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?
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.