Chapter 9
Freddie
Well, moving was fucking stupid.
I slap the lid of my laptop shut and groan with my eyes closed. Slumping lower onto the window seat that sits in my apartment’s library, I choke to hold back the tears threatening to fall.
I’ve been here for six weeks. And while that seemed small in the grand scheme of things, I feel so isolated that I can’t see any light at the end of the tunnel.
Moving here with an already growing business that was gaining more subscribers than I ever would have thought wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I sound so ungrateful. All I wanted was to run my blog successfully, pay my parents back their investment, and reap the benefits of the financial freedom that had come with it.
While that was exactly what was happening, I didn’t realise that it would leave me overworked and unable to gain any sort of social life.
I have an amazing rented apartment which overlooks the river, have a feckin’ library and I’m close to a million restaurants willing to deliver food at any time of day.
But the doorman couldn’t understand my accent, neither could the local shop owner that sold my favourite fizzy drink (obv Irn Bru), and neither could anyone that I was interviewing so far.
It felt exhausting explaining that it was in fact English I was speaking despite being Scottish.
Everywhere I went, I was met with so many questions or odd looks when I spoke.
It makes me feel even more alone than I already am now that I’m adjusting to living so far from home.
A big part of it is also the weekly FaceTime I have with my parents. They are so supportive and proud that I haven’t told them about how I’m feeling. I want them to keep being proud and not worry about their little boy who’s feeling like a tiny fish in an immense ocean.
Instead, I’ve thrown myself into work, two, three times over the amount I would usually work, just to take my mind off it, but it’s eating at me after every call with Benji too.
He’s only gone and met someone in the last year, and it seems super serious.
They’re already living together, and I no longer hear from him as much as I would like to.
But, hey, that’s the honeymoon phase of any relationship, I guess.
And a guess it was. I had hooked up a grand total of zero people since getting off the plane. Unless you could count wiping coffee off yourself across from the guy you also spilt the coffee on in a public toilet. The hookup I tried to organise one time had been through Grindr.
I had just wanted to feel some skin against my own, a touch that felt needed, and someone’s hot mouth on mine to take my mind off things.
But the problem is that I am a complicated fellow when it comes to bedroom shenanigans.
I enjoy a specific taste to the usual handsy stuff or blowjobs.
I’m not even that into penetration considering I have never done it outside of toys.
Which, fair feel amazing but don’t feel how I’m assuming a hot, real one would.
My kinks are ones I can use for making love to myself, something I enjoy knowing I can be my full self with.
It makes me wonder if I’ll ever find someone with similar tastes.
I have thought about going to one of those munch meetings nearby but put it down the list of priorities as I’m still trying to find my feet here.
I looked at some clubs too, but they were too expensive as a one-off or didn’t offer what I’m looking for.
I knew I would eventually interview or tour some clubs, so I didn’t want to visit them beforehand either.
I knew that they would naturally reach out, or vice versa, especially if I was also living here now, even if they hadn’t sent me an invitation yet, now that my blog has won an award.
While I enjoyed being anonymous online, that was only through my name. I didn’t mind sharing parts of myself with my readers. They were important to me, and some had been with me since the beginning. I owed some realism to them since they often commented and engaged about their true selves.
Pulling out my phone, I check my schedule. I have nothing in the morning, but then I have an interview with a swimming instructor in the afternoon to chat about his popular nude swimming lessons he has put on.
Apparently, it was a way to stop thinking of our bodies as purely sexual and enjoy time doing exercise free from swimsuit restrictions.
Sounded exciting and so I’ve offered to stay for the class after the interview, as long as there would be no photography.
I don’t even own a swimsuit, so it works out well.
Taking a deep breath, I head to my room.
Sweats, a movie, and some takeaway are a must tonight.
Tomorrow I will try again at being social.
I call down to Tim, the concierge for the building, and tell him to expect a delivery.
The building was old, and there was one of those old dumbwaiters from back in the day.
This meant that I didn’t need to open the door to someone to grab my food; Tim would grab it at reception and send it up in that cool contraption instead. It was 100% the reason I signed the lease. It took my laziness to move from the couch to the door to another level.
I order my favourite Chinese food that I always ordered back home, adding on a lovely tip for the driver.
Then I stick Clueless on, pour a glass of red wine and plant myself with my weighted blanket.
Another wave of loneliness washes over me as I look at the empty space next to me on the sofa and the similarly looking chair at its side.
I sigh and force myself to remember that I chose to come here.
I knew it would be hard, but damn if I wanted a connection with someone.
I couldn’t take another hookup that only wanted to get off or a 20-minute phone call once every other week with my best friend back home.
I swipe the tears away as I press play. Tomorrow is another day.
At least I had my blog and my lovely readers who relied on me for company.