Man Drought Or Loser Flood?

flickr image by Burning Image

I’ll be honest… My internet dates thus far haven’t been the stuff dreams are made of.

There have been no Prince Charmings appearing atop white stallions. No names written in the stars. No fireworks metaphorically exploding. And sadly, no suitors displaying completely un-tool like tendencies.

Whoever first said there was a man drought in Sydney wasn’t wrong. And as a consequence I’m more than a little parched.

However, a friend of mine disagrees. She claims there is no man drought. Rather, there’s a loser flood. And perhaps she’s correct if my last internet “date” is any indication of the quality of available men out there.

Despite having a cringe-worthy username, GeorgieBoy grabbed my attention. First it was his undeniably handsome photograph – a lone headshot with a dazzling smile and dark eyes that crinkled and gleamed.

However, any internet dating veterans out there would know only too well that agreeing to meet someone whom has only posted one photo can be a bit of a gamble. There is the not-so-farfetched possibility that he could in fact be an ugly cretin, and the lone rogue photograph you are viewing is the only one on the face of the planet that makes him (deceptively) look halfway decent. Absent of a body-shot for confirmation, there is no guarantee that his torso is not disfigured in some horribly repulsive way or that he actually weighs upwards of one hundred and fifty kilograms. Alternatively, there’s a very real possibility that he could in fact be a midget. (Let’s face it; guys always lie about their height).

Nevertheless, when I struck up a conversation with GeorgieBoy via online chat, I pleasingly discovered he was able to reciprocate my witty banter. Soon this jokey jousting took the form of text messages, and after a couple of days worth of texting (thank goodness my phone plan includes unlimited texts) he’d asked me out for a drink on the Monday night.

We met, fell in love and lived happily ever after.

Not quite.

At this point it was only Saturday and the arranged date was not set to take place for another couple of days. Much to the exasperation of the friends I was out with that night, the flirty, butterflies-in-the-stomach inducing text banter continued.

Let me take this opportunity to dole out some helpful dating advice. Texting under the influence? DON’T DO IT.

Feel free to heartily disagree with me, but in my opinion drunken texting rarely ends happily. A nerdy scientist really should invent a mobile phone with breathalysing capabilities. On a Friday or Saturday night when you’re out and about getting your drink on, you’d be forced to blow into the breathalysing device on your phone before you’d be permitted to operate it. For safety reasons, perhaps you would be able to program some numbers into your phone that would require no breathalysing. This could include the phone numbers of friends you regularly hit the pubs with, your designated driver, or the number of a taxi company.

But the phone number of a romantic interest? Hell no.

Sadly, no such phone had yet been invented, and my inebriated mind, along with my rebellious phone, allowed the drunken correspondence to take place.

And wouldn’t you know it, what a coincidence! GeorgieBoy was apparently out drinking in the same area of the city as me. Sydney is a large city, with many different suburbs you may find yourself sinking beers in. But out of all those other places, GeorgieBoy was right near me.

How convenient.

Against my better judgement, we made plans to meet up. And finally, at one o’clock in the morning, I spotted him.

He wasn’t completely unlike his photo. He had the dark hair and eyes I’d expected. And if his face wasn’t so blotched from the consumption of excess alcohol, you’d be warranted in calling him handsome. However, he was pudgy. Not that I necessarily have a problem with pudgy, as I’m not exactly svelte myself. But on my dating profile I have included a full body shot so that future dates don’t expect a size 8 model to rock on up. Also, he was wearing thick black glasses that weren’t exactly becoming. And nor was he wearing them in an attempt at geek-chic; he later revealed that he was actually as blind as a bat without them.  

To be honest, due to my level intoxication, it’s difficult to recall the minute details of our late night meeting. There was certainly an abundance of sexually-laced conversation; all initiated by him and often involving him alluding to the apparently massive size of his manhood. There were some kisses. Again, initiated by him and involving an overly generous serving of tongue. Disappointingly, it was certainly not the kind of lip-on-lip action I could mentally conjure up at a later time to aid masturbation.

Given the details I have provided in that last paragraph, it makes it pretty tricky to justify why I then allowed him escort me home.

My initial defence is to blame it on my impressive height of intoxication. Mingle that with the fact that I didn’t have quite enough cash to pay for my own cab ride home.

But that’s merely an excuse; everyone knows taxi drivers accept eftpos these days.

The sex was atrocious. In hindsight, I would have much preferred to drunkenly leave the bar by myself, have oral sex with a kebab, then pass out on top of my bed clothed only in my knickers.

Thankfully, due to the large quantity of vodka consumed that fateful night, I have been spared the disgust of possessing many memories of coitus with GeorgieBoy. However, a few defiant recollections remain lurking in the recesses of my brain; although conjuring them requires the immediate suppression of vomit.  

His male appendage was unattractive in appearance and aroma. It looked not unlike a chubby uncooked sausage, repellently assembled between his flabby thighs. Usually I’m not one to criticise flabby thighs, as there’s no disputing that I’m in possession of a pair. However, I’m female. He is a guy. I imagined it wasn’t unlike having sex with a flabby-thighed chick wearing a strap-on. And the smell. There was no denying that his penis had a repugnant stench about it. I unfortunately discovered this when it was optimistically dangled in front of my face a number of times.

He wasn’t exactly rough with me. But he certainly wasn’t gentle. He was a touch heavy handed for my liking and carelessly flipped me around into whatever position he desired, with little to no care for my comfort nor satisfaction. I was tempted to remind him that he was in fact having sex with a real life human female, rather than a blow-up doll.

Throughout the night I fell asleep a number of times, only to be awoken by his intrusive hands on my flesh yet again.

Finally, I sobered up enough to demand him to stop. Blessedly, he ceased the octopus-man routine, and rolled to the far edge of the mattress where he proceeded to further prohibit my slumber with an hour or two of spirited snoring.

Thankfully, the time came for him to leave. I offered to call him a taxi, but he informed me that he’d prefer to catch the bus. Mercifully, he spared me the repulsiveness of a goodbye kiss and went on his merry way.

GeorgieBoy conveniently (praise the lord!) forgot to chase up our following Monday night date, but sporadically contacted me a number of times after our revolting night together. My theory was that he was trying to keep the window open in case one night I’d drunkenly shag him again. Ha! Not likely. Not without him slipping a Rohypnol in my drink.

And I wouldn’t put that past him. 

At first there was a lame text sent every few weeks or so. And initially I responded with short but vague replies. God knows why, but it almost seemed rude not to respond, given the linguistic foreplay we’d engaged in via text prior to that god-awful night of coupling.

Although I’m sure many girls wouldn’t have bothered replying. And I soon dropped the politeness and became one of them.

Hey how u going? He sent one Wednesday afternoon. I chose not to reply.

Then a Friday evening soon afterwards: Hey how u going? Long time no speak? My phone was getting repaired and I didn’t have your number on my old one. But it’s all back. So how are you?

Firstly, dickhead, if you actually did care how I was you may have decided to refrain from manhandling my body as though it belonged to a cheap hooker. Secondly, I couldn’t care less that I haven’t heard from you. I didn’t reply to your last text, so it is completely unnecessary to make up a pathetic fabrication about your phone being repaired. Thirdly, kindly fuck off.

Once again I decided not to reply.

Then, the creme de la crème of GeorgieBoy’s texts, sent the following Wednesday evening: Hey what are u doing tonight? Do you wanna come over and hang out? Maybe make out for a little while. Have a beer. See where the night takes us?

Ah, no. I can’t say I do. Not a chance in hell. But thanks for the kind offer.

So… Man drought or loser flood? At the moment my vote’s with the loser flood theory.

In fact, I’m off to build an ark.