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.”


“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.



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 27th 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.



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”.