The One?

9 Feb
Wedding Cake

flickr image by Kim Marius Flakstad

This one takes me back a few years…

Anyone who has been single and exceedingly ready to mingle for an extended period of time can tell you just how hard it is to find ‘The One’. The notion of your elusive soul mate floating around somewhere in amongst an ocean of single men who prefer to grind repulsively against a girl’s leg while gyrating to an Usher song, rather than sparking up a conversation that doesn’t begin with an overconfident “Where are you sleeping tonight?”, often seems rather farfetched.

In times of extreme downheartedness over the failure to find your ‘other half’, the sympathetic voices of married or otherwise attached girlfriends fall extraordinarily short of being helpful. Their condescending words are neither inspirational nor enlightening. All a singleton is really left with after such a conversation is the overbearing urge to pummel her friend’s smug face with a pumice stone.

After long months or years spent scouring bars and clubs, being set up with friend’s co-workers and possibly even venturing into the often taboo waters of internet dating, it’s difficult to remain upbeat about the existence of ‘The One’. The hypothesis that there is only one romantic partner destined for you, and all other partners will fall significantly short of the mark until you discover him, becomes increasingly depressing. On yet another Sunday morning, rather than heading off for a yum cha meal with the love of your life, you’re left with nothing more than a neckful of love bites and a business card on your bedside table – if you’re lucky.

When you reach this stage (an all time low), the list of attributes you are looking for in a potential life partner begins to dwindle. Slowly but steadily, features you once deemed compulsory for prospective lovers to possess are scratched from the list. One by one they disappear, until you are left with only a handful of traits you consider necessary.

By the time I met The One, I had only one attribute still resident on my wish list: a heartbeat.

And he did indeed possess a heartbeat, along with a seductive smile full of straight pearly white teeth, gorgeous aqua-hued eyes and a rugged three day growth. When I met him one Friday night at a gig in a trendy city bar, he was dressed in the grungy get-up of a black t-shirt and low slung jeans. Upon spying him I felt a lump in my throat and a familiar yearning in my nether regions.

Without a protest from me, he accompanied me home. We lay on my bed. We talked. We shagged. He told me how beautiful I was over and over again. And as most women know – flattery will get you everywhere.

Before this recount takes a turn for the worst and I am undoubtedly viewed as a desperate loser (fair play), I would like to take a brief moment to defend myself. When conversing with someone whilst intoxicated it is often easy to imagine you have an intrinsic connection. When the majority of your inebriated brain cells render your judgement severely impaired, it is not difficult to be deluded into thinking that person is far more interesting and intelligent than they really are. This works on much the same principle as beer goggles – when pissed you inaccurately perceive aesthetically-challenged people to be far more attractive than they actually are. This is how, in my drunken sexed-up haze, I falsely believed The One to not only be good-looking, but also an intelligent and witty man.

If only.

The next morning I awoke with the telltale signs of a hangover – a desiccated mouth, pounding head and a naked man resident in my bed. As the memories of the night before surged back to me, I felt a shiver of fear. If past drunken encounters are any indication, the man laying beside me may in fact be hideously ugly. I silently hoped my vodka goggles hadn’t forsaken me yet again.

His head was turned away from me, obscuring my view of his face. I lay there for a few long minutes pondering what fate had in store for me when he awoke.

Before too long the foreign body beside me stirred, then turned to face me.

“Hi,” he whispered, his mouth curling into a smile, eyes crinkling sexily. Relief blessedly coursed through my veins. Jackpot! This guy was worlds apart from a double bagger – someone so unattractive you not only need to place a bag over their head when engaging in sexual intercourse, but also a bag over your own as insurance in case their bag falls off.

The One confidently leaned in and began kissing me tenderly. I eagerly kissed him back, despite paranoia over my morning breath. After a few moments he pulled back slightly. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?” he asked.

“Um, I don’t really have any,” I replied, too taken aback by the unexpectedness of the question to make up fictional plans in order to impress him.

“Wanna make a weekend of it?” he asked, affectionately stroking my sex-knotted hair.

I nodded, too overcome to verbally reply. I fought back the urge to pinch myself, just to ensure I was actually awake. This Adonis wanted to spend the weekend with me!

However, as you may have already inferred from my rather unsubtle foreshadowing, my premature joy was short-lived. As he rolled on top of me, his erection evident, I found myself staring at the large tattoo on his chest. As we began to engage in coitus, hazy memories from the night before flashed through my brain like a mocking slideshow.

I vaguely remembered having complimented the tattooed prose etched permanently on his chest; my mind too inebriated to fully comprehend the meaning behind it. But in the morning light, as he energetically pumped away on top of me, it was difficult not to feel confronted by the three words emblazoned boldly across his front. The text surged back and forth, stopping short in front of my face as he orgasmed. The confrontational words screamed at me – ‘Repent to Live’!

I’m hardly an aficionado on the sensitive subject of religion. But having grown up in a somewhat Catholic household I had a meagre understanding of what the words being thrust in front of my face meant. His chest was apparently telling me to regret my sins and ask for God’s forgiveness in order to live for all eternity in His kingdom.

It seemed tremendously ironic to have these words propelled in front of my face whilst fornicating.

As he rolled off me with a contented sigh, I dove in headfirst and asked him to explain the meaning behind the tattoo. His subsequent reply confirmed my suspicions.

“So, you’re a Christian?” I asked tentatively.

“Yep, born-again,” he replied proudly.

I couldn’t help feeling a startled jolt rip through me. My first boyfriend had been burdened with a nutty born-again mother. When we were sixteen his mother had discovered us laying on his bed together (fully clothed, during the middle of the day, with his bedroom door wide open, our hands in plain view) innocently chatting. She subsequently burst into a lengthy tirade on how such behaviour was inappropriate and unchristian. The crazy old bat all but sprinkled holy water around the room and thrust a wooden cross in front of my face whilst spitting out passages from the bible. As a consequence of my supposed heathen ways, I was never welcome in their house again.

I’m not insinuating that all born-again Christians are as barmy as she was, just painting a picture as to why this newfound knowledge was worrisome to me.

Despite my better judgement, I ventured further. “Do you not see the irony in having those words adorned across your chest, rendering them in plain view of your sexual partner as you engage in premarital intercourse?” I questioned pompously.

“Irony?” he repeated stupidly, mystified by the word.

I sighed. “You know, like satirical, sardonic… mocking,” I elaborated further, the last word I uttered seeming even more appropriate.

He merely grinned idiotically in response, shrugging his shoulders uncomprehendingly. “You’re real pretty,” he murmured, kissing me tenderly on the forehead.

This was the moment. This was the precise moment I realised The Obtuse One wasn’t the perfect man I’d hoped him to be. Cracks were rapidly appearing in his flawless facade; much like discovering your newly purchased dream home is riddled with dry rot.

However, I tried to remain optimistic as we dressed and walked down to the beach for breakfast.

Over a large plate of bacon and eggs, he crudely manoeuvred his cutlery, shoving large forkfuls of food into his mouth and chomping noisily. I pleasantly asked him questions about himself and he was only too happy to provide rambling, often nonsensical answers. However, not once did he consider it necessary to ask me any questions in return.

He did, however, stare at me adoringly, frequently telling me how beautiful I was. And despite his revolting eating habits, desire for a one-sided conversation and quite obvious low intelligence quotient, his own attractiveness was far from lost on me.

After breakfast we retired to a bench overlooking the shoreline, where he proceeded to give me a tedious demonstration of every feature his mobile phone possessed. He then needlessly insisted on playing far too many of his favourite songs that were (unfortunately) stored in the phone. He accompanied this horrid process by singing along boisterously; unperturbed by my embarrassment and the annoyance of passersby.

As he sang along far too loudly, he simultaneously held my chin in one of his large hands and stared intently into my mortified eyes. Every so often he would break our uncomfortable stare by raising his face upwards and closing his eyelids as he absorbed himself in the lyrics. Sadly, it was as though he believed himself to be a famous musician and I a devoted fan he was serenading.

I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he had a hard on.

Having endured my daily quota for public embarrassment, I insisted on heading home. However, having been so hasty to escape the humiliating eye of the public, I had yet to consider the embarrassment he would no doubt cause me to suffer in front of my housemates.

The Obtuse One took the liberty of cornering one of my housemate’s while she innocently washed dishes in the kitchen. He then added to the tedium of this household chore by planting himself next to her and boring her senseless with a lengthy account of his entire employment history to date.

When she finally managed to escape after thirty monotonous minutes, he proceeded to plant himself on the lounge and start on my other two housemates. However this time he decided to rattle off the details of all his (obviously fleeting) failed relationships, utterly oblivious to my mortification and everyone else’s boredom.

To heighten my already extreme humiliation, one of my housemates surreptitiously angled his digital watch in my direction. He had been timing The Obtuse One’s long-winded waffle. His uninterrupted rambling had already reached eighteen minutes – and counting. Quite an impressive length of time considering he’d had no encouragement or leading questions from my wearily disinterested housemates.

When one of my fed-up housemates boldly turned the blaringly loud television on, The Obtuse One mercifully shut up, much to the joy of everyone present. However, my reign of embarrassment did not end there. He then proceeded to engage me in a rather hot and heavy display of affection, followed by telling me how beautiful I was over and over again; loud enough to repulse all my flatmates.

Next he mortifyingly went on to list all the physical attributes he adored about me; albeit in annoyingly incorrect English. “Look at them beautiful eyes, that beautiful nose, them beautiful lips…” he trailed off as he leaned in to noisily kiss me.

At this stage I felt it was time to give my housemates a pardon from this reign of terror. I led my guest back to the confines of my bedroom. Here he felt the need to ask his first ever question of me. “Why are you so patriotic about not going to church?”

Biting back an avalanche of derisive retorts, I settled for the pretentious reply: “Patriotism denotes love and support for one’s country.”

This is when the argument on religion began. An argument I seldom choose to be a part of. I respect that people follow different religions and they are entitled to do so. Nobody should have to defend their motivation for choosing to worship a certain religion, nor demand anybody else do the same. In my humble opinion, this also applies to people who choose not to follow a religion.

My voice became raised as I explained my standpoint over and over again, no doubt being overheard by my flatmates relaxing in the lounge room.

To my absolute horror he burst into tears, cupping his face in his hands. “I just don’t. Want us. To break up. Over this,” he gasped in between sobs.

Restraining myself from blurting out that it would be impossible for us to break up when we’d only just met the night before and weren’t even together, I leaned in and hugged the poor pathetic guy.

Later, as we lay entwined in bed, he confessed that he had actually been a virgin up until six months ago, having once upon a time decided to save himself for marriage. Now, despite his stupidity, I acknowledged that this was indeed quite a feat for a good looking guy in his mid twenties. In a moment of weakness he had surrendered to his animalistic desires and gone on a sex-bender; shagging an impressive number of girls over a two month period. He then informed me that he had become what he considered to be a born-again virgin, nobly deciding once again to save himself for marriage.

This revelation did explain his penchant for premature ejaculation.

“All until I met you,” he informed me, staring devotedly into my eyes. As he fell asleep contentedly, his arms wrapped tightly around my torso, I lay staring at the ceiling.

The term ‘panic-stricken’ was a gross understatement of what I was feeling at this point.

The next morning as we lay in bed, I questioned him about any travel he may have embarked on; this being a passion of mine, having spent a couple of years in my early twenties travelling the globe.

He informed me he wasn’t interested in travel, and after further inquisition it became evident he possessed not one drop of knowledge on world geography. He stared at me blankly when I mentioned a barely-heard-of foreign place called Paris. And when pressed, he cheerfully guessed the capital of the Northern Territory in our very own Australia must be, well, Queensland of course!

He failed to recognise the absurdity of a state being the capital of a territory and lacked the intelligence to even burn with shame over such an illogical and ridiculous answer. Even my seven year old nephew knew the answer to be Darwin.                   

Despite having promised to spend the weekend with him, my patience was wearing paper-thin and my will to live was depleting rapidly for every moment I spent in his inane company. Out of sheer necessity I feigned a forgotten lunch with a friend, ruthlessly ignoring his disappointed expression.

I’m sure The Obtuse One would make some girl supremely happy one day. Albeit, a quiet, unintelligent girl who would be able to resist the overpowering urge to slit her wrists while in his prolonged company.

I drove him to the train station; too weary to suffer the long journey across the city in his company, in order to drop him home. After he delayed his departure even further by a lingering kiss, my tyres squealed in exodus the moment he closed the passenger door. I speedily skidded away from the curb, narrowly missing a group of pedestrians attempting to cross the road in front of me.

As I continued to put blessed metres in between The Obtuse One and myself, I pondered the danger of lowering one’s standards. Despite his good looks, I valued myself far too greatly to ever be with a man like him.

A vibrator would be a more highly skilled lover (and conversationalist) than him.

As I pulled up outside my house, with trepidation I began to walk up the front path. I speculated it would be quite some time before my flatmates would let me live this one down.

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4 Responses to “The One?”

  1. Anon February 10, 2011 at 12:52 am #

    Wow all your entries are interesting. Good luck in looking for “The One”!

    • Dawn Dash February 10, 2011 at 6:21 pm #

      Thank you! Though it’s a little like trying to find a needle in a haystack. 😉

  2. Emily March 30, 2011 at 1:32 am #

    You. Kill. Me. I’ve been flipping through your posts all morning!!! You’re style is just so straight-forward and curt, I love it! Keep posting – I’m subscribing 🙂

    • Dawn Dash March 30, 2011 at 5:38 pm #

      Thank you, Emily! I’ve subscribed to your super cute blog too!

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