I have is that whenever I think about sex these days, I invariably think about the sex I had with Samantha. She liked to wear black lingerie. I can still hear the whisper of it as she crossed her legs.

Now, Mr Penis has no trouble with these memories whatsoever. The rest of Ollie Sweet isn’t quite so happy about them, though. The last thing I want to do is think about Samantha any more than I already have this evening. That phone isn’t all that far away, after all . . .

But Mr Penis cares nothing for such things.

He is indifferent to my heartache and mental pain. All he knows is that if I think long and hard about the sexiest times I spent with Samantha, it’s infinitely preferable to any pornography that I could watch. Personal experience trumps other people getting down to it every time. And Samantha and I did have some truly epic sex, whether she was in lingerie or not. I’ve never felt as sexually compatible with anyone before. Not even Yukio, whose seemingly encyclopaedic knowledge of carnal pursuits was never-ending – and quite exhausting.