Jebediah

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.

“K.”

#kbye.

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…

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.