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:tumblr_lql77puo2t1qjgyuwo1_500

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.

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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.

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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? 

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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.

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*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 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.

Arsehole.