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.