It was one of those humid and refreshing evenings in Johannesburg, the type that had just a bit of chill in the air that served only to cool the layer of moist heat that settled over your skin after a summer thunderstorm. I loved those types of evenings.

It was on this evening that I finally met Jebediah.

We had been talking for months and months. The actual meeting part, however, alluded us. He was chronically shy and introverted, or so he claimed. I later came to the conclusion that in actual fact he was a douchebag in disguise. That’s the thing with the quiet, nerdy types- they are possibly more douchey than the rest of them. I am, of course, generalizing but I do have some experience when it comes to dating geeks and nerds, the intelligent, quiet and introverted types. In fact, they are more my type than anything else. I find them interesting and quirky.

But that is what makes it all the more deceptive. Some of these lads will claim quite verbally and more often than not that they are the good guys, that they are the guys who have been hard done by in life, looks, dating and so on. Perhaps it is this cunning and this wit that makes them so adept at playing games, or maybe it is their own self-absorption that blinds them to the harsh reality that other people are bound to get hurt- whatever it is, Jebediah was officially the last self-proclaimed geek that I ever went near.

Anyway, as I was saying before, it took us months to finally meet. When we did, it was to play a round of adventure golf outdoors, followed by some bowling, followed by some dinner, followed by some heated snogging in the parking lot. For this little excursion I was the one who had to drive some 40 minutes in order to meet him in a shopping mall that was close to his abode. I was naïve and much younger than I am now, and quite possibly very horny, so I was wearing my anti-douchebaggery goggles at the time.

During the date, I showed off my shockingly poor ability at any hand-eye coordination sport. It must have amused him greatly. He was nice enough and we clicked rather well. Jebediah was good-looking, a bit chunky. He reminded me a bit of a slobbering Saint Bernard.

He ended the date with a lengthy kissing session which went on and on and on. Good, right?

Well, the next day he was decidedly off. I received a “good morning” text to which I reply in my normal delightful way, to which he replied, “Gud.” He never used poor spelling. A bit put out, I told him I enjoyed meeting him and hoped to do it again.



I left him be after that. Message received loud and clear, right? And I moved on to greener pastures. Happily, I might add. I was not pining after him, I was not obsessing or infatuated. The date had been nice but that was it.

However, this was not a simple good bye. Jebediah had this odd way of drawing me back. After weeks of not hearing from him, I would receive a message from him out of the blue. It would be friendly and amiable and coaxing, teasing me that I had lost interest in him. Eventually the weeks shortened to days and the days to hours and soon we were back to our daily communication. It became flirtatious and openly naughty, until one evening he invited me over.

His excuse for not contacting me right after the first date? His grandmother had died and he had to take care of his mom for a time. I suppose that was acceptable. I didn’t dwell on it. He had invited me over, right?

Well he lived in a disgusting little hovel. It was this small apartment on somebody’s property. He claimed he had just moved in and hadn’t had time to unpack or buy any furniture (he moved in a month ago). I sat on the floor and drank a vodka to ease the transition of inhabiting such conditions (I am a fussy and spoilt girl- spoilt by myself). At least he had made some sort of effort to maintain his bedroom, though it was sparse and the linen smelt a bit dank.

In any event, the sex was good. I liked sleeping with Jebediah. It was probably some of the best sex I had ever had. The chunky boy had stamina and moves, yo! And there was no awkwardness that usually exists during the first time. It just sort of flowed.

We cuddled for a bit afterwards and I was about to drift off to sleep when he left the bed. Curious, I sat up, thinking he was about to chuck me out.

“Just need the toilet,” he informed me. “Sleep.”

The toilet was in the other room, separated by at least ten feet of space and two closed doors between us, so I am not sure if Jebediah thought maybe it was possible that I would not hear the chaos that would ensue in the water closet or that I simply fell asleep in the speed of light and would not notice.

I fear he may have consumed a diabolical feast of Chimmichangas or some intense hot periperi nachos, perhaps his colon was undergoing an intensive flushing procedure, for the sounds that I heard that evening were akin to the contents of a big pot of steaming curry being tossed into a sink. Oh Jesus, and the trapped pockets of gas that heralded the onslaught and echoed against the bowl of the toilet…


Horrified, I covered my head with the smelly linen and tried to ignore the clamor. It went on for 30 minutes or so and when he returned to bed, I fiercely pretended that I was indeed asleep.


When I left the next day, I vowed I would not be put off by the post-coital events of the night before. After all, they were simply bodily functions that were (fearfully) normal. These were some things that could be changed at a later date when we were more comfortable with each other. For instance, I could send him outside into a bush where he could dig a hole and happily continue his business.

However, after this encounter, Jebediah continued in his strange and aloof way and after another “k”, I figured that we had run our course now. When I didn’t hear from him in almost a month, I figured it was time to move on.

I can’t remember exactly when or how long after our first night together, but some time must have passed. It was winter, that much I am certain of, and I had been dating a guy I had been quite fond of only to find out via Facebook that the heinous creature had another girlfriend. Naturally, I called upon the assistance of my cousin and we went out to drink my sorrows away. In my drunken haze, I was reckless and no longer hurt, so I began messaging Jebediah. I do not remember what my drunk persona said to that boy, but that bitch has my back (sometimes). When we returned to my apartment that evening that was currently occupied by 3 other women, Jebediah came over.

As my room was a right mess, I was hastily trying to prove I didn’t live like a pig when the doorbell rang. One of my most sarcastic friends at the time answered the door and to my mortification she told him, “Another one for Ash? Hang on, I’ll get her. Ash! Another one here for you!”

Jebediah spent the night and most of the next day with me. I saw him again the next night. And gradually we became almost a regular occurrence. It was nice and I enjoyed our nights together. During the day we would mostly message each other, sometimes flirty and sometimes playfully argumentative.

I was feeling bold one night that I was supposed to visit him. We had spoken at some length about turn ons and fantasies so I opted to indulge in one of his.

I had a black coat that covered the tops of my thighs so I wore that and nothing else other than a pair of black heels. In winter.

Freezing, I was driving to his apartment when he called me and asked me to pick up some McFlurries for us. Sure, why the fuck not?

Well I sure as hell could not go into MacDonald’s dressed like that so I went through the drivethru only to receive knowing looks from the ladies serving me as the tops of my very naked thighs were exposed. God.

Perhaps I was misinformed and men don’t actually like girls who show up to their apartment wearing nothing but a black coat and bearing ice cream as gifts, but Jebediah did not invite me over again after that evening. When he turned aloof and cold this time, so did I. I grew tired of the game he played and eventually I lost contact with him altogether until out of the blue, last August, he sent out a tentative message to establish contact with me again. Maybe the smell of freshly jilted and broken engagement oozed in the subconscious of all that knew me once and now, but I did not take kindly to the gesture.



I learnt a lot from this relationship- douchebags come in many shapes and sizes. Girls, don’t let an articulate geek misinform you of his actual intentions. When it came straight down to it, Jebediah was looking for a serious relationship but not with a girl like me. I was his back up, his hook up for whenever he felt lonely, horny, depressed… I was his emotional security net. It is an easy thing to be and it is even easier to use someone for those exact purposes, but it is cruel.

You’re feeling lonely? Deal with it. Get a plant or a pet rock.

You’re feeling down? Join the club! Seriously, sort that shit out though in a healthy way.

Your self-esteem is dragging on the floor and you need uplifting? Go to gym, brush your teeth and shower, get your mother to tell you what a handsome boy you are.

What you should absolutely NOT do? Use another person for a quick emotional fuckfest fix.

Self awareness, folks. The rule applies to all: don’t be a fucking asshole. #ashrants


Harry #2

“I miss my monkey.”

Clearly all the Puka Puka’s had gone to my head because I’m sure I had just heard Harry #2 say that he missed HIS monkey. I refrained from blurting the first thing that entered my mind (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK) and tried to contain the incredulous emotions from my face.

I failed.


I was not subtle it seemed. I do struggle to contain my utter bafflement, disdain, ‘WTF’ expressions from my countenance even though I will do my best not to actively voice just how confounded a person can make me. Harry #2 caught my expression immediately though and promptly whipped out his phone and brandished a rather recent picture of a small grey monkey on his shoulder… equipped with a little diaper as well.

Well, fuck. “I had to give him up,” Harry #2 explained. “I miss him. I could not travel and leave him behind, it would be cruel.”

Wasn’t it cruel to have him in the first place? I’m sure the poor creature would prefer not to be contained to a small house by a lead and a fucking diaper. I didn’t say anything, I knew it was quite customary over here for people to have wild and exotic animals as pets. Besides, I was very attracted to Harry #2 and up till that moment he had seemed possibly like the most normal person I had ever dated.

I was struggling to find any fault. He was an IT technician… I think. It was something technical, something difficult to remember… like whatever Chandler’s job was in ‘Friends’. Anyway, he was also very intelligent and well-read with a great sense of humour. Sitting at the cocktail lounge I had chosen for us to meet, I felt decidedly sophisticated and mature. He was dressed superbly in a crisp white business shirt and formal trousers, he smelled Godly (there is just something about a man who smells like you could ravish him on the spot), and his shoes were freshly polished. He looked dark and weirdly handsome and rugged, unshaven (which is normal considering where I live now) and very tall. He bordered on skinny which I did not mind. Despite what my previous blog posts have expounded on, I do not particularly care about height or body type or any of that, but somehow my most intense experiences have revolved around men who frequented the gym. Ok well not that many- just two or three.

I was attracted more to his personality than anything else. I said weirdly handsome before because I don’t think he fit into the conventional standards of handsome. I found him pleasing but he did look a bit odd at times. Nevertheless, as we sat together in the cosy bar sipping cocktails and talking books and philosophy and life, I felt supremely sophisticated and the classy lady.

Until my cover was blown.

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Ashleigh,” the young bartender said amicably as he brought me my regular cocktail (a blasted thing called a Potted Parrot adorned with a garish bird to boot). He looked at the man sitting next to me. “I am sad to see that it did not work out with the other guy.”

This particular establishment had become my go-to when I wanted to meet someone for the first time. I hadn’t met many men here though, I believe there was one other who introduced me to the place before Harry #2. Anyway, I liked it so much I kept coming back. Guess I would have to shake things up a little bit now…

Luckily, Harry #2 didn’t seem to catch on or he chose not to comment on it.

We spoke for what seemed like hours and I didn’t let the fact that he had evidently kept a monkey as a pet get to me too much. When our drinks dwindled away, I honestly didn’t want the evening to end. He invited me over, I accepted, and we shared a cab to the hotel apartments where he was staying.

Sex wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t the goal of my evening, but it did and it was good and I do not regret it though at the time I acted like I did. After the deed was done I collected my clothes and bag, feeling ashamed of myself, and got in the next cab back to my apartment. Harry #2 wanted me to stay… he asked several times if I would, but I brushed it off casually, attempting to keep cool and calm and collected.

I suppose I am unused to one night stands that extend beyond the “one night” but Harry #2 asked to see me again and I complied. He brought dinner and drinks to my apartment and after eating and fucking I asked him to leave. Who was this person, asking sophisticated lovers to exit her bed?? Damned if I know.

Maybe the universe was building up to a terrifying climax that makes me cringe even to this day.

The next week I did spend the night at Harry #2’s hotel apartment. It was a week night and I had to arise an entire hour earlier than him (cursed profession, that of an educator), which didn’t seem to be a problem. Naked as the day I was born under the covers, I pulled them back to get out of bed as something caught my eye.

My heart stopped beating in my chest.

It was small, but there nonetheless, and if Harry #2 chose to throw himself out of bed and mess the covers, he would have seen it too.

A small, obvious spot of blood was on the white sheets, a clear indication that my uterus was laughing at me and boycotting any attempts at a normal relationship with a nice man.

I was horrified. And I got back into bed and pulled the covers tightly above me so that the offending spot was invisible.

I grew up in a family that just did not discuss these sort of things openly, anything to do with sex, monthly cycles and bodily fluids was hush hush and almost scandalous. I am more open about them now but it has taken some time to navigate around the feelings of discomfort each time they are mentioned.

So when this unspeakable ordeal occurred in the fancy hotel apartment on the first night we spent together, I wanted to die.


I lay there, mortified to my very core, until Harry #2 woke up for work and asked why I wasn’t up yet. “Oh, I er… decided not to go to work today,” I responded quickly. “Feeling a bit sick.” Lies, lies, lies!

How pathetic was I that I let a tiny drop of blood on a white sheet stop me from going to work? OK, well I hated my job at the time so it was an easy enough decision but c’mon… Well, I doubt Harry #2 ever found out about it because as soon as he left I stripped the bed and disposed of the evidence before housekeeping entered to finish the rest.

We saw each other on and off for about 2 months. I did like him but I figure there was no real connection between us, just some good sex and conversation. Harry #2 was very laid back throughout our brief courtship and maybe if I had adopted a similar approach we would have developed into something more serious. I struggled with the fact that we did not have a label, that there was no sense of commitment and it was implied that I was free to do whatever I wanted. It left me edgy and when I spoke to him about it, he asked me what I wanted.

“A relationship,” I told him directly.

“Then let’s have a relationship,” he replied as he packed his suitcase on the other side of the room for a two week business trip to Lebanon.

“It’s that simple?”

“Yes, why not?”

I shrugged, feeling uneasy. His phone went off from beside me on the bed and he asked me to pass it to him. As I did, I caught sight of the message on screen. I’m not a snoop, I have never found the need to search through another person’s phone before, but that message quickly eradicated any notion of a relationship with Harry #2.

Someone named Amy had written: “I really want to see you again.”

Instead of letting the issue fester and gnaw away at my thoughts, I asked him directly about it and received an indirect response.

“Sometimes it is possible to misinterpret what we read,” Harry #2 said when I asked him about Amy and whether he was going to see her again.

Very inconclusive.

For some reason I wasn’t hurt. I shrugged it off and contemplated absentmindedly what I should do about the matter, but the thought came and went like a pesky fly that I had to keep swatting away. Eventually I did end the relationship with an obscure and cowardly Whatsapp message that read something along the lines of: “I don’t feel very relationshippy. Sorry.”

I never heard from Harry #2 again. I did however provide him with a very loquacious drunken Whatsapp essay after one too many bottles (yes, bottles) of Prosecco in which I regaled him of all the deep dark musings of my broke and twisted mind. How I wish I had kept that bit of prose but, perhaps wisely, I deleted the evidence off my phone and Harry #2 blocked my drunk ass on Whatsapp.


Harry #1

I have had a guy ask me to lick his nipple. I have had a guy ask me to stick a finger in his pink (I assure you, I did not indulge this request). I have had a guy ask me to choke him.

Look, to each his own I suppose but I am a pretty normal girl.

There is nothing really that would surprise me anymore and although there was nothing extremely perverted about Harry #1, I have this lingering sense that he was just simply weird. I’ve labelled him Harry #1 because, as you can safely assume, there were two men of the same names that I happened to ‘date’ relatively close to one another.


Harry #1 and I met on Tinder. I had been in my new country for about 2 months and already I was a dismal dating disaster. I had met only one guy so far and it had veered horribly off course (not that I could blame him though- he was and is very young and deeply complex- more on this surprising development later). I was a bit tentative when it came to this one… he was a weight-lifter who had competed in several professional competitions or some such (SERIOUSLY MY TRACK RECORD RUNS LIKE THE WHO’S WHO OF GYMBAG DOUCHERY!).


OK, so maybe I have a weak spot for a finely corrugated abdomen and biceps the size small bowling balls. Harry #1 was half American and half Arab, not so tall as he was wide, swarthy skin, thick wavy hair- the boy damn well cleaned up well, I say. There wasn’t a speck of hair on his body, too. I bet if he greased up you could slide right off him like an amusement park ride…

He checked off the boxes relatively quickly- good looking, engineer, educated, English proficient and he was in the market for a serious girlfriend. Yes, folks. Harry #1 looked good on paper.

On paper.

He collected me from my apartment in his very posh and expensive car and whisked me off for dinner and drinks at a nice restaurant about 30 minutes off-island. Jesus, the man could eat. Without preamble, he ordered for himself the biggest cheeseburger on the menu, a starter portion of cheese fries and chicken wings followed by the chocolate brownie dessert and the plate sized double chocolate chip cookie smeared with cream and yet more ice cream. He consumed it all like a hoover.

He was sweet though albeit a bit goofy. I couldn’t quite get used to his sense of humor… it was almost under-developed. Quite childish. I felt like he was on the verge of telling me a knock-knock joke half of the time, and he would giggle (yes, giggle) at slapstick trip ups and farts.

However, it was a first date and so far it wasn’t all bad. He did not let me pay for anything and drove me back home. We proceeded to kiss in his car for a spell and I knew by the way that he moved his lips that he was experienced… the boy knew how to kiss. Warning maybe?

Anyway, I did not take Harry #1 upstairs (Hurrah! Gone was the sluttish, misbegotten ways of my youth! I could refrain for a whole first date without pouncing on him. Such willpower…) and I was mildly surprised when he called and asked to spend some time with me that weekend. At this point in my transition to a new country and a new apartment, I was still living in some unfurnished hovel. My recent pay cheque had a nice little back pay that I quickly spent on some IKEA furniture. Well, Harry #1 had his uses in the end….

[Quick IKEA side rant- What kind of fucking company lets people assembly their own fucking furniture? Jesus Christ. I am already giving you my money, just fucking deliver the shit fully assembled to my door, you twat monkeys! Is this a foreign concept to you, well-off European country?? I could totes understand the need to assemble one’s own furniture if I fucking collected the wood for my fucking bed from the fucking tree in the BARBARIC JUNGLE I was dwelling in!]

So Harry #1 helped me assemble my bookshelf and subsequently a friend’s bench. I learned a particular thing about him during this procedure- he had no idea what to do with a hammer. Or how to follow instructions. Or anything remotely to do with assembling something (engineer?). His fancy car, his high paying job, his lifestyle- these were all entitlements and he unknowing acted like they were too. It became abundantly obvious to me that this was a man who would not be able to cope should he have to one day fend for himself.

It was very off-putting.

So I fucked him.

What made the sex so good was that despite the fact that Harry #1 didn’t quite know how wield a hammer or tie his shoelaces without the assistance of a hefty entitlement or a servant, in the bedroom he was a beast. He took control. He lasted an acceptable amount of time. He balanced the right amount of sexy aggressiveness in his voice when he was aroused, a startling and welcoming contrast to the soft pansy-like quality otherwise. He finished (a bit too loudly).

And then he farted.

And then he giggled.

And I despaired.

Was I inhabiting some other worldly dimension where this was acceptable bedroom behaviour?

And it got weirder.

He gave me a live, naked demonstration of how his mother would whip his ass if he had done something she didn’t like.


Yeah… hashtag: GET THE FUCK OUT.

I blocked him soon after that, and then one night drunkenly unblocked him. He would message me occasionally and harp on about how broken he was over his ex-girlfriend or some such shit but this was one guy I was happy to not care about at all. So in conclusion, I don’t miss or yearn for Harry #1 in the slightest but his brief sojourn in the chasm of my life was weird and profoundly… well, weird.

I wish I could make this stuff up.


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.


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.


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.