Conversations at modern confessionals


Extracts from real conversations I’ve had with women I don’t know in nightclub bathrooms:

 “I just accepted about five free drinks from that dude in a Tigger suit, but I’m not going to sleep with him. Does that make me a bad person?”


“Can I tell you a secret? I’m not wearing any undies and now I have regrets. I thought it would be sexy but now I’m just really paranoid and a bit cold.”

“Okay so I just need to blurt this: sometimes when I’m having sex with my boyfriend, I pretend it’s someone else instead.”

 “All my friends think I hook up with girls when I’m drunk just to be titillating for my boyfriend. But I’m actually gay. And everything’s just such a mess, I have no idea how to tell anyone.”

“I have no idea what drugs I just took and I’m really freaking out right now. I don’t want to tell my friends. Please stay with me?”

“Everyone, literally everyone in my life thinks I’m so fucking happy and I’m not, I’m so depressed. I’m so sorry, I don’t even fucking know you and I’m swearing and crying at you but I just, I don’t know. Everything is just so shit.”

“*incoherent due to sobs*”                                   

 “You’re really pretty. I would probably hate you if I wasn’t drunk.”


photo 1 photo 2


and afterwards,
they drank american honey and ate pizza in their underwear

and he ordered hawaiian,
for once not pretending that he liked spicy toppings

and she didn’t suck her belly in,
for once not bothering about whether or not it rolled

and she told him her life story in a way she never had before,
emphasising whichever bits she thought were important at that moment

and he told her how he wanted to get married and have children,
emphasising that he didn’t want to do either with her

and then they went to sleep,
not feeling weird that their legs were entangled

and in the morning they didn’t pretend they would call each other,
they just went their separate ways

and neither of them really knew if they’d been honest
because they wouldn’t see each other again,
or if it was the other way round


eddie babe


I have seen a lot of therapists. I’m not sure how many, I’ve lost count.

There was the one who insisted I call him “Wolfie” and proceeded to pseudo-diagnose me with two disorders in the first session. Or the one that handed me a pre-school-esque worksheet about how I should talk to people when I’m overwhelmed (“I + feel + [emotion]”. Thanks for that, bud).

Those little eccentricities don’t really matter to me though. I’m not there for their theories or strategies. I just want someone to hear me when I say that sometimes I’m plunged into suffocating blackness because life hurts. I just want someone to listen when I tell them that sometimes my anger is so intense that it takes my breath away. I just want someone to believe me when I say that sometimes I feel so invincible my skin buzzes and I make reckless decisions that I don’t understand afterwards. I just want somebody who’s professionally obliged to not look shocked when I say that after I sleep with someone, sometimes I feel dead inside and repulsed by their proximity to my body. I just want to be able to say ugly things, uncomfortable things, things that don’t fit, to another human being.

I just want somewhere I can be real for 60 minutes, to save me from having to tell raw truths to people in the real world.