On my first day here i smoked Marijuana. A week later, almost to the hour, i had sex. Today, a week since, my third Saturday, there seems nothing left to do but to write.

Last Saturday was the LGB pub crawl, and quite against my expectations i ended up with somebody else spending the night in my bed. Quite early on in the evening (Though already in the second of the two pubs we were to visit, the rest of the night being spent (As, we are informed, all LGB meetings must end up here.) in Sheffield's only full time gay bar.) i fell to a fit of giggles that had people worrying for my safety and, i fear, sanity. One of the people who took it upon themselves to try calm me down (They all failed, by the way. It was only when i was close to suffocation that i actually stopped.) turned out to have developed something of an interest in me. When i was, with a few other people (Obviously i was hardly communicating with them.) at a pool table watching him play, he chastised me for laughing at his incompetence. (I'd actually been chortling at his opponent.) It turns out that actually he was flirting with me, though i failed to notice, heavy handed as it may have been. (I'm amazed, writing this, to realise that somebody flirted with me. I know there are many equally surprising points, but this one hasn't struck me until now.) Later, the top half (Where is located the dancefloor.) was packed, so many of us congregated downstairs (Where, incidentally, i later saw UE, partially the reason i'd gone, but who hadn't actually come to the pub crawl. He, and the two people he was with, seemed to be dressed in school uniforms. And, unfortunately, looking rather fetching in them.) and fell to talking. The boy who flirted with me, hereon known as UD, turned up at some point and sat by me. He was nice and lovely, and said nice things to me. He liked my hair, (About which i've been growing unsure, as i thought i was the only person who actually liked it, and that was because i'm allowed to feel it in its fluffiness.) and my shoes. (A couple of years old now, and falling apart.) He inquired about the scab on my hand. (Since joined by nine knife scars further up that arm.) I told him my lie, that "I fell over" first, but later i told the truth. He held my hand a little, (I remember this only from reading his blog. I'm afraid the connection that he felt either escaped my notice or has since escaped my memory.) and i think i looked at him in a way that i thought was doe-eyed but, having since tried it out on the mirror, i no longer think so. It just makes me look blank. Vacuous.

At the end of the night he walked me home. I'd walked home the previous time and not only been perfectly safe, but also rather enjoyed the walk, so i elected not to take a taxi home with some of the others. UD walked me back. I put my arm in his and nuzzled up to him a little. (I've wanted to do that for the longest time. And it really did live up to my expectations.) On the more public road he asked me to stop, but i took up his hand again later. As we neared my flats he asked to use the toilet. I showed him the toilet and (More out of complete ignorance of how to treat such a situation than actual desire that he should enter this space that, for all that i hate the fact that i can taste fluff as i breathe, is my very own.) also my room, where he quickly joined me. I, nervous, latched on to much of what he said and tried to develop the subject further. Naturally, as the wall he sat facing had quite a large bibliographic presence, he asked about my books. I instantly got down a book i knew would impress him, (And also could be read in five minutes.) 'The Red Tree'. Naturally, he was impressed and at this point i get confused about my intentions. We were sitting on my bed and (Some of me argues that this was purely because i felt an idiot sitting where i was. And this way i could see the book better and stop worrying where to put my eyes.) moved in closer to him and leant agaisnt him. Things started to happen, but were stopped by him. We went to bed, to sleep. Later, we woke up and (I'm a tad hazy on this now.) more things happened. Perhaps the best thing to say is that from having previously attained a score of zero (One being holding hands, i think.) on Georgia Nicholson's snogging scale, (From 'Angus Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging and its sequels.) i've now got to nine. (B.W.A. - Below Waist Activity) I enjoyed it. I did. A lot. Particularly - and i suppose i have read about this, but nothing has come close to conveying it - the feeling when he ran his fingers over my bare skin. It was my stomach, my stomach which i hate, despise and abhor, yet here it was being caressed with such tenderness. But even then, horrible as this sounds, i wasn't always thinking about him.

The next morning i felt even more lost than i had. I wanted to get him out, but could think of no way to do it without being plain horrible. Almost as soon as he was gone i recieved a text message. And another later, and a third, asking to meet up the next day. I realised i couldn't. Because while he obviously had some feelings for me, i couldn't really find any. (And i am well used to searching my heart for such feelings.)

I told him so, too, after a little while wondering, scared, what to do. I didn't do it nicely or sensitively at all. I'm a complete bastard. i hate what i've done. Some of me actually blames him for it all. When i told him that (Via e-mail, of course) i tried to make it clear that i knew this was nonsense, that he wasn't to blame at all, but i messed it up.

I don't know how to make this right.