Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Monkey Tales

I swore that if anyone ever gave me one of those ‘cute’ nicknames I wouldn’t stand for it. I mean, those sickening couples you see that call each other ‘Poodle-snatch’ or ‘Schnooky-wookie’ or whatever are just too much. Worse still if they do it in public.

I mean it all started innocently enough, calling each other by the shortened versions of our proper names (as is the Australian way) except for when we were being scowly – then it was full names, or worse: First, middle and last names in that lecturous, parental way.

Then one night camped on the couch, listening to the rain strike his balcony windows he said “Come here and give me a cuddle, Boy”. Instead of balking or making a big deal out of who plays what role, I just moved in close, laid my head on his chest and wrapped my arms around him.

Somehow that then turned into text messages that started ‘Hey Monkey…’ and there it rests, via text I get called Monkey, in person I get called Boy and when I’m putting myself down it becomes Boof, short for Boofhead. Enough to tell me I shouldn’t be fretting about the non-existent flaws I get so hung up on.

Even though two jobs keep me flat out and I still manage to fit in visits with friends both new and old, shopping trips around the city and jaunty country drives. That’s on top of mid-week sleep-overs and entire weekends ‘just hanging out’.

“Did you bring your night insulin?” Sounds like a bit of an odd question – but as a diabetic I usually have to prepare for eating during the day as well as fill-in-the-gaps injections before bed. That means when the question is asked I can linger for the night if I like, instead of having to peel myself out of his arms and trundle home.

As much as I don’t like people making a fuss over stuff like that, it’s nice that he has taken the time to notice. It’s nice that he’s thoughtful and caring and patient. It’s nice that he’s a bunch of stuff that men I’ve known in the past haven’t been.

It also makes for a nice change to find someone who won’t let me get too big for my boots. A bloke who’s prepared to say things like “isn’t there anything that you don’t know something about?” when I start to carry on about a subject I’m probably not qualified to pontificate about. Someone who can go from hanging shit on me about my “chipolata fingers” or my grey beard to telling me how beautiful my eyes are before swinging back into something like: “but I almost didn’t notice because of your whopping great nose”.

Arsehole.

He also thinks his farts are hilarious and my objections to them have him almost splitting his sides. That’s okay though, because as payback I try to ramp up my usage of the term ‘cunt’ as this tends to rile him – particularly when out in public.

I used to think that the best a man could ever do was to pay attention to me for a couple of minutes at a time in between everything else his busy and important life dictated. Turns out I was wrong. Some guys actually do want so see me and spend time with me and don’t have an ulterior motive for doing so.

I never though I’d enjoy being wrong as much as I do.
Thanks Monkey.

7 comments:

Damien Oz said...

Awwwwwwwwww

Andrew said...

Brushing the tear from the corner of my eye.

Jayne said...

So....we just had to rub your tummy to get you to roll on your back and throw your legs behind your ears for us, then...?

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