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…