Her v. Him

Her

The first time I saw him, his hair was a little too Hitleresque. But I liked that he dropped syllables like names. Though I preferred his girlfriend. She wore ballgowns to lunch and wigs to nowhere. As someone who lives on stage, I loved how theatrical she was.

You’re going to be together.

I’m not psychic. But, like all of us, I sometimes get downloads that turn out to be true. Usually about things I’m not attached to. As much as I try to squeeze the universe for information about stuff I am invested in – my cats; my dance career; my relatives; my friends’ wellbeing; my health; my injury recovery rate; my future – caring too much screws it all up.

He had a girlfriend. He had bad hair. So I didn’t take any notice of the message from who knows where.

Him

She says we met two years before, when I was with Sofia, but she’s confused me with someone else. The first time we met, we bonded over music. I’m a composer. She’s a dancer. So, of course, we were on a collision course towards each other. She was this force field. I’m not usually at a loss for words, but she rendered me silent – like prayer.

She has this dark mane of hair, eyes like oil slicks, and a body that should be paid tribute to with a statue. I was with mutual friends at a gig and she was dancing a few feet away from me, not performing, just in the audience, and I was undone.

I asked our mutual friend to introduce us. We talked for hours about the performing arts. I’m classically trained, but I have diverse tastes. She works across a range of dance genres, so she’s familiar with a panoply of musical styles. Our conversations were sinuous, circuitous, delicious. And she was mischievous. She woke me up.

Her

I’d always thought G-spot orgasms were like Big Foot – rumoured to be real but hard to find – until I had one, with him. I want to say he was a spectacular lover, and he was – he wasn’t knocked off the leaderboard for a long time – but I give myself some credit, too: it’s more about alchemy than the individual’s skills, isn’t it?

There was one man I dated for a not-hot minute – the only time I slept with someone because everyone was telling me it was a good, safe choice – and I was rotten in bed with that person: all sandpaper hands and no rhythm. It wasn’t the man’s fault. It was because I wasn’t attracted.

But with him, it was the opposite. Tucked in his little red car the colour of our desire, he was giving me orgasms like I’d never known before: G-spot, multiples, nipple. He rewired my body with his touch. I like to think I returned the favour.

Him

She kissed like I kissed. Sex with Sofia, my girlfriend before her, had become non-existent. So, it was very alluring, being in a new relationship fecund with passion. Fecund. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Sounds as enticing and earthy as it was. As a musician, I appreciate someone who understands rubato. She can’t read music, but her body was fluent. Likely because she’s a dancer. She rendered innocuous zones erogenous.

Her

A friend of mine told me that the quality you most love about someone in the beginning of a relationship becomes the thing you most hate about them.

I fell for him because of the way he spoke. He was twenty-six and talked like a fifty-year old British professor. He was a cross between Benedict Cumberbatch and Colin Firth. I’d always gone for older men. But with him, it was a twofer. A grown-up with a posh accent wrapped in a fit package with a tight arse and perky pecs.

Seriously, we didn’t even have a bookshelf in our house growing up. No ebooks. No magazine subscriptions. No dinners around the table discussing current affairs or the arts. So, when this accomplished man who was respected in artistic circles took me seriously, was interested in my contributions, I was a goner. Which he loved. I had him on such a pedestal.

But I have to admit, by the end, when he’d tell me not to interrupt, when he’d take a minute to say what could be said in a second, when he looked pissed off if the conversation was not about him, I started to have fantasies about being with someone who was less in love with the sound of his own voice.

Him

She thought she was dumb. To her credit, she’s an autodidact. And, yes, she can be a bit rough around the edges, but she was curious. Which is inimitably sexy. I particularly loved that if she didn’t know what something meant, she’d ask. That was refreshing.

She is also irrefutably viscerally sexual. She walks into a room and its molecules are altered. I’m sounding like it’s just about how gorgeous she is, but it’s not that. She is life-imbuing. Life-affirming.

Her body is her medium. There’s something very alluring about that. No space between herself and her artistic expression. She’s a fount. And I found that irresistible.

In my world, you build a relationship with your instrument. No bad puns here. In all seriousness, your instrument becomes your muse, your lover, your conduit. But it’s always relational. That’s why I love composing. It edges closer, for me, to direct expression.

But she has that at her disposal permanently. And so, for all her insecurities, all her ‘wrong side of the tracks’ schtick, she has something I can never approximate.

But with that comes impulsiveness, emotional instability, paranoia. And that’s hard to weather long term. I tried to be patient, empathic, to be there for her, but one needs to also preserve one’s own energy and mental health.

Her

One thing I don’t miss is his dad. Jesus H. Christ. He hated me. It was mutual. His dad shut me out of his own mother’s funeral. I presumed I would be attending, as you do. Because, well, who wouldn’t? I was raised to think you support a boyfriend or a husband or whatever by attending their grandmother’s send-off. But the night before, his dad called and said there wasn’t room in the friggin’ car. Convenient. And rude. And, news flash, I have a car. I could have driven myself. But I got the message. That was the beginning of the end for me, that he didn’t stand up to his father. He could – and should have – said, ‘We’ll drive together to the funeral, Dad, thanks for the heads-up.’ But he was under his father’s thumb. Daddy could do no wrong.

Him

It wasn’t my fault my father preferred Sofia. Sofia was university educated, credentialled, academic. Sofia fitted in better – knew how to conduct herself at a dinner party. At a work do. At my parents’ soirees.

Whereas she would overcompensate because she felt insecure. She’d either ham up her working class roots and be intentionally inflammatory, or she’d try too hard to ingratiate herself. Either way, it wasn’t scoring points with my father. He did try. He never excluded her from family events. He never belittled her in public. He always treated her respectfully.

Her

When I broke up with him the first time – mainly because he didn’t have my back with his family – he couldn’t stay away. He was sniffing around all the time. Once, he texted saying he’d been in a car accident. He hadn’t. He just wanted me to speak to him. My flatmate wanted to strangle him. And then me, for actually talking to him after that.

When he started hinting that he didn’t want to live unless we were together, I got scared, for him. But a part of me took it as a sign of how much he loved me. He was talking marriage and babies. I wasn’t ready for kids, I had my career to think about. But I was up for marriage. And my plan was to shift into choreo; then I could have children without it affecting my career as much. So I did want the family life with him, eventually. I was excited. A fresh start for us. Both wanting the same things.

Soon enough, we were back together. It was like the beginning again. And the will we/won’t we vibe was hot, I have to admit. We’d never stopped loving each other. It didn’t take long for us to be sleeping together again. Hanging out all the time. Working together. Not paid work as a team. Not yet. Though we hoped our collab would lead to something. We’d got back into our project.

Before we’d broken up, he’d been composing something for me. And I was doing the choreo. I’d never worked with a boyfriend before and it was like great sex squared. It made me feel – tell anyone I used this word and I’ll deny it – cherished. You know, I was being respected for more than my looks or my so-called sexiness, or even for more than my dancing skills. I was being treated as an equal. Appreciated for my creativity. It was my first go at choreo and I loved it. It meant a lot that we were doing that together.

So when a mutual friend told me he’d been saying I was deluded, that we’d never got back together, that it was just ex-sex, I was shocked. And really hurt. I couldn’t trust him anymore. Behind closed doors, he was hysterical and crying and saying he couldn’t live without me, proposing and naming future babies, and then he was telling everyone I was some kind of nut-ball stalker.

Him

She started telling our friends we’d reunited. And I began to worry she was a fantasist. We’ been in contact since I’d ended things, and yes, there’d been some last hurrah liaisons – we’re all guilty of that, aren’t we? – but ‘together’ was definitely overstating things. I was back on the apps; dating other women. She knew that. I had to start thinking of my future. But she was intent on resuming what she called ‘our project’. So, I was seeing her to follow that through; I knew how important it was to her. And I didn’t want to take the opportunity away from her. Perhaps I was humouring her. She was new to choreography, and I’m not saying she won’t grow into it, but we were just improvising. The piece hadn’t been commissioned. But I think she wanted to believe what she wanted to believe. And that was not dissimilar to how she was about ‘us’. I admit, in close proximity, we’d fall into old habits. We might have re-consummated things, but we were hardly walking down the aisle.

Her

He started spending time with one of his students. Let me be clear: he had only adult students. I’m not accusing him of that. When he’s not gigging, he also teaches singing. Amara was his exit ramp. That was infuriating enough. But it was the denial that did my head in. Even after we were done and dusted, he still wouldn’t admit it. What do they say, double down on the lie? He was adamant he hadn’t cheated. I thought, though, after we’d dropped our weapons, he’d fess up. But he never did.

Him

She told everyone I was unfaithful. I know, statistically, men tend to hop from one relationship to another. And more, to Venn diagram it. But Amara was only ever my student when I was in a relationship; nothing more, nothing less. I supplement my concerts with tuition. Amara had a natural talent, but she had no experience, had never been trained. I saw potential in her, so maybe I gave her more time and attention than my other students. But I did nothing untoward. Not to mention the damage to my professional credibility that such a thing could do. My career would be on the line.

Her

Sometimes we cross paths at industry events. Or at a friends’ barbie. But it all turned out like it should. I have a three-year-old girl, Isi. She was a dancer in the womb. So I think we know whose footsteps she’ll follow in. Though my husband thinks she might be a soccer player, like her Dad. I’m a full-time choreographer now. Maybe I have him to thank for that. It was with him that I started that dream, even if our collab came to nothing. I’d say it was the best – until I met my hubby – and worst relationship of my life.

Him

I haven’t seen her since we broke up. I made a point of giving her a wide berth, for her sake. I think it took her a while to recover, from what I heard. And I knew Amara was a touchy subject, since she thought at the time that I’d betrayed her. (Amara and I broke up a while back, so that’s a moot point.) You know, it’s complicated juggling an international career and a relationship. And I’m not sure how children would cope with never being long in one country, so perhaps it’s best that that didn’t eventuate for me. I know she always wanted kids. I just wasn’t sure she was mother material. But it was an experience, to be sure. All in all, it was the worst and best relationship I’ve ever been in.