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.