So Frenchy So...

 Lately my pursuit of the language most commonly associated with romance and seduction has left me with little time for blogs or well, romance and seduction. This is somewhat due to the fact that at upwards of $500 a term, I feel obliged to put in an equal amount of effort, but mostly because I’m a first child and ‘high achiever’; if I fail to feel I’m one of the most accomplished in any learning situation I’m prone to bouts of depression which stem from the questioning of my very reason for being.

And my hard work appears to be paying off. Three months of French lessons and I have mastered the grammar and vocabulary of every non-French speaker’s favourite phrase. I can understand and enunciate individual words rather than blurting out a slurred slab of foreign sounds along to the faint rhythm of ‘Lady Marmalade’. Not that I’ve had an opportunity to do so, but it’s good to be prepared.

It also seems that word of my linguistic prowess has spread.

Last week, I was making lunch in the tiny architectural travesty of a kitchen at work when a colleague joined me. As we dodged around each other, opening cupboards and drawers which require anyone in the immediate vicinity to take a step back (where there isn’t room to do so) we engaged in small talk. Now I should confess that this colleague and I have a bit of a history.

History meaning, in chronological order: Ridiculous drunken dancing (particularly on his part), an almost hook-up, flirtation, dates, not quite sex, the decision to be friends (mine), inappropriate behaviour (mine), misunderstandings, apologies, more drunken dancing followed by attempted seduction (his) and plenty of confusion (for both of us). Just like any working relationship really.

So now almost every exchange between us seems loaded with double meaning despite the fact that ‘Hey can I please borrow a hard drive?’ actually just means ‘can I borrow a hard drive’ and has nothing to do with erections. Sometimes I wonder whether he finds the meanings of our conversations as manifold as I do. Probably not. 

Back in the kitchen my colleague politely enquired about my French lessons. I must have mentioned I was studying the language a month or so ago in a similar encounter, so that wasn’t odd, but then the conversation continued this way:

Me: Really good, thanks. I’m enjoying it a lot.

Him: That’s great. I hear you’re a fast learner.

Me: Oh yeah, well I think I’m finally at a stage where things are starting to click- wait, what? You heard?

Him: I know Adrienne (not her real name).

Me: Really? She’s my new teacher. How do you know her?

Him: We’re going out.

I felt myself blush. My heart was pounding from the effort of moving a considerable amount of blood up into my cheeks. Despite feeling overwhelmed and very conscious of my flushed appearance I tried to assume a composed, nonchalant air as I replied:

Oh that’s great. She has really awesome pants…

[Pause]

Him: Yes… I suppose she does.

And though I can’t remember exactly what happened next, I’m fairly certain the conversation finished there, with over-large smiles and awkward shuffling manoeuvres as we got out each other’s way and I got out of the kitchen.

It was a moment straight from rom com. At best I was an imitation of an off-beat Audrey Tautou character. More than likely though my performance was comparable to Jenifer Aniston playing kooky.

I don’t really have an explanation for my response. I mean, I actually did like her pants (they were these super wide leg culottes in a great pattern...) but of all the things to say about my colleague’s girlfriend, it’s probably quite a way down the list.

Of course, if I really were in a romantic comedy, the answer would be simple. There would be a scene where, over drinks, I would recap the interaction and my sassy BFF confidant would look at me meaningfully. I would realise I still have feelings for him. After some inner turmoil in the second act I would work myself up to go and surprise him with this confession only to accidentally interrupt a seemingly happy moment between he and his French lover. It would take until the end of the third act before all those crossed wires  could be straightened out, but the film would conclude with he and I rightfully in each others’ arms. And just before the credits, perhaps as a song by a newly popular indie band began to play, there would be a scene where my colleague would sweep a French textbook off a desk so that we could make love without fear of paper cuts. What a romp!

But I don’t have feelings for my colleague. I like him, I like him a lot. He’s intelligent and attractive, talented, driven, I enjoy his company and we banter like pros. In fact there is no reason it shouldn’t have worked out between us. No reason at all other than the fact that one evening I discovered I would rather watch the end of a movie I’d seen before and actually own on DVD than have sex with him. Slight problem.

And of course I’m happy for him now that he’s in an apparently happy relationship. I can’t be bitter, it was my choice, right? There was a je ne sais quoi that was notably absent and, rightly or wrongly, I happen to be holding out for an everything. Perhaps the reason for my behaviour then, is simply that sometimes waiting gets a little exhausting and that fully clothed, in close quarters, under the fluros of a kitchenette it’s easy to forget a small but very significant detail. The thing between my colleague and I,  it's not a ‘what could have been’ so much as an ‘if only’.

My rom com however, is not without a happy ending. My French teacher’s man was not for me, her culottes, on the other hand were. I now own a pair of equally awesome pants and they fit perfectly. I just won't be wearing them to work or French class any time soon.

Just Waiting

Tell me the truth, what was your reaction to the spate of celebrity break-ups last December? When perfect couples Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johanssen, Megan Gale and either Hamish or Andy, Matt Newton and Rachel Taylor (wait, maybe not that one) parted ways?

Was it:

a) That’s so sad, they’re going to have the worst Christmas ever!

b) Finally, now maybe I’m in with a shot.

c)  I don’t care.

d)  Who are these people?

If you answered a) I’m now talking to you. Why is it that imploding relationships are always a bad thing (though clearly not in Matt and Rachel’s case)? Because I’m starting to feel that we should be looking to those supreme, and also possibly delusional, optimists who answered b) for some guidance. As much as endings can be incredibly miserable, you could see it this way; those two newly single people are actually getting a chance at an exciting beginning, an awakening of self, a chance to find someone new to connect with or, potentially, many new people depending on how bruised their newly single self-esteem is.

And it’s not only the formerly plural people (those no longer of the ‘we’) who benefit. This is also a chance for those around them, perhaps a work colleague, maybe a long time acquaintance, possibly that barista who would always artfully pour the milk into a heart in your latte and just make a splodge in your boyfriend’s, to have a crack at a new liaison.

Which brings me, with a hop, skip and a slightly tangental jump, to that beacon of modern romance, Facebook. In recent weeks there have been a number of articles about a new application called ‘Waiting Room’ which allows you to announce that you’re there, on the sidelines, waiting to be subbed in as soon as the game starts to look a little shaky. Apparently once the object of your obsession’s status turns from in a relationship to single he or she can view their waiting room and see who’s been biding their time on sweat inducing vinyl seats, avoiding the tub of child-germ-ridden Duplo and flicking through a ragged issue of Men’s Health from 2007 because it was that, the community newspaper or a magazine filled with banal stories of overcoming tear-jerking adversities.

For the record, I tried to find the app to give it a whirl (I’ve said before, I’m an optimist) but it seems to have been banished from the internet; much like its predecessor 'The Break Up Notifier' (fairly self-explanatory) before it. Apparently there are more romantics online than I expected.

I’ll level with you, as far as disturbing things the internet has brought us go, I have no problem with the ‘Waiting Room’ app. In fact, I challenge any frequent Facebooker to tell me that they were honestly surprised by its conception. In a realm that encourages unabashed self-promotion and the conveyance of EVERY detail of day-to-day existence, why shouldn’t users be forthcoming in discussing some of the strongest ah… urges that they as humans have?

If I can be tagged in photos of a two person lump in a hostel bunk bed, update my status to reveal my morning coffee was kinda weak and log into Four Square so that my friends can know, without a doubt, that I am in fact sitting with half of them in my kitchen drinking beer, then why shouldn’t I also make public the fact that if Shane and Bec happen to part ways, I’m happy to help Shane out with a very warm and soft shoulder to cry on?

And if revealing that is enough to break up a relationship, how sturdy was it to begin with?

You can bet though, that if this hypothetical became, ah thetical? unhypothetical? a reality, not many people would 'like' my relationship update. I'd probably be accused of stealing Shane, the way Angelina was accused of pilfering Brad, like a school kid nicking a Freddo from the checkout at Woolies. (If you’re again thinking ‘who are these people or ‘I don’t care’ my apologies, that will be my last celebrity reference this post). Because even though they weren’t really suited to each other he was tagged and bagged as hers in an ‘I was there before you and I should be staying’ British Empire kind of way. Never mind the fact that this imaginary Shane, like most men, is a sentient person himself.

Realistically, I probably wouldn’t actually use the app. I’m more  of an anguished silent type, I like to keep my inner torment to myself and a few unfortunate friends. I do, however, resent the throwing up of arms and wailing and angry blogging that this app is a crime against the sacred principles of love. Surely ‘The Bachelor’ and Michael Buble have far more to answer for?

In a Gizmodo piece about 'Waiting Room’, after showing a considerable amount of disdain for technological advances in staking, the writer concluded by stating: 

An alluring sense of mystery is love's killer app.

Really? How much mystery? That may be the case as far as personal histories of STIs and unfortunate incidents involving childhood pets go, but mysterious secret admirers to the point of ‘I like watching you when you don’t know I’m watching you’ are not terribly alluring. Besides, if you don’t know you have a stalker, I mean admirer, then how could that possibly be sexy? I believe the most effective way of letting the person you desire know you desire them has got to be TELLING THEM. A Facebook app is, admittedly, not the most mature way of doing it, but it’s a hell of a lot better than staring for hours on end at their profile picture willing them to ‘friend’ you. And what better time to do it than when you're both suddenly single?

I know breakups are not all puppies and cupcakes, particularly for those directly involved, but it makes sense to acknowledge that they do have a positive side. Some people stay with their primary school library buddy forever; they’ll marry the first person who bought them Warhead lollies and only held their hand if none of their friends were around. Most people don’t. Think of all the happy couples you know and then think of all the burnt and twisted, anguished and broken relationships littering the paths they took to get to each other, that you, perhaps, took to get to your present partner and appreciate them for that.

It’s not something we like to dwell on and it probably won’t ever get it’s own day of celebration, but the sunny side of break ups is worth acknowledging. Particularly because, in a way, it gives hope to those of us who are there, sitting on uncomfortable furniture and staring at the screen, waiting for a change of status.

We Need to Talk

Dear Adult Dating Website,

According to my profile we’ve been seeing each other for just over a month. I know it’s not that long, but I think maybe now is the right time to tell you how I really feel. About you. About us. I want to talk about what we’re doing  and where this… this thing we have is going.

To be completely honest, so far, you haven’t helped me get laid. I’ve been out six times for various beverages with various men (and one woman) and I did not want to jump any of their bones. This might be more to do with the fact that I’m extremely fussy than with the quality of individual men (and women) you’ve put forward, but I can’t say for sure. I’m not blaming you, this is just the reality of our situation.

It’s true you’ve taught me a lot about who I am. Much to my surprise I seem to be an optimist and an incredibly predictable one at that. Each time it’s the same; I’ll canvass potential suitors, exchange emails, feel positive about our future together (the next few hours at least) and each time I’ve walked away disheartened. Don’t take this the wrong way, they haven’t been bad, mostly, just... Different. Not what I imagined. I didn’t, for example, expect my 25-year-old suitor to have braces. And each time, at the end of our date, they become just one more person I am not going to have sex with.

This is beginning to worry me because concurrently, the list of people I want to sleep with is shrinking at such a rapid rate I’m afraid that one day soon it will consist entirely of fictional characters from HBO and UK TV series. They’re really well drawn characters with complex story arcs and very realistic personal development, but still, it's probably not that healthy. 

It's true some of these things are my issues and I shouldn't heap them on you, especially when I know better than to get my hopes up. It's just that I always want to believe in what you're offering me. So often I think I should just walk away from all this but the thing is, as much as you bring me down, you also lift me right back up.

After a painfully average date, when I’m thinking I’ll never meet anyone I’ll truly want to connect with (read that as you will), I'll turn to you and find a new message from a hot Frenchman and immediately be filled with renewed anticipation. And there really is no reason to believe he’ll turn out to be any better than the others, but maybe what you do is enough. You give me reasons (in the form of hot men) to hope.

Even though you constantly disappoint me, I do enjoy being with you. When we’re together I feel like a different person. The kind of person who gets emails with homemade pornography as attachments. I become this girl who can go on Windows Messenger to talk about her sexual desires with a complete stranger, at least up until the point tells her he’s getting an erection. I feel like I’m growing as a person, group sex is something I’ve started thinking about lately and role-playing and light bondage and mostly that’s because of you.

I love the way you always know how to make me laugh, so often you do it without even trying. Like that message I got last week from Root12345:

Hi. I am looking for my fiancé of the future on the internet.

If you are the one, could you send me email?

I am serious. Don't kid me.

That really cracked me up.

And mostly you make me feel really good about myself. It might be 10pm on a Friday night and I might be sitting around in my underwear, sweating in the infernal summer heat, feeling sorry for myself because I’m alone in my bedroom on a weekend night, sweating for no good reason. 

Then someone, somewhere out there will send me a message saying I’m beautiful or I have a great smile or I look like a lot of fun and offer masturbate for me on webcam and I'll feel so much better. It’s nice to get a genuine compliment now and then. 

Speaking of which, I really loved this one, from a fifty-year-old, with the subject line: Would you enjoy a sex party orgy?

you look like a woman that is sensual and erotic .. and love sex beyond the "missionary" position?  ... be my guest for a long weekend and see what we can work out ..besides I am an exPenthouse photographer and you have a great body to be a pet ..!

It’s like you’re always keeping me on my toes. Remember when I ‘friended’ one of my dates on Facebook before meeting him and discovered we had a mutual acquaintance. That he'd been to primary school with my male housemate. That was certainly surprising. You see I never feel complacent around you and it’s exciting. I don’t know whether you’re going send me a really sweet poem:

 I'm not here 4 a teaz, 

My needs are 24/7.

Near shire station, with a 7-11.

Close to beaches, almost heaven. 

You for real or all talk? 

Overcome, deep boring, aftershock.

Side-winder, motor hammer, classic rock.

Pillion or doggie, ride a cock-horse.

Discreet, respectful. Party original.

Poet, lyricist, script-writer, storyteller for kids.

I not far from anywhere, so drop in, cum along.

Sing in harmony, a joint song. Duet, Corvette. Jet set.

Or someone who looks nothing like their profile picture. Like last week when I agreed to meet up with a really young looking 37 year old and when I turned up to the café only recognised him because I was late and he was the only person sitting on his own.

I didn't see that coming. It took me some time to pay attention to what he was saying because I kept trying to remember exactly what his profile picture had looked like and then trying to hold that image in my mind and superimpose it over the face in front of me. When I actually started listening though, I found that what he was saying was kind of interesting. Then I started wondering if I might enjoy doing some of those things we’d discussed in our instant messaging session (the thought of which had brought on his erection). OK, so maybe you've introduced me to one person who I might sleep with, but I'm not promising anything yet.

When I started writing this, I was thinking maybe it was all going too fast, maybe I needed time to work out what it was that I wanted from you. But reading back over the things we’ve done, the time we've spent together has made me realise that I want to keep trying with you. There are still so many things we haven’t done yet and even though I know it won't be easy I want to keep seeing you. For now. Until I actually get laid. 

Pending that:

Happy Valentine's Day, I got you a threesome.

‘Oh look, they’re in Annandale. That’s close... Wait, no, ARMIdale… Where’s Armidale?’

The answer is seven hours from Sydney by car. The reason I was asking was because I had received a message from a couple wondering if I would be interested in participating in a Valentine’s Day threesome.

A Valentine's Day threesome. Because stuffed toys are creepy and roses are clichéd?  Because the thought of buying another pair of satin boxer shorts is nauseating and last year’s fluffy handcuffs didn’t imply romance so much as a prison sentence?

To be honest, the reason for the event didn't particularly concern me. It's not like I was expecting to get anything myself for Valentine's Day, like I thought my beau was going to buy me a ring and instead I got a ring-in. So I contacted my couple, J. (woman) and M. (man) from ARMIdale, and told them I might be interested, but that distance was an issue, particularly as I couldn’t commit to anything before meeting them. They were surprisingly still super keen and said that they were happy to make the trip as long as I showed up. Since I am good at nothing, if not showing up, it was a date. I was nervous, excited and very intrigued. Ever since I joined the adult website and got my first email from a couple I’d felt like a threesome would be my white whale. The idea of harpooning (sorry) one so early in the year was very appealing.

In preparation of my coupling(?) tripling I went to the beautician for some maintenance. Judging from the photos I’d seen of J. (shots of her in lingerie, in one of which she was pulling down the edge of her knickers) she was a clean slate kind of girl and so I thought it might be good etiquette to do similar. I found I actually cared more about what she might think than I would if I were only meeting up with a man. Usually my attitude is if they like me enough to get to the naked part and if I don’t have a problem with how they style their bits then they shouldn’t care how I style mine. But this was different.

I was tended to by a very enthusiastic young woman who showed far more interest in my foliage than I ever had. My topiarist waxed, tweezed and even trimmed with such care and dedication I could only imagine her living in a house filled with perfectly pruned bonsai lined up on every available surface. I decided against going all the way. I'd gotten rid of every strand once before and found that looking down the end result reminded me of a conch shell or some kind of newborn hairless marsupial. Without clothes on, I wasn’t just naked, I was MORE than naked and so this time I requested a landing strip. The beautician asked whether I would like the bottom, along with the top of said strip to be waxed. I hesitated, but she assured that me the overall effect would be much neater. This is how I came to have a patch of hair resembling a Hitler moustache residing over my vagina. Meiner Kleiner Fuhrer. In hindsight I take this to have been a bad omen.

I started getting ready for my Valentine’s Day liaison almost two hours early, which predictably turned out to not be early enough. If I'd had an hour extra though, I suspect I still would have been late since I only would have used the time to decorate my bedroom floor with more discarded outfits. Choosing the right underwear was the root of my problem. I wanted to wear a sexy set of lingerie, however most of the clothes I deemed appropriate for a potential threesome required a nude bra. Though practical, these items have to be among the least sexy things designed to cover some of the most appealing body parts. I believe this is because they create the unsettling illusion of breasts without nipples. I also decided against wearing my very sexy corset lingerie. Unfortunately, doing up all eleven pairs of hooks and eyes requires immense concentration and the skill of a contortionist. If things went terribly once we got into the bedroom, I figured I might need to make a quick getaway and the thought of running down George Street with a jiggling chest and a corset half stuffed in my handbag was not reassuring.  

Fortunately, J. needed just as long to deliberate over her outfit as I did and we all ended up being half an hour late (an unexpected positive to a woman woman man scenario). We finally met at Opera Bar, Circular Quay. This turned out to be a mistake because the cruise ship Arcadia was berthed on the opposite side of the harbour and from the moment we sat down M. could not take his eyes off it.

‘Do you reckon we could get on that?’ he asked, to which his girlfriend replied (with more patience than I could have mustered) ‘No, I think you’d need a ticket’. Other gems included ‘Fuck, that’s a big ship. They must have had a big shed to build that in’ and ‘Who owns that?’ ‘P&O’ ‘Yeah, but who owns that’. It was like being on a date with the family from The Castle.

As M. stared off into the middle distance, J. and I engaged in polite conversation. She was blonde, petite and very friendly. She spoke with a nasal twang and we had absolutely nothing in common, but that was something I could have overlooked had I not found her boyfriend of seven and a half years to be a wing-nut-eared, passive-aggressive, alpha male, red-neck racist. He had a certain menacing quality to him, the chunky silver chain around his neck and his deep-set stare made me think of a pitbull.

‘So, what do you do for fun?’ he finally asked me.

Aside from meeting up with an increasing number of oddballs from internet dating sites?

‘Well, I’m learning French’. I hadn’t imagined he would think this fun at all, but then J. informed me that M. actually spoke Chinese. I was pleasantly surprised and regretting many of the snap judgements I’d made when M. told me that wasn’t exactly true. It turned out they were staying in a hotel with a lot of international tourists and he had thought it funny to imitate them, but not so they could hear, he told me rather sheepishly. 

I just sat there with a smile frozen to my face. I couldn’t let him think I found this humorous, but for some reason I still felt I had to be polite. Then he continued and said (haltingly because I think he knew what he was saying was not OK) that he found it offensive when he was in a lift with some of these tourists and they were speaking Asian [sic] amongst themselves because he couldn’t understand what they were saying. When this happened apparently he liked to nod along with their conversation making occasional ‘mmm’ and ‘oh yeah’s to imply that he could understand them, even though they weren’t actually talking to him. My smile began to fade and in that moment I knew this was one whale I’d be letting go.

To my surprise, J. seemed to take the news the hardest, she looked absolutely crestfallen. M., on the other hand was quite understanding however they both wanted to know why I had made my decision. I lied. I told them I thought they were lovely people, but it was me. I thought I’d be able to go through with it, but I just didn’t feel comfortable. The last part was true enough, I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of spending any more time getting to know them any better.

I was already wearing my jacket. I had my bag over my shoulder and I was thinking about which burrito I wanted from Guzman Y Gomez when M. made a suggestion. How about, since we were all out in Sydney, we spend the evening together as friends? I asked whether that might be awkward considering our previous plans and the fact that I had sunk them quicker than that other mesmersiing vessel. They didn’t think so.

In the end I felt so guilty that a couple had driven seven hours to Sydney to sleep with me and been disappointed that I went with them to a crappy club in Darling Harbour and even bought the first round of drinks.

It was as bad as I'd thought it would be. It was like every crappy suburban night out at the local club I had never wanted to have. While J. and I two-stepped to bad dj mixes of music I didn’t know on the dance floor, M. sat in a corner glowering and minding our bags. 

Close to midnight, around the time I thought it might be acceptable for me to finally escape, possibly the worst song of the evening, certainly the most ironic began to play. It started out sounding like any other synthetic pop song with lyrics seemingly lifted from 16 year-old girls’ blogs, but then the chorus kicked in:

But tonight I’m fucking you

Oh you know

That tonight I’m fucking you

Oh you know

That tonight I’m fucking you

And I could not look J. in the eyes. I have no idea whether she picked up on it or not, but in that moment she did not look happy. We continued dancing, ignoring the music and I found myself thinking about M. over in his corner of the room. Was he was listening to the lyrics? Was he was aware of the irony? Was he even aware of ‘ironic’ being anything other than a hit single from the 90s? 

  

Shortly after that I left. And I did not look back.

Irony (Tonight - Enrique Iglesias)

My Prerogative

Welcome to Choose Your Own Date, a fun new way to experience dating without leaving the comfort of your computer. No need to put on pants, no need to plot an exit strategy and no need to feel guilty if you eschew all further communication with the other party after the event. Throughout this post I will be offering a series of multiple choice questions so you can feel as though you were right there with me. C’mon, live a little… Vicariously!

On this occasion I was meeting R. and I had high hopes for him. He looked like the love child of Jude Law and Ewan McGregor and we’d exchanged some good emails, even gotten a little adult, shared some of our likes, and it seemed as though we were rather compatible.

R. was Irish-Welsh with an accent which was surprisingly pleasant. He'd recently arrived from the UK and was staying in a place with eight other expats, four of them in one room, five in another. This meant that if the night went well, the ‘my place or yours?’ negotiation would be over relatively quickly.

During our first beer, his phone rang. It was on silent, but I could feel the table vibrating. If you were in my position would you have:

A) Ignored it and hoped he did too, it’s rude to answer your phone on a date.

B) Told him to go ahead and answer it; you want to seem easy-going and this is just a casual meeting.

C) Told him to go ahead and answer it and then listened in on the conversation.

I went with C). R. apologised and answered it and even though he walked a little away from our table, I could still hear his end of the discussion. It went something along the lines of:

‘Hey man, where are you?... OK, I’ll tell him you’re there… OK, OK, sweet, see ya later.’

Then, apologising again, he told me he had to call another of his mates. That conversation went something like:

‘Hey, yeah, he said he’s there… Where are you?... No, he’s at the '...' Hotel. I just spoke to him. Just go in and see him. He’s there. OK, OK. See ya.’

And then there was a third call:

‘Alright, he’s on his way in. He’ll be there in a sec. He said he was there now. See ya.’

He apologised once more and that seemed to be the end of it. Until his phone rang again. To save me transcribing the conversations that followed, please re-read the previous three paragraphs.

The only difference in the exchanges was that the names of the establishments his mates were meeting at changed. Would this have made you:

A) Suspicious, though perhaps you couldn’t quite say why.

B) Think he had friends who couldn’t organise their way out of their socks.

C) Wonder if he was a drug dealer.

The second series of calls raised my suspicions. After it all happened a third time I voiced them.

 

Would you have:

A) Ignored it all; there’s plenty you don’t know about this guy, it could be anything.

B) Asked what the calls were about and let him explain.

C) Come right out and asked him if he was dealing.

Guess which option I chose.

‘So, who’s dealing what where?’

‘Huh?’ He replied unconvincingly.

‘You’re obviously facilitating some kind of a deal, I’m not an idiot.’

‘Oh. I thought I was being subtle.’

Uh I think everyone within earshot in the pub knew what was going on. When I pressed him for details he remained tight lipped, but he did admit that it was nice that he could now drop the charade. Yeah, must have been exhausting for him keeping up that act. If his fabrication had been any thinner it would have given the emperor’s weaver a run for his money.

At this point in the evening, knowing you were sitting across from a broker of illicit substances would you have:

A) Told him you received a call yourself while he was at the bar and that you had to leave because your friend/grandmother/brother was in labour/hospital/gaol.

B) Been honest and told him you weren’t interested.

C) Stayed because now things were really getting interesting.   

I stayed. I stayed for couple of reasons. First off, I love being right and since I’m not usually the kind of person who can pick the killer in a murder mystery, I was feeling pretty canny. Also, I had now met up with two men from the internet; one had biceps, the other was a backpacker drug dealer and strangely enough I was leaning towards sleeping with the latter. I think it’s because I’m a fan of the novelty factor (and wouldn’t that just be a much more interesting show than The X Factor?) and I’d been with biceps before, years ago, when I’d dated my gym instructor for a bit.

In retrospect though, I shouldn’t have asked him to come home with me.

Along with assuming I was incredibly dim, my date also misjudged me when he decided I was into being a bad girl. By bad girl I don’t mean a 90s film stereotype with long dark hair, a nose ring, maroon lipstick and ill-fitting leather. I mean the kind of girl who can look around her local and on the fingers of one hand count the guys she hasn’t slept with. The kind who has a signature move that her lovers remember better than her name. The kind of girl who actually has lovers, not just the occasional friend with benefits.

Now sometimes I get a little bawdy and raise my eyebrows in a manner that implies ‘Oh I KNOW all those ins and outs’ but in truth I think I’ve been fairly sheltered. I’m also not really one for talking dirty so when we things started to  heat up it took me a while to realise what was going on.

R: (breathy sexy voice) I bet you have sex all the time.

Me: (conversationally) Uuummm well, it’s been a while.

R: (while grabbing my arse) I bet you’ve been fucked by hundreds of guys.

M: (counting in my head) No… To tell the truth-

R: (running his hands over my breasts) You must fuck around.

M: (trying to be realistic) I’m probably pretty innocent.

R: (tongue in my ear) I bet you’re not at ALL innocent.

That's when I realised he wanted to have sex with a woman who saw more traffic than the Sydney Harbour Tunnel.

If you found yourself in this situation would you have:

A) Gone with it, 2011 is the year moving beyond your comfort zone.

B) Told him to stop talking and tried to do some of the things you’d been emailing about.

C) Pointed to the door and hoped that was one social cue he could understand.

I tried to go with it, I really wanted to just be able to enjoy the sex, but I couldn’t turn off the whiny needy teenage girl part of my brain that has to actually like the other person. I wasn’t enjoying myself and suddenly I wanted him off my sheets, out of my room and back on the street making obvious deals with his little gang of expats. Unfortunately, that meant I had some not sexy talking to do. 

I apologised, explained that I'd thought things would go differently, but R. did not take this well at all. He started sulking and asking what he’d done wrong and I actually felt so bad that I told him I really liked him and I wasn’t going to kick him out in to the... And as I gestured to the window, searching for a noun along the lines of cold, dark, night the sound of seriously hard summer rain came through the window, making the end of my sentence redundant.

And so R. left, slamming the door on his way out, leaving me to think about the choices I'd made and with a chorus of Brittney Spears via Bobby Brown in my head.

I don't need permission, make my own decisions

That's my prerogative

 

D-Day

Some people might be put off by the idea that searching through personal profiles online is essentially shopping for a partner. Some people might argue it is dehumanising, insulting, unnatural and removes the emotional connection required to truly fall for another human being. I am not one of those people. I am a  born hunter-gatherer shopper. I browse, compare, eliminate options until I’ve narrowed down my search to just one item that’s attractive, functional, good quality and hopefully long lasting. I imagine the different ways the new thing is going to change my life and before I tell the sales person ‘I’ll take it’, whenever I can, I try before I buy.

So you can imagine how satisfying I find internet dating.

Technically, the site I am using is not a dating site. However, any arrangement which encourages two near-strangers to turn up to a mutually agreed upon public establishment under the guise of getting to know one another and feel incredibly awkward while pretending to be the best version of themselves, is a date. Whether they’re hoping to get laid at the end of the night or not.   

When my emails with one particular member progressed to the point of meeting face to face, I thought it might be wise to tell my housemate that I was about to go out with a man I’d only seen in photographs (probably). Whose surname and residential address I didn’t know. Who could have been a murderer, rapist,  accountant or born-again Chrisitan. My housemate had been happy for me until I drew her attention to these facts. I told her that if I didn’t come home she should tell the police that I was last out with a man named B. at a pub in Surry Hills. She didn’t appreciate the suggestion I might not make it back and made me promise that on the off chance I decided to willingly spend three days straight in a sex den, I had to send her a text because if I didn’t come home, now she would worry.

My potential sex den partner was a 37 year old personal trainer with a body that matched his job. Theoretically he was not my type, I tend to go for guys who look like the front man of an indie band who’s been too bored to eat for a fortnight. That said, from his profile picture my date looked to be everybody’s type. He had these biceps and a set of abs like you see on guys in perfume and jeans campaigns. Some of his photos actually looked like modelling shots, that or he knew how to hold his iPhone to get the most flattering angle ever.

The awkward sitting across from each other is hardly worth recapping. We had beers, he had biceps, he told me he lifted heavy things to make himself bigger because he was naturally very slim… (that’s real life irony, right?).

At five past ten I found myself on the footpath in front of a closed pub listening to B. saying those seven loaded words ‘the night doesn’t have to end here’. I felt like indecision personified. Did I want to sleep with him? I felt no obligation to, that wasn’t the problem. I was wondering whether I could move past the fact that I wasn’t overly attracted to him to the fact that within the hour I could be experiencing the kind of pleasure the girls who are with the guys in those perfume and jeans campaigns appear to be experiencing.

Despite the fact that he lived within walking distance, B. had decided to ride his motorbike to the pub (apparently he’s not much of a forward planner), which created something of a logistical quandary in terms of getting the three of us, him, me and his bike back to his place. In the end, I offered to follow his directions and meet him there. I’m a walker by nature, so that suited me just fine.

I listened to his instructions, I swear I was concentrating. But it was like the time I did work experience and had to deliver a parcel to a someone’s house. The office manager gave me the directions, I nodded along and then, I’m guessing, she noticed the blank look in my eyes because she asked me to repeat them. I was an adult, I was doing work experience because no one would give me a job and I had completely tuned out. What was wrong with me? Luckily some sort of subconscious survival instinct kicked in because I managed to not only repeat the directions but also find the address and make it back to the office. In this instance on Sunday night, those same survival instincts helped me out again.

I started out in the right direction, my mind working overtime, the roar of B’s motorbike fading into the distance. Then I realised, I had no idea what the first turn off was. So I kept walking. I walked for 45 minutes until I was at my front door. I was relieved to be there, on my own, knowing that the only loving I was going to experience was the polygamous kind, ‘Big Love’ on DVD. Oh and don’t worry, I send B. an apologetic text. I don’t think there were any hard feelings.

My housemate was relieved to see me. I recapped the evening, went to my room and there, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something black and shiny scuttling around the base of my dresser.

I’ll be the first to admit that my reaction to cockroaches is girliness overblown to the point that it’s like a drag-queen explosion. I managed to get the spray and attack the damn thing, but that only resulted in it careening about the floor, drunk and more unpredictable than ever. Thankfully, my housemate does not suffer from my kind of hysteria. She responded to my pitiful shrieks and within seconds had managed to flatten the thing with a sandal while I kind of twitched and spasmed about in a corner of the room thanking her in a way that sounded more like a chant. It’s the closest I ever come to speaking in tongues. But her good samaritanism didn’t end there.

‘If you have a tissue I’ll clean that up for you.’

Which made me think of an alternate way the evening could have ended. And you know, even with the cockroach I was still happy I’d chosen my home, my DVDs and that rather than a man with abs and a motorbike, it was my housemate offering to clean up the mess.