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23 Dec
Horse racing

flickr image by Paolo Camera

Apologies for the late arrival of this post. I wrote it a month ago, but due to my internet provider’s rather lacklustre service, I am only posting it now.

One year ago I wrote a snappy little article entitled ‘Singleversary’. It was an amazing* piece of literature centring around my two years spent frolicking amongst the singles scene. I believe this autobiographical account concluded on a positive note (despite a rather predictable cat-lady reference), and expressed my somewhat zen-like attitude to remaining boyfriend-less for two years. Or seven hundred and thirty days. Or seventeen thousand, five hundred and twenty hours. Or one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes.

Whatever. It’s not like I’d been keeping track of exactly how long I’d been single for…

Now, would you consider me outrageously pathetic if I was to inform you that as of the 5th of December I will have remained ‘on the shelf’ for three long years?

Well, get ready to scrape those gaping jaws back off the floor folks, because it’s true. I’ve just hit the trifecta: three years of singledom, and counting.

I know; you’re shocked. And how could you not be? Although I’m not frantically searching for my other half by desperately accosting potential husband-types in crowded bars, placing tragic advertisements in the lonely hearts section of the newspaper, throwing handfuls of leaflets containing my contact details and desire to find a soul mate from high-rise buildings, nor hiring skywriters to emblazon my phone number across the sky for all menfolk to see, I have been open to the possibility of a relationship for some time now.

But I still haven’t found the perfect candidate.

God knows where he’s hiding. Perhaps he’s in witness protection?

I’m not really sure how this three year milestone has come about. How has somebody not snapped me up before now? I’m a great catch!

Well, perhaps not quite great per se, but certainly kind of okayish. At the very least, decent enough for a member of the opposite gender, whom I have deemed to be of reasonable calibre, wanting to spend time with me in order to eat Thai takeaway and fornicate on a semi-regular basis?

How the hell have I remained relationship-less for three years?

Sure, I could get all down on myself, write a melodramatic suicide note and then reach for the razorblades. But, no. I’m not going to blame myself. No way.

Instead, I’m going to brazenly point my accusatory finger at the males of Sydney.

Warning: If you are a male aged between twenty and thirty-six and are currently residing in the city of Sydney, you are advised to cease reading now.

This city is full of penis-wielding tools. There, I said it. And at the risk of sounding tragically bitter, I meant it.

These dickheads are everywhere; scuttling through the streets like disease-ridden vermin.

Perhaps you think I’m overreacting. Or that I’m obviously a high maintenance princess who is far too picky for her own good. Maybe you’ve determined that I must be grotesquely unfortunate looking and a guy would rather stab himself in the neck with a rusty screwdriver, rather than even entertain the fleeting thought of becoming my boyfriend.

Well, allow me to share some carefully selected snapshots outlining some of my recent encounters with the menfolk of Sydney. Then you can be the judge as to who is to be held accountable for my long-standing single status.

Firstly, there was the guy who attempted to woo me at the local pub. He struck up a conversation while the cover band massacred a Cold Chisel classic. He really should have known better than to endeavour to have a conversation with a girl who’d just energetically consumed approximately half a bottle of vodka and five wet pussy shots. When I awoke the following morning, next to an unfamiliar male, and unashamedly began a string of questioning that commenced with, “What’s your name again?” and concluded with something along the lines of, “Did we have sex last night?” I knew I probably shouldn’t be calling the printers and ordering the wedding invitations just yet.

Secondly, there was the guy who had a girlfriend. When he told me that my dress accentuated my apparently “amazing breasts” (his words, not mine), I may have been ever-so-slightly pathetically flattered, resulting in me partaking in a vigorous bout of flirting. But, I mean, who’s to say exactly how encouraging my flirting was? Surely not enough for him to justify grabbing my hand and placing it on his erect penis, not once, but twice, while we grinded on the dance floor? And then when I quite innocently suggested we engage in a bit of lip-on-lip action in a dark corner, out of view of the prying eyes of mutual friends, he informed me that he couldn’t because he did have a girlfriend after all.

Thirdly, there was the other guy who had a girlfriend. To be fair, I had no idea he was in a relationship when I boldly draped myself around him and accepted his proffer of an alcoholic beverage. Perhaps a mutual female friend may have mentioned that this guy was in fact attached when I ventured to the toilets with her for a drunken goss session a short while later. But by then it would have been rude to completely ignore him just because he was in a relationship, right?  Despite his cajoling to the contrary, we both went our separate ways at the end of the night. I later extracted his phone number from our mutual friend, resulting in a week or two of pointless sexually-soaked text banter. God knows why I wasted my time.

Next, there was yet another guy who I knew to have a girlfriend. At three o’clock in the morning, at the drunken conclusion of a night out, I produced a pen from my handbag and demanded he bestow a ‘tattoo’ upon my breast. I then lowered the neckline of my dress and courteously thrust my cleavage in his direction. He dutifully obliged. Afterwards, I insisted he take a photo of my tattooed breast with his camera phone. We then proceeded to “hug”; wrapped around one another, heavily breathing into each other’s necks whilst I ever so slightly dry-humped his leg. Can you believe he then had the audacity to hit me up for another photo of my breasts a couple of weeks later, despite the fact that he has a girlfriend whose cleavage he is no doubt able to ogle whenever the urge may strike?

I think I’ll stop there.

Ladies and gentleman (if there are still any men left reading this post) of the jury, I believe I have proven without a shadow of a doubt that my own behaviour has been nothing short of upstanding and exemplary, and it is in fact the male species who can solely take the blame for me remaining single as long as I have.

It seems the only logical explanation for my plight.

Okay, perhaps my own behaviour has been slightly, shall we say, unsavoury, and may have a little something to do with my lack of boyfriend. I suppose I can’t completely blame my single status (as much as I want to) on the menfolk of Sydney. You certainly don’t need to be a genius to figure out that fraternising with guys already in relationships is hardly likely to result in a fairytale romance. And to be fair, I haven’t really been ready for another relationship up until about a year ago, so perhaps I’m being a little harsh on myself by highlighting all three years of singledom.

However, I honestly do hope to meet a lovely unattached man in the not too distant future, who dispels my mounting bitterness towards all menfolk. I really do. Before I regrow my hymen in protest and am done with the male species once and for all.

Happy single-fucking-versary to me!

*Note: The term “amazing” has been liberally used without the endorsement of any party other than the author herself. 

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