Jebediah

It was one of those humid and refreshing evenings in Johannesburg, the type that had just a bit of chill in the air that served only to cool the layer of moist heat that settled over your skin after a summer thunderstorm. I loved those types of evenings.

It was on this evening that I finally met Jebediah.

We had been talking for months and months. The actual meeting part, however, alluded us. He was chronically shy and introverted, or so he claimed. I later came to the conclusion that in actual fact he was a douchebag in disguise. That’s the thing with the quiet, nerdy types- they are possibly more douchey than the rest of them. I am, of course, generalizing but I do have some experience when it comes to dating geeks and nerds, the intelligent, quiet and introverted types. In fact, they are more my type than anything else. I find them interesting and quirky.

But that is what makes it all the more deceptive. Some of these lads will claim quite verbally and more often than not that they are the good guys, that they are the guys who have been hard done by in life, looks, dating and so on. Perhaps it is this cunning and this wit that makes them so adept at playing games, or maybe it is their own self-absorption that blinds them to the harsh reality that other people are bound to get hurt- whatever it is, Jebediah was officially the last self-proclaimed geek that I ever went near.

Anyway, as I was saying before, it took us months to finally meet. When we did, it was to play a round of adventure golf outdoors, followed by some bowling, followed by some dinner, followed by some heated snogging in the parking lot. For this little excursion I was the one who had to drive some 40 minutes in order to meet him in a shopping mall that was close to his abode. I was naïve and much younger than I am now, and quite possibly very horny, so I was wearing my anti-douchebaggery goggles at the time.

During the date, I showed off my shockingly poor ability at any hand-eye coordination sport. It must have amused him greatly. He was nice enough and we clicked rather well. Jebediah was good-looking, a bit chunky. He reminded me a bit of a slobbering Saint Bernard.

He ended the date with a lengthy kissing session which went on and on and on. Good, right?

Well, the next day he was decidedly off. I received a “good morning” text to which I reply in my normal delightful way, to which he replied, “Gud.” He never used poor spelling. A bit put out, I told him I enjoyed meeting him and hoped to do it again.

“K.”

#kbye.

I left him be after that. Message received loud and clear, right? And I moved on to greener pastures. Happily, I might add. I was not pining after him, I was not obsessing or infatuated. The date had been nice but that was it.

However, this was not a simple good bye. Jebediah had this odd way of drawing me back. After weeks of not hearing from him, I would receive a message from him out of the blue. It would be friendly and amiable and coaxing, teasing me that I had lost interest in him. Eventually the weeks shortened to days and the days to hours and soon we were back to our daily communication. It became flirtatious and openly naughty, until one evening he invited me over.

His excuse for not contacting me right after the first date? His grandmother had died and he had to take care of his mom for a time. I suppose that was acceptable. I didn’t dwell on it. He had invited me over, right?

Well he lived in a disgusting little hovel. It was this small apartment on somebody’s property. He claimed he had just moved in and hadn’t had time to unpack or buy any furniture (he moved in a month ago). I sat on the floor and drank a vodka to ease the transition of inhabiting such conditions (I am a fussy and spoilt girl- spoilt by myself). At least he had made some sort of effort to maintain his bedroom, though it was sparse and the linen smelt a bit dank.

In any event, the sex was good. I liked sleeping with Jebediah. It was probably some of the best sex I had ever had. The chunky boy had stamina and moves, yo! And there was no awkwardness that usually exists during the first time. It just sort of flowed.

We cuddled for a bit afterwards and I was about to drift off to sleep when he left the bed. Curious, I sat up, thinking he was about to chuck me out.

“Just need the toilet,” he informed me. “Sleep.”

The toilet was in the other room, separated by at least ten feet of space and two closed doors between us, so I am not sure if Jebediah thought maybe it was possible that I would not hear the chaos that would ensue in the water closet or that I simply fell asleep in the speed of light and would not notice.

I fear he may have consumed a diabolical feast of Chimmichangas or some intense hot periperi nachos, perhaps his colon was undergoing an intensive flushing procedure, for the sounds that I heard that evening were akin to the contents of a big pot of steaming curry being tossed into a sink. Oh Jesus, and the trapped pockets of gas that heralded the onslaught and echoed against the bowl of the toilet…

Horrified, I covered my head with the smelly linen and tried to ignore the clamor. It went on for 30 minutes or so and when he returned to bed, I fiercely pretended that I was indeed asleep.

When I left the next day, I vowed I would not be put off by the post-coital events of the night before. After all, they were simply bodily functions that were (fearfully) normal. These were some things that could be changed at a later date when we were more comfortable with each other. For instance, I could send him outside into a bush where he could dig a hole and happily continue his business.

However, after this encounter, Jebediah continued in his strange and aloof way and after another “k”, I figured that we had run our course now. When I didn’t hear from him in almost a month, I figured it was time to move on.

I can’t remember exactly when or how long after our first night together, but some time must have passed. It was winter, that much I am certain of, and I had been dating a guy I had been quite fond of only to find out via Facebook that the heinous creature had another girlfriend. Naturally, I called upon the assistance of my cousin and we went out to drink my sorrows away. In my drunken haze, I was reckless and no longer hurt, so I began messaging Jebediah. I do not remember what my drunk persona said to that boy, but that bitch has my back (sometimes). When we returned to my apartment that evening that was currently occupied by 3 other women, Jebediah came over.

As my room was a right mess, I was hastily trying to prove I didn’t live like a pig when the doorbell rang. One of my most sarcastic friends at the time answered the door and to my mortification she told him, “Another one for Ash? Hang on, I’ll get her. Ash! Another one here for you!”

Jebediah spent the night and most of the next day with me. I saw him again the next night. And gradually we became almost a regular occurrence. It was nice and I enjoyed our nights together. During the day we would mostly message each other, sometimes flirty and sometimes playfully argumentative.

I was feeling bold one night that I was supposed to visit him. We had spoken at some length about turn ons and fantasies so I opted to indulge in one of his.

I had a black coat that covered the tops of my thighs so I wore that and nothing else other than a pair of black heels. In winter.

Freezing, I was driving to his apartment when he called me and asked me to pick up some McFlurries for us. Sure, why the fuck not?

Well I sure as hell could not go into MacDonald’s dressed like that so I went through the drivethru only to receive knowing looks from the ladies serving me as the tops of my very naked thighs were exposed. God.

Perhaps I was misinformed and men don’t actually like girls who show up to their apartment wearing nothing but a black coat and bearing ice cream as gifts, but Jebediah did not invite me over again after that evening. When he turned aloof and cold this time, so did I. I grew tired of the game he played and eventually I lost contact with him altogether until out of the blue, last August, he sent out a tentative message to establish contact with me again. Maybe the smell of freshly jilted and broken engagement oozed in the subconscious of all that knew me once and now, but I did not take kindly to the gesture.

I learnt a lot from this relationship- douchebags come in many shapes and sizes. Girls, don’t let an articulate geek misinform you of his actual intentions. When it came straight down to it, Jebediah was looking for a serious relationship but not with a girl like me. I was his back up, his hook up for whenever he felt lonely, horny, depressed… I was his emotional security net. It is an easy thing to be and it is even easier to use someone for those exact purposes, but it is cruel.

You’re feeling lonely? Deal with it. Get a plant or a pet rock.

You’re feeling down? Join the club! Seriously, sort that shit out though in a healthy way.

Your self-esteem is dragging on the floor and you need uplifting? Go to gym, brush your teeth and shower, get your mother to tell you what a handsome boy you are.

What you should absolutely NOT do? Use another person for a quick emotional fuckfest fix.

Self awareness, folks. The rule applies to all: don’t be a fucking asshole. #ashrants

Harry #2

“I miss my monkey.”

Clearly all the Puka Puka’s had gone to my head because I’m sure I had just heard Harry #2 say that he missed HIS monkey. I refrained from blurting the first thing that entered my mind (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK) and tried to contain the incredulous emotions from my face.

I failed.

I was not subtle it seemed. I do struggle to contain my utter bafflement, disdain, ‘WTF’ expressions from my countenance even though I will do my best not to actively voice just how confounded a person can make me. Harry #2 caught my expression immediately though and promptly whipped out his phone and brandished a rather recent picture of a small grey monkey on his shoulder… equipped with a little diaper as well.

Well, fuck. “I had to give him up,” Harry #2 explained. “I miss him. I could not travel and leave him behind, it would be cruel.”

Wasn’t it cruel to have him in the first place? I’m sure the poor creature would prefer not to be contained to a small house by a lead and a fucking diaper. I didn’t say anything, I knew it was quite customary over here for people to have wild and exotic animals as pets. Besides, I was very attracted to Harry #2 and up till that moment he had seemed possibly like the most normal person I had ever dated.

I was struggling to find any fault. He was an IT technician… I think. It was something technical, something difficult to remember… like whatever Chandler’s job was in ‘Friends’. Anyway, he was also very intelligent and well-read with a great sense of humour. Sitting at the cocktail lounge I had chosen for us to meet, I felt decidedly sophisticated and mature. He was dressed superbly in a crisp white business shirt and formal trousers, he smelled Godly (there is just something about a man who smells like you could ravish him on the spot), and his shoes were freshly polished. He looked dark and weirdly handsome and rugged, unshaven (which is normal considering where I live now) and very tall. He bordered on skinny which I did not mind. Despite what my previous blog posts have expounded on, I do not particularly care about height or body type or any of that, but somehow my most intense experiences have revolved around men who frequented the gym. Ok well not that many- just two or three.

I was attracted more to his personality than anything else. I said weirdly handsome before because I don’t think he fit into the conventional standards of handsome. I found him pleasing but he did look a bit odd at times. Nevertheless, as we sat together in the cosy bar sipping cocktails and talking books and philosophy and life, I felt supremely sophisticated and the classy lady.

Until my cover was blown.

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Ashleigh,” the young bartender said amicably as he brought me my regular cocktail (a blasted thing called a Potted Parrot adorned with a garish bird to boot). He looked at the man sitting next to me. “I am sad to see that it did not work out with the other guy.”

This particular establishment had become my go-to when I wanted to meet someone for the first time. I hadn’t met many men here though, I believe there was one other who introduced me to the place before Harry #2. Anyway, I liked it so much I kept coming back. Guess I would have to shake things up a little bit now…

Luckily, Harry #2 didn’t seem to catch on or he chose not to comment on it.

We spoke for what seemed like hours and I didn’t let the fact that he had evidently kept a monkey as a pet get to me too much. When our drinks dwindled away, I honestly didn’t want the evening to end. He invited me over, I accepted, and we shared a cab to the hotel apartments where he was staying.

Sex wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t the goal of my evening, but it did and it was good and I do not regret it though at the time I acted like I did. After the deed was done I collected my clothes and bag, feeling ashamed of myself, and got in the next cab back to my apartment. Harry #2 wanted me to stay… he asked several times if I would, but I brushed it off casually, attempting to keep cool and calm and collected.

I suppose I am unused to one night stands that extend beyond the “one night” but Harry #2 asked to see me again and I complied. He brought dinner and drinks to my apartment and after eating and fucking I asked him to leave. Who was this person, asking sophisticated lovers to exit her bed?? Damned if I know.

Maybe the universe was building up to a terrifying climax that makes me cringe even to this day.

The next week I did spend the night at Harry #2’s hotel apartment. It was a week night and I had to arise an entire hour earlier than him (cursed profession, that of an educator), which didn’t seem to be a problem. Naked as the day I was born under the covers, I pulled them back to get out of bed as something caught my eye.

My heart stopped beating in my chest.

It was small, but there nonetheless, and if Harry #2 chose to throw himself out of bed and mess the covers, he would have seen it too.

A small, obvious spot of blood was on the white sheets, a clear indication that my uterus was laughing at me and boycotting any attempts at a normal relationship with a nice man.

I was horrified. And I got back into bed and pulled the covers tightly above me so that the offending spot was invisible.

I grew up in a family that just did not discuss these sort of things openly, anything to do with sex, monthly cycles and bodily fluids was hush hush and almost scandalous. I am more open about them now but it has taken some time to navigate around the feelings of discomfort each time they are mentioned.

So when this unspeakable ordeal occurred in the fancy hotel apartment on the first night we spent together, I wanted to die.

I lay there, mortified to my very core, until Harry #2 woke up for work and asked why I wasn’t up yet. “Oh, I er… decided not to go to work today,” I responded quickly. “Feeling a bit sick.” Lies, lies, lies!

How pathetic was I that I let a tiny drop of blood on a white sheet stop me from going to work? OK, well I hated my job at the time so it was an easy enough decision but c’mon… Well, I doubt Harry #2 ever found out about it because as soon as he left I stripped the bed and disposed of the evidence before housekeeping entered to finish the rest.

We saw each other on and off for about 2 months. I did like him but I figure there was no real connection between us, just some good sex and conversation. Harry #2 was very laid back throughout our brief courtship and maybe if I had adopted a similar approach we would have developed into something more serious. I struggled with the fact that we did not have a label, that there was no sense of commitment and it was implied that I was free to do whatever I wanted. It left me edgy and when I spoke to him about it, he asked me what I wanted.

“A relationship,” I told him directly.

“Then let’s have a relationship,” he replied as he packed his suitcase on the other side of the room for a two week business trip to Lebanon.

“It’s that simple?”

“Yes, why not?”

I shrugged, feeling uneasy. His phone went off from beside me on the bed and he asked me to pass it to him. As I did, I caught sight of the message on screen. I’m not a snoop, I have never found the need to search through another person’s phone before, but that message quickly eradicated any notion of a relationship with Harry #2.

Someone named Amy had written: “I really want to see you again.”

Instead of letting the issue fester and gnaw away at my thoughts, I asked him directly about it and received an indirect response.

“Sometimes it is possible to misinterpret what we read,” Harry #2 said when I asked him about Amy and whether he was going to see her again.

Very inconclusive.

For some reason I wasn’t hurt. I shrugged it off and contemplated absentmindedly what I should do about the matter, but the thought came and went like a pesky fly that I had to keep swatting away. Eventually I did end the relationship with an obscure and cowardly Whatsapp message that read something along the lines of: “I don’t feel very relationshippy. Sorry.”

I never heard from Harry #2 again. I did however provide him with a very loquacious drunken Whatsapp essay after one too many bottles (yes, bottles) of Prosecco in which I regaled him of all the deep dark musings of my broke and twisted mind. How I wish I had kept that bit of prose but, perhaps wisely, I deleted the evidence off my phone and Harry #2 blocked my drunk ass on Whatsapp.

Harry #1

I have had a guy ask me to lick his nipple. I have had a guy ask me to stick a finger in his pink (I assure you, I did not indulge this request). I have had a guy ask me to choke him.

Look, to each his own I suppose but I am a pretty normal girl.

There is nothing really that would surprise me anymore and although there was nothing extremely perverted about Harry #1, I have this lingering sense that he was just simply weird. I’ve labelled him Harry #1 because, as you can safely assume, there were two men of the same names that I happened to ‘date’ relatively close to one another.

Anywaaaaay.

Harry #1 and I met on Tinder. I had been in my new country for about 2 months and already I was a dismal dating disaster. I had met only one guy so far and it had veered horribly off course (not that I could blame him though- he was and is very young and deeply complex- more on this surprising development later). I was a bit tentative when it came to this one… he was a weight-lifter who had competed in several professional competitions or some such (SERIOUSLY MY TRACK RECORD RUNS LIKE THE WHO’S WHO OF GYMBAG DOUCHERY!).

OK, so maybe I have a weak spot for a finely corrugated abdomen and biceps the size small bowling balls. Harry #1 was half American and half Arab, not so tall as he was wide, swarthy skin, thick wavy hair- the boy damn well cleaned up well, I say. There wasn’t a speck of hair on his body, too. I bet if he greased up you could slide right off him like an amusement park ride…

He checked off the boxes relatively quickly- good looking, engineer, educated, English proficient and he was in the market for a serious girlfriend. Yes, folks. Harry #1 looked good on paper.

On paper.

He collected me from my apartment in his very posh and expensive car and whisked me off for dinner and drinks at a nice restaurant about 30 minutes off-island. Jesus, the man could eat. Without preamble, he ordered for himself the biggest cheeseburger on the menu, a starter portion of cheese fries and chicken wings followed by the chocolate brownie dessert and the plate sized double chocolate chip cookie smeared with cream and yet more ice cream. He consumed it all like a hoover.

He was sweet though albeit a bit goofy. I couldn’t quite get used to his sense of humor… it was almost under-developed. Quite childish. I felt like he was on the verge of telling me a knock-knock joke half of the time, and he would giggle (yes, giggle) at slapstick trip ups and farts.

However, it was a first date and so far it wasn’t all bad. He did not let me pay for anything and drove me back home. We proceeded to kiss in his car for a spell and I knew by the way that he moved his lips that he was experienced… the boy knew how to kiss. Warning maybe?

Anyway, I did not take Harry #1 upstairs (Hurrah! Gone was the sluttish, misbegotten ways of my youth! I could refrain for a whole first date without pouncing on him. Such willpower…) and I was mildly surprised when he called and asked to spend some time with me that weekend. At this point in my transition to a new country and a new apartment, I was still living in some unfurnished hovel. My recent pay cheque had a nice little back pay that I quickly spent on some IKEA furniture. Well, Harry #1 had his uses in the end….

[Quick IKEA side rant- What kind of fucking company lets people assembly their own fucking furniture? Jesus Christ. I am already giving you my money, just fucking deliver the shit fully assembled to my door, you twat monkeys! Is this a foreign concept to you, well-off European country?? I could totes understand the need to assemble one’s own furniture if I fucking collected the wood for my fucking bed from the fucking tree in the BARBARIC JUNGLE I was dwelling in!]

So Harry #1 helped me assemble my bookshelf and subsequently a friend’s bench. I learned a particular thing about him during this procedure- he had no idea what to do with a hammer. Or how to follow instructions. Or anything remotely to do with assembling something (engineer?). His fancy car, his high paying job, his lifestyle- these were all entitlements and he unknowing acted like they were too. It became abundantly obvious to me that this was a man who would not be able to cope should he have to one day fend for himself.

It was very off-putting.

So I fucked him.

What made the sex so good was that despite the fact that Harry #1 didn’t quite know how wield a hammer or tie his shoelaces without the assistance of a hefty entitlement or a servant, in the bedroom he was a beast. He took control. He lasted an acceptable amount of time. He balanced the right amount of sexy aggressiveness in his voice when he was aroused, a startling and welcoming contrast to the soft pansy-like quality otherwise. He finished (a bit too loudly).

And then he farted.

And then he giggled.

And I despaired.

Was I inhabiting some other worldly dimension where this was acceptable bedroom behaviour?

And it got weirder.

He gave me a live, naked demonstration of how his mother would whip his ass if he had done something she didn’t like.

Yeah… hashtag: GET THE FUCK OUT.

I blocked him soon after that, and then one night drunkenly unblocked him. He would message me occasionally and harp on about how broken he was over his ex-girlfriend or some such shit but this was one guy I was happy to not care about at all. So in conclusion, I don’t miss or yearn for Harry #1 in the slightest but his brief sojourn in the chasm of my life was weird and profoundly… well, weird.

I wish I could make this stuff up.

Fuck Tonsil

I realise it has been 3 long years since I last published a post on this blog.

It was unforgivably rude of me and I do humbly apologise.

However, the time that I’ve abstained from my writing certainly the same does not pertain to the sordid and remarkable feats of my dating repertoire. I can and will assure you, the stories have increased tenfold… and I have been left dumbfounded and time and time again broken and alone.

But therein lies the beauty of everything I believe… the unerring ability to pull into oneself and, piece by little piece, put yourself back together until finally, through the cracks, little parts of the person you once were begin to shine through. And this is what it all boils down to, this is why I was pulled, tugged, pushed towards this blog- I am finding little bits of who I was again. I know I am not myself, I have not been for a very long time it seems, and perhaps the change I have undergone over the years since I started this blog is indeed irreparable, but though a person can change perhaps the foundations are not so easy to shake. I am, and probably always will be, a writer, a story teller, and hopefully there is someone who will read these words and be amused, touched, even healed.

Who knows? Enough morbidity. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty.

A lot has happened in 3 years. Perhaps the best way for me to reflect at this moment is through this particular gif:

Let’s narrow it down. Oh, I adore the simplicity of lists… it’s as if you can minimalise the absolute atrocious fuck wittery that is your life into organised pigeonholes with which to tackle each problem individually (ha! ha ha ha!). Nevertheless, in no particular order here it is:

1. Endured two long-term relationships.
2. Immigrated (so I have dated in both the Southern and Northern hemispheres).
3. Been engaged.
4. Been jilted.
5. Increased the number of guys I have slept with tenfold. Fuck.
6. Lost myself.
7. Found myself (in progress).

Maybe, if I think of more, I’ll add to this list, but right now those appear the most pertinent.

When I first thought about the concept behind this blog, I contrived of some fluffy notion that I could categorise the events of my dating life in the order that they happened. However, sometimes the timelines of each person I was seeing intermingled with another and so on… and now, three years down the line, I would struggle to grasp at the seamless flow of things. Hence, I will begin (again) with the most important.

I can not bring myself to provide my ex-fiance with a suitable alias, so I shall simply refer to him as Fuck Tonsil. Now, I can assure you that even in my lowest hours I can at least empathize with another individual and allot him an ounce of humanity in which I at least grant him a respectable name, but Fuck Tonsil does not deserve that. No, he does not. And I shall not allow him one for it makes me monumentally pleased to dub him that publicly despite the fact that all of this is completely anonymous.

So, it was a year ago to this day that I met Fuck Tonsil.

We met online first, of course. I had been living in my new country for 6 months, resplendently single and dangerously promiscuous (I jest, I err on the side of scrupulous safe practices- I’m the type of girl to always wear a bra during the deed and exclaim ‘ew’ when a guy pulls down his pants). I was on edge due to the trauma of my last relationship and emotionally susceptible to any far-stretching gestures of romance.

Enter Fuck Tonsil.

We had agreed to meet at a bar close to my apartment in the city. I remember driving past and recognizing him from the pictures he had sent me- I could not find fault in his appearance, that was for sure.

He was Arabic, Moroccan to be exact, with swarthy skin and dark hair and eyes. He was also a fitness trainer in the military. His body wasn’t built like most weight lifters but it was toned and well-formed with a taut abdomen I could pound rocks on. On paper, he was almost too good to be true except there was a slight issue with a language barrier. But we maneuvered  around that easy enough. Oh wait, he also had appalling taste in music…

Anyway, Fuck Tonsil was literally my first and last whirlwind romance. I do not think I can ever look at a bunch of red roses without acute suspicion and hate. He wooed me and swept me off my feet and I was helpless to resist. He was so lovely and endearing… surely this was what it was like to be wholly and fully loved without doubt?

Because of his occupation with the military, he spent one week on base and one week off base where he could leave his accommodations and do as he pleased. It became a quick adjustment that he would come to spend those weeks where he wasn’t on base with me in my apartment. Well, let me tell you, I am not a tidy girl. If there is a dish to be cleaned, chances are it won’t feel a drop of water or soap until I get so tired of looking at it that I call in a cleaner to deal with the matter. Fuck Tonsil had no qualms about keeping the place clean. He would also have a meal waiting for me when I got home from work. More often than not he would have acquired flowers, chocolates, gifts of varying sizes and expenses.

Until one day I came home to a ring. Why not? He was already calling me his wife. A ring just made it official. I was taken by him and the thought of dating… I can’t bear it anymore. Fuck Tonsil was more than I had ever hoped for and I remember being so happy that there was very little that could bring me down. The only warning bell I had at the moment was the fact that it was very soon and very sudden.

We had only been seeing each other for 3 months.

However, due to the fact that both our families were overseas and our holiday times could only coincide for a short time during each year, we opted for a lengthy engagement and would be married in August 2017.

We progressed happily in our relationship. Our weekends were spent at parties, brunches, beaches or romantic dinners. It was perfect. I had begun planning for the wedding, going as far as to reserve a wedding venue in South Africa, acquire bridesmaids, photographers, and even a dressmaker… Family and friends abroad were told to reserve a date to be in South Africa for the huge event.

Well, fuck me, right?

About four months into our relationship, Fuck Tonsil’s mother’s cancer appeared to take a turn for the worse and there was an overwhelming amount of medical bills inundating my future husband. I was with him while he transferred his entire salary to his mother and when that wasn’t enough, I could only comfort him in his despair. What little money I could offer, I did. Who wouldn’t? Besides which, the sum total wasn’t extensive or crippling, so I did.

In June 2016 the country entered into the holy month of Ramadan and I began to have the first tentative creepings of panic settle under my skin. Nothing was amiss, nothing had given me indication that something was transpiring under the surface. We had a plan, a purpose. For the month of July and August I would join Fuck Tonsil in Morocco to meet his family and enjoy a lovely holiday in a foreign country. We would return to the city together to commence with the new working year.

Due to his mother’s illness and the fact that his holiday began sooner than mine, he prepared to depart two weeks earlier than I. All was going according to plan. I literally had a PLANE TICKET to Casablanca, so why was I feeling uneasy?

I began to project my edginess, causing little tiffs that spiraled into full-fledged lunacy. During one spat, I threw my ring at him and the delicate sapphire came loose. Fuck Tonsil pocketed the ring, vowing to fix it once he was in Fez.

Because of Ramadan, we hadn’t slept together in two weeks. I felt uncomfortable if we did as he would not share a bed with me, unwilling to break traditions, so I avoided it.

People would always tell me to trust my gut. My gut was practically screaming something at me but whether I was just plain ignorant or unwilling to listen to the fundamental instinct telling me that SOMETHING was wrong, I do not know. I’ll never forget the night it ended, though.

I had said a teary farewell to Fuck Tonsil before he had departed for Morocco and the same evening I attended a farewell dinner for a colleague who was leaving the country. It was an Iftar dinner cruise and afterwards we went for some quiet drinks at a nearby bar, followed by more rowdy indulgence with a close friend at her apartment (the month of Ramadan doesn’t allow for any loud music or drinking of alcohol before sundown and any that is is seriously low key and kept out of public eye). It had been close to 18 hours since I last heard from Fuck Tonsil. I had his flight details and I knew that he was already in Fez but I granted him the benefit of the doubt that he was probably enjoying time with the family that he hadn’t seen in a year.

When I still did not hear from him, I sent a message to his close friends and brother who I had spoken to before and who I knew would be in contact with him…

Not long after this, I did receive a message from him.

“Ash, I not come back.”

I can look back on that moment as if from a distance, as if a bystander grimly curious at the scene of a macabre accident. Even though the message was plainly enough written before me, I couldn’t mentally accept that is indeed what he meant.

It is interesting to behold the moment that is one’s undoing. I can write about it now because those feelings are distant- remembered but not felt- but I know that if I had tried to formulate in words just how damaging the situation had been for me… well, I might had been subjected to a straight-jacket and padded walls.

Anyway, that was the precise moment that changed me. CHANGED ME.

It was established over the next two weeks that he had been fired from his position in the country we were in and he was not going to return from Morocco. This had happened in April. When shit hit the proverbial fucking fan it was June. Ya would fucking think he could have mentioned this to me? I bought the fucking plane ticket in May. Cunt. Boom- bye-bye cancellation fee that cost almost half the actual ticket price. Boom- bye-bye money I had saved to spend on holiday that went towards a ticket back to South Africa where I would return, tail between my legs, to lick my wounds. So long money I had loaned him to help pay for his mother’s hospitals bills. So long. And thanks for all the fish.

I had a broken heart before but the clean up of those two relationships had been pretty much effortless- a few friends lost to the opposing team here or there. But this… Jesus. Each time I had to tell someone I was no longer getting married was like a painful and vehement disembowelment. Dealing with the repercussions was more than I could bear. I began to hide from the world.

I became a miserable cunt. I don’t like people any more. Honestly, I don’t. There are a select few I allow close now. I projected my hurt onto others and honestly there are a few relationships I may have ruined with people close to me. I am an arrogant and obnoxious drunk, picking fights with those closest. Alcohol is at once consoling and detrimental. It’s role in my life has become minimal at the moment.

I am still healing from that experience and occasionally I still have to endure the odd email from a wedding vendor who is inquiring about the progress of the impending nuptials. Those are setbacks that throw me but for the most part I am OK.

I don’t recognize the person who I was 3 years ago anymore. We look the same, but we are not the same. Change, in some ways, is good, but in others… well, we will see. I kinda miss the girl I used to be but I appreciate the one I’ve become.

So, I guess the whole point of this post is to say that… I’m back. Maybe not whole and maybe not the same, but I am back. I do not know where I am going, I do not know if I can find the humor in any situation (certainly not this one), but I am going to give it my best shot because there is a damn lot to write about that has left me dumbfounded, furious and amused.

Dillon

I believe Dillon is very much gay.

It didn’t stop me from taking him home and sleeping with him though.

But more on that later.

Firstly, by the time Dillon had initiated the first message on Okcupid, I had come to a few revealing conclusions about myself.

a)      The type of boy I was finding myself attracted to has to be damaged or broken in some irreparable way.

b)      I have “Daddy” issues

c)       I am miserable alone, but when I do have company I want nothing more to do with him and then paradoxically become even more miserable when I don’t receive a message or phone call from said stranger the next day.

d)      That I needed anti-depressants (not for the lack of male potential in my life, but generally just because I’m a monumental emotional fuck up who probably shouldn’t be encroaching on the normalness of anything that would have me).

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have indulged the waves of misery by dating random boys and taking them home afterwards but hey… anything to keep my mind away from even more disturbing matters.

So when Dillon messaged me I was only marginally intrigued- he seemed far too normal and to boot, he had a distinct “good boy” look about him. Flyaway, blonde Patrick Swayze hair, clean shaven…  and he didn’t seem to have an unfixable past to do with drugs, broken families, joblessness and so on. In fact, he owned a wedding venue on the outskirts of Pretoria and had recently acquired property on the coast of Kwazulu Natal. Gosh, I should snatch this lad up, shouldn’t I?

Dillon sounded almost too perfect on paper, which is why I wasn’t very attracted to him, but against this incessant desire to see myself invariably hurt, I agreed to meet him for drinks.

Dillon was shorter than his specified height… and on top of that I came to realise that all his photos were taken from an advantageous angle so as to make him appear taller than he really was. Hence, I have altered my checklist somewhat to include that if these photos exist, then he is certainly shorter than what he wants to be.

I have no issue with height though and didn’t make anything of it. Dillon was nice enough in person, friendly and loquacious, but most definitely gay. There was just something about him- the subtle gestures of his wrists that he used while he conversed with me, the feminine chain around his neck, the glossy mane of blonde hair that had been styled to thick perfection… Afterwards, he danced unashamedly at a club and even my cousin did not fail to remark while we watched this spectacle from the side lines, “Isn’t he gay?”

I knew that Dillon and I weren’t meant to be as I’m sure some handsome stud will lay claim to him in the near future, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy his suppression for what it was worth. I took him home that night to my mother’s where I was housesitting as she was attending an all-night cancer marathon at a nearby highschool and would only be home the following afternoon.

I was immediately disappointed at the size of his penis- short but thickish-but surprisingly Dillon was not bad in bed. He had stamina and control, the combination appealing and pleasurable, but when the moment arrived for him to “finish”, he pulled out despite the fact that he wore a condom.

“Wha-?” I gasped, surprised.

Shame-faced, he said, “You can never be too careful.”

I did not make further comment and he spent the night. The following morning at 5:30am I escorted him to his car parked in our driveway.

What cruel sense of punishment the universe has instilled for my crimes can surely not be as sadistic as what happened next. Timing has never been on my side but that morning Fate and God (if I believed such a thing) were surely having a right guffaw at my misfortune, for as Dillon and I exited the house, so my mother and several of her companions drove in.

She failed to note the look of horror on my face and my mother, a more stoically proper woman there never was, made a beeline for Dillon with predatory intent. “Hello!” she trilled energetically while I endeavoured to ignore the pounding of my temples, a combination of too much gin and the horror-inducing nausea of my predicament. “I’m so glad I caught you! Now you can help me offload!”

No, it didn’t get any worse, and once Dillon had unprotestingly unloaded a van full of chairs and tables, he took his leave. My mother turned to me with a glint in her eye (I am the only child of hers that is not yet married and while my brother happily popped out two grandsons for her, I am under severe parental pressure to procure the granddaughter- not that I take any heed to this incentive at all), and asked with feigned lightness, “And who was he?”

“Just a friend, mom,” I grumbled disparagingly.

“Oh.” She shook her head slightly. “You must be careful, my girl.”

It was sage advice that I still find difficult to swallow. How can one be careful when all they feel is a ravaging desire towards recklessness and self-abuse?

I heard from Dillon briefly after that and when I enquired as to why he did not contact me, he informed me that I acted quite cold towards him. Interesting… had I been “cold” all along? Had I inadvertently treated all the boys I took home with the same, unthinking callousness that I can only think is caused by my need for self-preservation?

Ah, whatever. It’s not like I had met any strapping lad worthy of keeping around… yet.

Walter

After Reece I had a few troubles regarding selectivity. Meaning: if it looked at me in a certain way, I probably would have dragged it to bed. Hence the notorious Mike incident of ’13…

I don’t think it had much to do with a shattered issue of self-confidence, it was more the idea that I simply could not bear the thought of spending a night alone. Subsequently, I joined every dating site imaginable in vain hopes that I’d find something at least marginally tolerable.

It’s a strange thing about Saffa boys. I am not suggesting that our stock is not of prime quality- indeed, no! Just look at our rugby lads. More often than not I find myself drooling over a fine specimen that loiters about the gyms of Johannesburg or the bohemian night life of inner city Braamfontein … and that’s the truth- our boys are delish, and they know it!

Hence, the problem: avoid one said woman at all costs. I seemed destined to attract drug addicts, the mentally incompetent, the rude, the downright ghastly and, of course, the toothless. Today I am more selective about the boys I date, thank Jesus, and about who I spread my legs for (to my own detriment, as the dry spells can appear to extend long durations of penis-less-ness). The process of coming to these conditions was arduous and somewhat slutty, but I appear to have a more liberal attitude towards sex and relationships than most of my gender. Maybe it’s because I actually know what a full-blown orgasm feels like… hey, I’m pretty sure that most women don’t! If they did, I’m quite sure we’d be a society of mindless, ravaging she-beasts set on humping any male’s legs like desperate bitches.

On one of the multitude of dating sites I was on, I met Walter… a slower specimen of male there never was. He was cute enough and sort of reminded me of Anthony Kiedis, just slimmer. There was a tattoo he boasted proudly on his right bicep and he was friendly and sweet, only problem was that he resided in Benoni, some 45 minutes away, and only drove a scooter (yes, once again a boy with no driver’s license).

It was by chance that a weekend sometime soon after first contact had been made that I visited my cousin who resides in the eastrand and we decided to go out to a local haunt by the name of “Hi Flyerz” (note: I loathe it so!). Only a year separates my cousin and I age-wise, and thus far our love-lives have been following a remarkably similar path. It has occurred more than once that we’ve been able to subtly coordinate a few of our dates so that it becomes a double effort, and it’s just by “coincidence” that we happen to run into each other at the predestined establishment, much to our dates’ surprise and somewhat discomfort.

We planned the same for this evening. I was quick to inform Walter of my plans and my cousin conjured a quick date for herself and we were set.

The evening concluded with me spending the night at his and yes, I fucked him. I already knew that Walter did not have the potential for anything serious… our conversations were limited to the bare minimum, even before we had officially met, and the simplicity of his prose irked me to the extent I felt compelled to stab out my own eyes just so that I could have a legitimate excuse not to read his messages.

He was also the type to throw lavish promises my way. These are but a few I was offered that evening:

1. A home-cooked meal (he is a chef)
2. Ballroom dancing
3. Unsolicited visits and orgasms

None of which have ever been fulfilled… naturally. Not that I’m overly perturbed by all these unrequited devotions as I was aware from the beginning that ol’ Walter had only a scooter by which to traverse across Gauteng’s unpredictable roads and I certainly was not about to go out of my way to drive back and forth to Benoni each day to see a boy I held no particular interest in.

Indeed, our copulation was brief and tinged with an element of surprise on his part. He kept groaning and wheezing, “Can you believe this is happening, hey?” while his below average sized member sieged my nether regions.

During the process, I was suspended in a mild state of disbelief for not moments before his stoned aunt had procured a DVD of profligate pornography and insisted that we watch it (I have never met her before…)

I am quite sure poor Walter was deluded by his bedroom prowess as after a while I informed him to finish to which he stated, quite proudly, “I already have.” Bravo. You maintained turgidity after pre-ejaculation. I’m so thrilled.

Walter still speaks to me with some half-arsed attempt at getting together. However, he’s now a waiter (talk about demotion) and still hiccupping around Benoni on his scooter. This may sound shallow of me, but after three years of embracing debt to support a boyfriend who had no ambition… I can safely say that I’m done with that. Done.

 

Mike

I had been drunk for two days straight and it was the morning of my birthday. I miserably ignored the plethora of texts, calls and facebook messages that were keeping my phone vibrating against my thigh, sure that none of them were from the one person I wanted.

I hadn’t showered, changed, eaten… the most activity I could muster within myself was the abrupt movement of pouring another vodka. It was the kind of heartbreak that was all-consuming and I withdrew into the black hole that enveloped my being, sure I was never to be happy again. I didn’t even fight it, I allowed the tears to come when they did and suffer my own miserable company for hours.

It was only that evening when some friends forced me to join their ranks for a few birthday drinks that I left my self-inflicted solitude and endeavoured to wash the vodka and mould from my skin.

It was in the wee hours of that morning, after seven tequilas and copious ciders, I met Mike. He probably was one of the weirdest boys I have ever had the misfortune to take home, yet the hilarity of my experience is too surreal not to share. Broken-hearted and vulnerable, Mike was just the thing I needed to boost my self-esteem and after boozing for most the evening, any doubt was quickly eradicated or silent altogether.

He was very tall and skinny, but not bad looking though I do think years of smoking weed contributed to a somewhat eccentric personality.

Upon discovery that he hadn’t any condoms on his person, I popped out to the garage up the road to purchase some while he requested to use my shower.

Don’t judge me too harshly, I was a broken girl and my decisions were severely affected by all the alcohol I had consumed. When I returned to my flat, Mike was still in the shower. At the time I thought nothing of it.

I had almost fallen asleep on the couch when he emerged with only one of my towels wrapped around his narrow hips.

If anything, he was attentive but the strange groans that came from his mouth each time he kissed me really put me off. “Mmmm, yeah. Mmm, oh baby. Mmmm, yes.” Like, what the fuck? Who does that in real life? I mean, sure… you hear that shit in porn, but there? On my couch?

On the brink of hysterical laughter and tears, I pushed aside the towel… holy mother of God, this boy was hung! He had the biggest penis I had ever held (still to this day, I might add). My fingers would not meet as they curled around his girth and the heaviness and length only contributed to his inability to sustain turgidity for any lengthy period of time. Certainly not long enough for me to get a condom on…

“You know what will work, baby?” he attempted to purr seductively. I looked at him questioningly, quite sure that at this point I was no longer amused. “If you suck my nipple. That always works.”

Jesus.

“No. I’m tired, I think I’ll just go to bed.”

So I didn’t sleep with Mike, though I’m sure his penis might have done something no other has done before yet I do not regret this fortunate series of events at all. Turns out Mike is a bit of a nut… he claims to be a porn star nowadays (though with an enormous beast of an appendage like that, I am certainly not surprised) and days after our meeting he spewed clingy, needy messages my way with such urgency that it was no wonder I hardly wanted anything to do with him.

No, wait. That wasn’t the reason.

Once I had dropped Mike off at his house the following morning (surprise, surprise, he didn’t have a car), and returned to my apartment to mire myself in yet more vodka, I discovered just what he had been doing in my shower for so long…

I was overwhelmed with rage, disbelief, hilarity and revulsion… The damned fool had spent over an hour shaving his pubic region and hadn’t even thought about cleaning up after himself. The entire bath tub was lathered with coarse, black hair and I was left to clean that shit up, barely containing the heaving contents of my hungover stomach.

My entire bathroom received a thorough bleaching that day.

And what’s worse? Which fucking razor do you think he used? Mine?! Well, that was a whole lot of money in the garbage as I couldn’t be sure which one he chose.

The lot of them were tossed in the trash.

Jesus Christ, boys are gross.

I am not cold. I had met him ONCE and he violated my shower…

Crazy in 3… 2…

Reece (probably one of my more serious posts)

I was two months single and horribly despondent. I had come to a staggering halt on the dating scene and Andy was probably the last boy I had indulged anything remotely serious with. Boys were, I was beginning to realise as my numbers rose from 2 to 7, quite disgraceful human beings. I had been promised dinners, dates, flowers- lavishment you cannot believe. I assured them that I was only looking for the service their penis could provide, but alas- the promises were made nonetheless.

I’d rather they hadn’t. The promises made me feel special and even if they weren’t fulfilled, they lingered in the back of my mind, niggling and dark. Maybe if I was thinner, he would have called me again. Maybe if I was prettier, he would have bothered to get to know me. What’s wrong with me?

Oh, it is a brutal game that is played and my self-esteem has been shattered and shattered again. I made no pretence to need or want any of them in my life, so why they had seemed compelled to utter such ludicrous nonsense confounds me. It appears we are still mired in the day and age where a boy has to jump through hoops and vault over hurdles in order to get into a girl’s pants. The notion, to me at least, seems laughable. Sex is sex- it’s plastered all over the place in our daily lives. Unfortunately as a woman, I’m conditioned to place far too much emotional value behind the primitive act. Thankfully, as I sit writing this account today, that no longer appears to be the case.

But back to the original concept behind this blog entry: the boy who broke my heart.

I’ve never had my heart broken. Yes, I’ve been hurt and survived several break-ups, but I’ve never felt as pathetic as I did a few months ago. It could have been a number of things that left me so. I was vulnerable, on the brink of 27 and joining that “club” while all around me my generation seemed to be settling down and building futures for themselves. What did I have to show for my 27 years of life on this planet other than multiple hangovers and an Xbox? 

I tapped that…

When Reece first messaged me I was hesitant and doubtful. His profile wasn’t anything notably memorable and his pictures made  me extraordinarily wary. One was of his tautly defined abs. What could a bodybuilder who was 23 years of age want with a chubby girl my age?

However, his message was articulate, lightly worded and spelling near perfect. I was intrigued and our conversations were lengthy and humorous, with a slight edge of naughtiness that was simply titillating. I liked him before I had even met him.

He seemed urgent to meet and after two days of this we agreed to meet at a local establishment on Wednesday night.

I arrived early and ploughed back two tequilas, already convinced that the date was going to be a dismal flop. He’d sent me pictures of himself, after all, and Reece was, simply put, every girl’s fantasy.  My anxiety levels rose as time wore on, his presence being delayed due to traffic, and when he did finally swagger through the doors of the pub, I managed to trip over my very own feet because, and I will never forget the expression on his face, when his eyes alighted on me a massive grin swept the rugged contours of his face.

He was six foot and built staggeringly wide, a testament to his devotion to spending hours at the gym.  His eyes were dark yet friendly, his hair closely cropped to the base of his skull. His lips had a peculiar curl that reminded me constantly of a cat- thin upper and slightly thicker bottom.  He wore a black work shirt and a pair of jeans, both of which hugged his taut body snugly.

I was wholly attracted to him and even though we had spoken on the phone prior to the date, his voice was a deep, husky baritone that could quite probably melt any ice a girl had constructed around her heart.  Reece’s only exterior flaw, so far as I could see, was his skin- he suffered from a sparse array of acne that prevalently appeared on his chin, something that I hardly cared about at all.

We huddled closely together in a semi-private booth and I tossed back at least two more gin and tonics. Reece nursed a double Jamesons and rather guiltily took a few sips at it. “I don’t normally drink,” he explained hesitantly. “Well, I try not to.”

“You’re not an ex-addict, are you?” I blurted gracelessly and the look on his face told me all I needed to know.

“I am, actually.”

“Oh.” I looked at him steadily. “How long have you been clean?”

“Just over a year,” he explained.

I don’t know why I asked it, possibly macabre curiosity, but as his knee lightly brushed mine under the table, the words fell from my lips almost as if I was a seasoned interrogator. “What did you use?”

His face was shadowed and not just by the dim lighting of the pub. “Meth.”

I probably should have listened to warning bells sounding off in my head, but for whatever reason nothing seemed to compel me not to fall for him. And fall I did. Even as I told myself that I couldn’t handle anything serious, that I shouldn’t get attached, I was bound to get hurt, Reece’s pull was irresistible and I felt it even then, that first meeting. 

When it was time to leave, he nervously asked if I would like to come to his for coffee. At the time, I certainly was not about to relinquish an opportunity to have that hulking, muscular boy between my thighs, so I accepted, giggling, and we shared our first, tentative kiss in the underground parking lot of a casino in one of Johannesburg’s finer suburbs.

Once Reece was sure that I liked and wanted him, he took control. Gone was the shy, adorable boy and in his place was a virile man-beast who had no problem taking his shirt off the moment we stepped foot into his place.

I’d like to pat myself on the back here and state irrevocably that I did NOT spread my legs for him on the first date (alright, for fuck sakes. Aunt Flow was paying a visit and I disappointingly could not…). However, that doesn’t mean I did not revel in exploring this gorgeous boy’s body. There was not a soft part on him, a horrible contrast to my wobbling own. All this was only exemplified by the fact that he had the most beautiful penis I had ever held or seen on a boy.

*Sigh*

When I left the next morning to go to school, I can officially say that I was as frisky as a cat on heat. I still wasn’t sure how serious Reece was about me and fully didn’t expect him to continue in the same vein we had been, but not ten minutes after I had left he was messaging me.

We had made plans for the weekend. I was going to come to his place on Friday night to meet some of his family so that on Saturday, when I accompanied him to a cousin’s wedding, I would know some people there other than himself.

Meeting family so soon? It’s no wonder I was lured into a false sense of security so quickly with this one. And there was one thing so substantially different about Reece I still miss it vehemently: he lapped up every little detail about me as if it were tantalizing elixir. He wanted to know everything about me, what made me tick and what didn’t, who I was, what I did, where I was from, who I did and he couldn’t believe I had only slept with seven people up till him. Did I mention that eight is my lucky number? It just so happened Reece was number eight in my books, the significance of this expounded by my crazed imaginings.

Oh how lost I was.

In order to make this brief, here is a short list about what made Reece so damn delicious:

• His body
• He was 23
• He was more of a man that most of the older men I’ve been with
• His penis
• His family (Jesus, what lovely, accepting people they all were)
• Despite all his emotional problems, when he was happy he was a downright perfect guy.

Reasons why Reece sucked:

• Oh my fuck, if I had to hear another lecture about finding his path and God…
• He bitched about his job
• He allowed his cats to shit inside. Fuck, it stank. Every weekend I was there that fucking litter box was tossed outside.
• He didn’t have a driver’s license… but a car his father had bought him for his twenty-first (and yet he deliberately cut himself off from his immediate family because “it was reminder of his sordid past”, yet they showed him nothing but love)
• He struggled to meet any of my friends

A week before my 27^th birthday, Reece withdrew from me completely. Desperately, I sought to rectify the situation because it seemed implausible to me that a boy could lose any form of emotional connection with someone that quickly. It resulted in us meeting one Friday evening and, briefly, matters were resolved and he agreed to go away for my birthday to a nature reserve some two hours out of the city.

The next day disaster struck.

I remember driving away from his place much too fast, uncaring whether I lived or died, a shattered, broken, despondent shard of a girl I had once been. Nothing should ever feel that black, that empty, and the only thing that kept me together was the fact that I had not begged him, had not cried and wailed and slammed my fists into his chest like I wanted to.

Instead, I crawled home, wrapped myself in my poofy duvet, procured a bottle of vodka, and waited for oblivion on a couch I have become very, very fond of.

I’m still unsure why he didn’t want me anymore and it’s this uncertainty that allows niggling worms of self-doubt to corrode my confidence when I go out or meet someone new. But, as my brother and countless friends have told me, Meth is a ruthless drug and Reece probably needed mood stabilizers.

Fuck, that better be it.

Arsehole.

Andy

I’ve rarely dealt with a boy more emotionally volatile than Andy. Oh, on the surface he came off as nice enough, though he was very distrustful and didn’t seem to believe a word I told him in our brief spurt of messaging. After the first few messages were exchanged, he was insistent that we meet and we do it soon.

He was a nice enough looking boy in his profile pictures and because I had just become newly single, I thought giving him a shot would be fun as I wasn’t that keen on anything too serious when my very own emotional state hardly warranted the full on commitment of a brand spanking new relationship. Andy seemed quite relentless via our messaging platforms and almost threatening. He demanded that we meet somewhere my side (apparently he is so popular in the south area of Johannesburg that people might recognise him) and that I come alone. I made sure all my close friends knew exactly where I was going. On top of that, he threatened to stand me up if I was but a minute past our meeting time.

Don’t let this fool you- Andy was actually pretty damn harmless and all this hostile animosity was just a front (to what, you ask? Oh it is simply delicious, but I will only divulge of this tidbit later in my tale).

After school on a Friday I made my way to the pool joint where I was to meet him. Alas, the arsehole was LATE, but I let this slide and engaged the bartender in mindless banter while I sipped on my Hunters Dry. About half an hour later, in walked Andy and when he saw me, he smiled- generally a good sign. I’ve found that if a guy does not approve of you, he will make it evidently apparent with a sour look of a slapped arsehole and sulk for the duration of the date. Andy wasn’t tall (yes, his profile did say six foot- surprise, surprise), and wasn’t too unpleasant on the eyes. He had a stocky build to him and reminded me of some sort of pug, or even a staffie. He had dark, Italian colouring and his white shirt pulled too tightly across the beginning of a bit of a belly.

So far, so good, right?

Well, Andy turned out to be amiable, friendly, and well-mannered, though there was a definite overplay of arrogance on his part. This subtly hid an insecurity that I personally think he let get to him, but more on that later. He also had one tell that let me know he wanted me- he squeezed my hand or wrist whenever he said a joke or had to go to the bathroom. However, beyond this he didn’t make a single other advance on me. When he offered to buy me a tequila, I gave him a quizzical look and said, “But, Andy. I thought you were broke, like you told me you were earlier and couldn’t afford more than one drink with me?”

He looked decidedly bashful at being caught out on his very own lie and the words hesitated on his lips. I smiled, and reassured him, “Don’t worry about it. I understand. Yes, I would like one, thank you.”

He turned to make for the bar, but then thought better of it and told me, “I’m not broke, hey. I have, like, money and shit. If that’s what you’re worried about. I have ten thousand in the bank.”

Oh, Jesus. One of these. There seems to be a prevalent predisposition that prevails amongst the opposite sex- he who earns the most, gets the most. Fair enough, having a stable job and your own place does help, but Andy still stayed with his mother (and still does according to my knowledge- alas, I still speak to this one…). Clearly, these criteria matter little to me, so why Andy felt the need to make this information about himself so pertinent hinted at yet more insecurities that were bubbling to his fragile surface. I let the news about his minuscule savings slide (we are, after all, talking about rands here and my salary was almost double that excluding the royalties I took home from the book I had published. I was certainly not going to add to this poor boy’s weakening self-image).

After numerous games of pool, I suggested we meet one of my friend’s for drinks and go out for the night. Previously, Andy had been adverse to any of these suggestions but now he appeared quite happily to go along with whatever I suggest we do.

It was while we were at Sam’s house that Andy rolled his first joint. I had already put Andy out of my mind as a potential for anything remotely serious, so the fact that he was partaking in a few soft drugs hardly warranted an outright dismissal. I was still attracted to him; some fun could still be had that night. It was while we were in Sam’s kitchen that we shared our first kiss- tentative, soft, searching- I was pleased. Kissing, to me, usually signifies a good match and if a boy is a good kisser, well, it made what would transpire after all the more exciting.

We went out to one of our local haunts and met yet more of my friends there. Andy’s attention became somewhat possessive, a quality that I didn’t mind much as I didn’t have any intention of ditching my date, but it was evident that he certainly did not approve of any attention bestowed on me by other males in the vicinity.

I took Andy back to my flat that night only to be vehemently disappointed, especially after the boy serenaded me on his guitar (he was rather talented in this area) and compelled me to drunkenly search for a fix of his drug of choice (Kat). Having been certainly pushed to my limits, I informed him that I was going to bed- an ultimatum he did not refuse, though the drug would not let him fall asleep. Here, I discovered just what may have been the cause of many of Andy’s insecurities. The poor lad was shockingly petite and, on top of that, the drug really did not help stiffen the problem. After about an hour, we gave up entirely and I fell asleep on his shoulder.

Now, before you condemn me for being shallow and judging Andy too harshly, I care not a whit for the size or girth of a man’s penis. That part of his body is not what brings about my penultimate climax, anyway. I think I have been conditioned to place too much emotional weight on sex to find fault with any penis.

I thought I had heard the last of Andy when I escorted him out of my flat early the next morning. But I saw him again for the entire weekend two weeks later and I quickly learned that he was merely using my presence and my apartment as a safe house for his unhindered usage of drugs. It was during the last time I saw Andy that I knew whatever we had established had just come to a crashing end.

He had given me a once over and I had mistaken the look in his eyes as approval, but then he uttered these awful words, “If you were thinner, you could totally be my girlfriend.”

Instead of kicking him out, which I probably should have done, I told him in the most bitchiest voice I could muster, “It’s exactly because of that attitude you’ll never be so lucky.” Unfortunately, I don’t think it held the weight of rejection it was supposed to and I still am under the impression that he believes he was the one that rejected me. Ah, not that any of it matters in the larger scheme of things, right?

And Andy came and went, and I was happy to see that he had found himself a little girlfriend he could vent all those strange, petty insecurities onto, grateful that it wasn’t me. However, I assume that this relationship lasted a mere month as last week I received this text from him: “If I visit you, will you let me fuck you and suck your tits?”

Of course I said no.

Just maybe not so politely. 

Introduction & Warning

Recently, I made an epic life choice and returned once more to the single market, which, as it so happens, teams with desperate, clingy and downright strange individuals of both sexes. I was abhorrently new to this entire ordeal, having been in two consecutive long-term relationships for nearly eight years and so downright serious about both of them I never spared a thought to what it might be like to be “in the game” again.

Well, it is not for the faint-hearted, and if I wasn’t sure of who I am and what I’ve become, I don’t think I would have lasted as long as I have. I think it is all too easy to “settle” for someone who is not quite your fit rather than grit your teeth and roll with the punches of being alone, a problem that is expounded by our insatiable desire to devour the media’s rather warped portrayal on both love and relationships. Another side to this which also brings about countless problems on the dating scale is body image- something which I do not have, at all.

I can only aim to make my accounts of what I’ve experienced as truthful (and humorous) as possible. As such, I intend to be offensive, cynical and outright cantankerous at times. Oh, and sex. There will be a lot of analysis of this because, well, isn’t that what it’s all about? But don’t worry, those who have contributed to my findings will remain anonymous and those that know me (family, friends…?), well… I’m going to be honest here and say I am going to use words like “fuck”, “cock”, and “lady clam” probably as often as I like, so read at your own discretion. Hey, nobody’s forcing you, right?

So, in summation to the start of this blog, these are my personal experiences and yes, unsurprisingly I am still single and, you will no doubt find, emotionally fucked.

Online Dating

I’m not sure how one is supposed to meet a decent bachelor in today’s age. I certainly wouldn’t consider anything I picked up at the local pub worth anything marginally serious except for an hour long session of bumping uglies before booting him out so I could enjoy the comfort of my double bed to myself (who am I kidding here? A big bed SUCKS without something furry and manly to cuddle, albeit you’d have to want it to be in there with you- which is what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?).

I was quick to hop onto the online dating bandwagon- everyone was doing it! My sister and my two cousins had all met their SO’s online and were now living out their happily-ever-afters, surely the same would happen to me? The path to self-discovery, I was soon to discover, is laced with toothlessness, weird smells, and small appendages.

I made my profile, chose a few select photos that really did capture my good sides, and I was sure to be as honest as I could be, including things like; “I’m overweight and clumsy, an outright mess, I swear like a fishwife etc,” because it just didn’t seem right that here I was putting myself out there in hopes of finding my own prince charming when he should damn right know what sort of mess he would welcome into his life. Well, I sort of (naively) assumed that the same courtesy would be bestowed upon myself. Alas, how wrong I was soon to be proven.

To date, I have compiled these criteria that have to be met before I will consider meeting a boy from an online dating site:

1.       A boy who isn’t giving me a toothy grin in his profile picture probably has a poor attitude towards basic oral hygiene. Avoid at all costs.

 2.       Deduct two inches from any stated height (this isn’t vitally important as I dated a boy who was brutally honest about himself and sits a whole inch shorter than me. However, it is always a shock when one of these bright-eyed lads states that he is a whopping 6’4” and upon meeting he stands an entire foot shorter than yourself, which leads me to believe that they are seriously deluded or merely unawares about the workings of the foot and inches measurement system, both of which are entirely plausible).

 3.       No matter how pretty, boys who take selfies of themselves in bathroom mirrors with their shirts off are not looking for anything more serious than a quick fuck. Also, chances are you will get an unflattering picture of their penis the moment numbers are exchanged.

 4.       Boys who write like this: Hy, hw u? I lyk ur pp. No. Jesus, no. Some basic grasp of foundational literacy is compulsory. Ah, wait. I used punctuation marks. Alright, fine. I may have given that guy a chance as he displayed the correct usage of both the comma and question mark, but you get the idea.

 5.       Boys who write in the “What are you looking for” section of their profile: a girl who looks after herself– don’t give two shits about how smart, successful or independent you are. They want a looker.

Now that that’s all out of the way, I’ll begin with my first official “date”.