Do You Want Me

FYI: the following probably won’t make sense unless you’ve listened to ‘Fate’ and read what the song is about. So if you haven’t already, I’d suggest doing that before moving on.

The Short Version: (If you're in a hurry) 

In an over-dramatic, tongue-in-cheek way, ‘Do You Want Me’ tells the second part of a very long and (mostly) true story I'm sharing through the one-song-per-month release of my mixtape, 'L89'. It was written 10 years ago in a state of innocent infatuation with a new love and aims to capture the confusion one can feel in the torturous place of relationship limbo that arises when the euphoria of the chase is replaced by a climate of unbearable uncertainty resulting from the apparent indifference towards you held by the object of your affection. As a consequence of no longer knowing exactly where you stand the very fabric of your reality feels as if it shatters into a trillion tiny pieces and you descend into madness trying in vain to find answers to questions like “DO YOU WANT ME”???

The Long Version: (If you’ll indulge me)

I sat in the taxi heading home from the club, clutching the tissue on which she wrote her number as if it were some sort of precious metal. I felt like I was floating on a strange mix of exhilaration and sorrow because, while I’d just shared an unforgettable night with this mysterious Brit, I was absolutely convinced that the number she’d given me was a dud. Acutely ill-equipped to process the cocktail of emotions thrust upon me by the evening’s events, I fell out of the cab, stumbled up the stairs, climbed into bed (fully clothed) and passed out. 

I was woken early the next day by the assaulting sound of several sets of hands bashing on my dorm room door. After ignoring them for a minute or two, it became apparent that my visitors would persist, so I rolled out of bed and crawled towards my door in fear that if I stood, the altitude would make my head explode.

I used my last drop of energy to turn the handle and just as the lock unlatched, the door burst open. My mates (who I’d completely and shamelessly abandoned the night before) piled in, making the most ungodly racket I’d ever heard. They clearly expected to catch me in bed with a guest. So once they’d checked the cupboards and realised that "Sidebar Girl" was nowhere to be found, they sat down and began their routine interrogation: where is she? who is she? where is she from? what's her blood type? did you get her number?

Her number? Her number! I almost forgot. While repeatedly pleading the 5th to their barrage of questioning, I tried to covertly conceal the incriminating little piece of paper that was clearly visible on my unmade bed. With their attention to detail impaired by the collective hangover, thankfully, the number went unnoticed and since it was clear that they would get nothing from my tightly zipped lips, my mates threw in the towel and went to play Super Smash Bros on the 64. 

Finally alone once more, I pulled out the number which I’d hidden under my pillow and held it in the palm of my hand. I paused with hesitation, doubtful of the digits' authenticity. Then, concluding that there was nothing to lose, I punched the number into my little Nokia and fired off a text. I didn’t expect anything in return, but a few moments later my phone buzzed… I opened the message and, to my amazement, it was her. 

We threw some flirtatious banter back and forth until I asked what she had planned for the day. She was on her way to Bondi with some friends and asked if I’d like to join. Needing no encouragement, I sprung to my feet like Popeye after he’s just chugged some spinach and within seconds I was out the door…

As the bus rolled closer to the beach, uncertainty began to creep in and the butterflies went wild in my stomach. The veil of a dimly-lit club and an overindulgence in the drink have combined to distort many people's judgement before. Maybe I was about to become another statistic and it was all just a hazy illusion; an amazing night better left in the halls of happy memories? Whatever the answer, it was far too late to deliberate now, for the bus had hissed to a halt and I found myself on the footpath facing one of Australia’s most iconic landscapes and a challenge roughly comparable to locating a straw-coloured needle in the world’s biggest haystack i.e. finding someone on Bondi Beach on a scorching, sunny Saturday. Good luck, mate. 

I scanned the sea of bronzed bodies below me, trying desperately to recall what Sidebar Girl looked like. I feared the worst but my eyes quickly locked onto a figure that was unmistakably her; every bit as beautiful as I remembered. I flipped off my thongs, heart pounding like it did the night before, and tiptoed across the boiling hot sand. Her golden hair shone in the sun like a lighthouse guiding me through crowd until I finally arrived at her slice of paradise. We exchanged an awkward hug/kiss-not-kiss thing, I threw down my towel beside her and the rest of the world vanished in an instant once more. We spoke for hours that seemed more like minutes. It felt so natural; completely void of effort. Then as the sun began to sink and shadows grew long on the sand, we headed back to the city and parted ways with plans to meet the next day.

I kept expecting the bubble to burst but Sidebar Girl kept showing up. We met the day after the beach, the day after that, the one after that, and every day for the rest of the week. Within the space of just a few days, a truly electric connection was formed. It felt like something much more than the only thing it could have ever been: summer lovin’. For she was a traveller; simply passing through on her way around the world. So when the week inevitably came to an end, she got on a bus and continued on her pilgrimage up the East Coast of Australia, taking my broken heart went with her. 😢

I thought we had something really special, but she started to act like it was no big deal. My messages went for days without reply, and those that came left a lot to be desired. As I sat in my dorm room longing, yearning, PINING over this girl, the love of my life was off having the time of her life with seemingly little regard for my misery. This kicked my poor, little love-sick brain into overdrive as it manufactured an avalanche of questions: would I ever see her again? Did she feel the same? Did she even care at all? I needed answers. 

So, amidst that time of unbearable confusion, I wrote ‘Do You Want Me’ as a way of venting my feelings and sharing them with the girl responsible for them.