Archive for July 24th, 2008

There are several reasons the last lad had to go, just some of which I’ve outlined below….

1. He is devastatingly, crashingly, unnervingly beautiful-looking.

The first time I ever saw this chap with his burnished-gold skin and coal-black curls, I had him down as an Eastern European or Mediterranean student. Until he bellowed his first Northside ‘Aaaaaroite?’, whereupon I admit, dear reader, that I dropped a gusher in my knickers and falsettoed inwardly at his rough-and-readiness. How is this a problem, I hear you ask? Into every life a bit of brooding, dark, Dublin 9 hunk should fall, surely. I myself am no Angelina Jolie – not this side of my menstrual cycle, at any rate – so landing this particularly pretty specimen was a rather new, intoxicating experience for me. Yet his looks begat insecurity, confusion and the most pathetic behaviour on my part; never quite feeling in control, I pandered to him like total fool, afraid of upsetting the pretty young thing. And there you were thinking I was polishing up my smug shit badge.

2. But…he was a fat kid.

Obviously not a crime in and of itself – you can watch my own arse expand by the minute – but because of this, he had made it his life’s mission to try and bonk as many fillies as possible. He owed it to the fat kid in him, he would say. After an adolescence spent on the sidelines watching his pals get lucky, the boy was hell-bent on getting action, as Shakira might say, whenever and wherever. Amid this commitment-phobe’s immaculate genetic code came one flaw. The little shit had a wandering eye, and 95% of the women that lay eyes on this guy decide that he. Must. Be. Theirs. Suffice to say, spending an evening batting off the attentions of several women is no fun at all. Not least when it’s not even you they want to screw.

3. He is 8 years younger than me.

You can look at this any number of ways: when I was 20, he was 12. When I was babysitting at 16, he was a rather babysittable 8. Hell, I was masturbating before he was even frickin’ conceived for God’s sake. Naturally, sometimes this age gap is an advantage: he forever deems you as sexy, successful and ambitious by virtue of the fact that you’ve a few more of life’s milestones down pat. The young lads reckon we’re legends, greying knickers, crow’s-feet and all. Then again, the girls his age don’t have tits that need to be tucked into their socks.

4. He is quite hairy, God love him.

Not even just in that primal, attractive way either. Thank Christ I was gee-eyed the first time we went at it; I was able to catch the Homer Simpson-style yelp in my throat when he first disrobed. After a while, of course, I grew to love it, but still and all…zoiks.

5. He is a loser of Olympian standards.

Enough about the looks: his personality was enough to send the most tolerant of women running for Ann Summers. The boy was a fully paid-up Himbo…feckless, inconsiderate, lazy, unambitious and unemotional. The guy didn’t get excited about anyone or anything. Of course, when you’re drunk on sex, his insights into world affairs seemed positively Paxman-like. “Bleeeedin’ Saddam,” he would bellow. Deep, man.

6. The sex was getting a bit rubbish.

I’m sure by now you are wondering how this romance lasted so long (not only did we stay together weeks or months, we in fact lasted years). There’s a hint in the last reason: the sex was ridiculously electrifying. The great thing about sleeping with younger man is that they view you as a sort of sage, sensei-type character. Better still, they have no clue about boundaries. Nipple clamps, you suggest? Why the fuck not, they say. Congress of the Cow, you might order. Righty-o, they reply. Anything goes. Those young bucks have an appetite for kink like no other. Ding-ding-ding jackpot.

Speaking of kink, the boy was possessed with what I had previously considered to be a sort of urban legend. Yes people, the boy had a curve. Where it matters. I had bragged about this anatomical anomaly ad infinitum, ad nauseum…hell, ad fucking comatoseum to my friends, and rightly so. If you’ve ever had the pleasure, you will know that a curved penis surpasses even the most cleverly-designed dildo (even them new-fangled, three-way jobbies) in terms of effectiveness. Put another way, four strokes and you’re done…sweating, heaving, rolling over, hair-ruffling and apologising like a freshly-deflowered teenage boy (well, like a teenage boy that wasn’t him). Anyway, sex seems like a rather stupid reason to stay with anyone, which is probably why it began to wane once I couldn’t handle his rank personality. I began to care less and perform less acrobatically, and he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, the selfish little gonkleton. And here I was thinking sex and feelings could be mutually exclusive…whodathunkit?

Anyway, I’m paying it forward, so to speak, and releasing the curve back into the universe. I am now karmically solvent. Possibly even a karmic millionaire.

7. Romance? What romance?

Once, he promised me a slap up meal – I got a French bread pizza covered with Easi Singles. Gimme a motherfucking break. My heart all but broke at the sight of the food, and the earnest, woo-look-at-me look of self-pride on his face. Then again, I cooked him a coddle as a Valentine’s Day present. So I can’t really bitch on that front.

8. This chick doesn’t dig scars.

For a bet, the young lad drunkenly set his ass on fire a year ago, while I was on a girlie holiday (he never had the funds to make it even as far as the shaggin’ Newland’s Cross Bewley’s Hotel, so I holidayed like a single girl). I know….what a catch. Every time I saw that self-immolation scar I wanted to puke.

9. He had Scooter and 2 Unlimited on his iPod.

Now I’m all for subjectivity when it comes to music taste….live and let live and so on. But seriously.

Right, so I have convinced myself that he and I were…ahem, not meant to be. So why do I feel so wretched now that I’ve heard he has moved on and met someone else? Actually, it’s more like an impolite sting, but it’s there nonetheless.

Jesus, sometimes a massive ego can be terribly unbecoming on a woman…

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It’s raining meh…..

I have stumbled upon a rather intriguing thought in my hungover state. I think I’ve figured out exactly why Irish people are so consumed with apathy. It’s the poxy weather’s fault!

Here, we don’t experience a change of the seasons per se – winter is getting warmer and summer is just getting wetter – so in a way, we’re not really afforded the impetus to make changes in our own lives. Elsewhere, the summer starts and people are inspired to overhaul their own lives. But here the weather is always just….weather. And everything in life sort of stays the same. Don’t kill me for this generalisation, but I think as a nation we’re becoming more complacent, passive and lazy by the day. Either way, now you know what to blame when you can’t get your arse to the gym.

Seriously though chapesses, having to deal with the onset of SAD in July is a fucking joke. Adding insult to injury, there are no boys around to have (very) sexy kisses with in the rain. Arse.

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Reading this article in the Daily Mail made me wonder about the nature of sexual assault. Halfway through it, a memory from a few years ago crept into my head and wouldn’t go away.

One New Year’s Eve, I was offered the chance to work for the night instead of partying. Not a terribly tempting offer, but when an astronomical amount of wedge was mentioned, the work was easy and that taxis would be guaranteed for all staff, I wrote off my NYE plans. The job was to help out at a bash thrown by a corporate organisation who wanted people to top up glasses and make sure the bigwigs were happy. This wasn’t my usual line of work, but the pay was too good to be true for one night’s work, as it was probably what I earned post-tax in one week at the time. I showed up, slightly regretting my decision, thinking about the various invites clogging up my phone. Relief gradually settled over me, when my fellow workers all seemed to be young, fun and doing it for the same reasons as me.

As it headed towards midnight, things relaxed a lot and we were allowed to avail of the free bar, not to mention the ubiquitous champagne. One of the guys working was from New Zealand, and we got on really well all night. He was quiet, almost shy, but very charming. Gentle and polite, it seemed, and I’m a sucker for those guys. We flirted innocently for most of the night, and when all the Auld Langs Syne stuff was over and done with, the music started and the staff were allowed to join in. We danced a lot, laughing and circling each other in a cloud of chemistry, before he eventually kissed me. Easy work, a free bar, a big pay cheque AND a snog – what a great New Years, I thought.

When it came time to pile into taxis, cabs were thinner on the ground than the so-called guarantees. Australian guy lived very nearby; not near enough to brave the Baltic weather conditions, but enough for me to philanthropically donate my taxi to someone else, and agree to go home with him. He told me that all his housemates were away, and despite the fizzy champagne head, I made clear that staying over was not necessarily a precursor to sex – I wasn’t really in the habit of sleeping with people I’d met three hours before. Disclaimer provided, we went straight to bed as it was an old house, full of draughts and the cold was almost as big a distraction as him. There was kissing, passion, some wriggling, but underwear stayed on and we fell into a cosy sleep on that icy night.

The next morning I woke up with my back to Aussie boy and a couple of things hit me simultaneously. One; the gargantuan nature of my hangover and two; how cold it really was in that old house. Then I felt a sense of something not being quite right and it took me a few seconds to realise what it was. His hand was in my underwear, poking and fidgeting and my heart started to race. Not in some just-awake fit of desire, but in the way that it does when you feel uneasy, flustered. As far as he was aware, I was still asleep, so why was he doing this without my consent? In a flash, I remembered that we were the only two in the house and that no one I really knew was aware of where I was. I lay there in a panic, while all the while he kept probing and prodding, his barely palpable breathing a little erratic.

The mood of the night before evaporated, and yet here I was, a willing entrant to this man’s bed. Did I have any right to be outraged? Was my being there – albeit asleep and still in my underwear – consent enough for him to doing what he was doing? It was the morning after the night before, so was he right in assuming that my presence there was a green light to continue where we’d been the night before? Either way, all I wanted to do was go home. I didn’t even know what to say to him. I feigned “waking up” and dressed quickly. I remember that I was polite to him while trying to work out what had happened and quell my disquiet. Violation is probably too strong a word for what I felt, but to me, he had definitely crossed a line. I caught a bus home, and stopped in the only open shop I could find to buy juice and comfort food to lie on my couch and contemplate the night before.

Lots of us have found ourselves in bed with people that we don’t necessarily plan on sleeping with. Not every co-sleeping arrangement has to mean sex, but if you share a bed with someone, does that mean you’re automatically putting yourself in a situation that sex is expected of you? Even if you declare your – no pun intended – position, before anything happens? I’ve shared a bed with men I had only recently met many times, and while most guys hope you’ll sleep with them, no one has ever pushed the issue. If you’re asleep, you’re not consenting with words, but by physically being there, are you consenting with your body?

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