Nadia Uncensored: "What happened when I flew 900 kilometres for a man I'd never met."

So when we last left off, I’d broken my vajayjay with my new vibrator (good news: it’s back in action. THANK YOU JESUS) curated a solid rotation of f*ckboys to distract myself from dealing with my marriage breakdown, and learned the teeny, tiny brain of the FB [Fuck Boy]– much like his underwhelming peen – is shockingly easy to manipulate.

You can read the last instalment of Nadia Uncensored, right here. 

In short, life was good.

Well, except for the part where I nearly lost my job chasing D and would later end up in a support group for sex and love addicts. But we’ll get to the boring parts later on, yeah?

For now, I was happy revelling in the high I was getting off having a handful of men at my beck and call. While my friends were taking smoko breaks and stocking up at Dan Murphy’s to take the edge off their day, I was racking up a black book of contacts that made Samantha Jones look like a saint.

There was something indescribably seductive about knowing that, at any time of day or night, I could order up a guy like pizza in a single text (usually just a single emoji, because FBs don’t compute big words).


Whether it was scratching a sexual itch, entertaining me when I ran out of laundry to fold, or filling an emotional void (read: black hole so deep it actually led to China), there was a guy in my phone for every need. I thought of myself as a kind of slutty vigilante; turning the tables on FBs by giving them back some of the medicine they’d been dishing out to my girlfriends – and just about every single woman I knew – for years.

Sure, these men were still using me for sex, but I too, was using them back, and it felt righteously good. So much so, that when a part-time bodybuilder/full-time gym selfie-taker matched with me on Bumble, I couldn’t resist what seemed like a criminally easy opportunity to add another FB to my list.

However, there were certain barriers in place – for starters, he was a decade younger than me and in the midst of back-packing around Australia with scant funds, while I was busting balls running a successful website raking in the coin. Oh, and we were separated by about 900 kilometres. Fortunately, his trip was due to end in Sydney in six weeks, and by that time, I was determined to have him in my rotation. Game. On.


We started exchanging messages over Bumble, and then texts, and finally, phone calls. He had a devastatingly endearing English accent and, according to his Instagram, the body of a cartoon prince (complete with inexplicably poofy hair and a jawline that could’ve doubled as a Swiss Army Knife), so I was cautious to remain f*ckgirl cool and emotion-free.

Then, during a phone call one evening, he joked, “You should chuck a sickie and fly up to The Gold Coast to spend the day with me!”

“Yeah, RIGHT!” I laughed back.

We made some more small talk as I silently pledged to myself not to let his irresistible English charm direct blood flow away from my brain to my lady parts.

Then I hung up, texted my boss to say I had food poisoning, and booked a flight to The Gold Coast for the next day.

Okay. So, that didn’t work out as planned. Fark.

Now I had to devise a way to avoid looking like I was trying to recreate the film plot from Fatal Attraction, while letting him know I’d casually booked a trip across the country to see him, but, like, I was still totally cool, and stuff.

I reeled off a story about being rewarded with a day off work for good behaviour and winning free flights, and he went for it (thank God for the tiny brains of FBs). And so it was, I flew 900 kilometres to meet a total stranger I’d sworn not to develop feels for when I was meant to be at work and had in no way dealt with the fresh heartbreak of my divorce.

Yep, my life was going swell. Nothing to see here…all was well and good. I was TOTALLY in control, you guys.

Unfortunately, Potential FB #7, who – if I’m honest – I’d already started thinking of as Potential Boyfriend, was even more attractive in real-life than his photos. If Calvin Klein was scouting for underwear models at Coolangatta airport, I’m quite sure he’d be on a billboard somewhere by now.

Naturally, in the presence of his otherworldly good looks, I forgot how to human and greeted him by saying “Hi-llo!” and then unsuccessfully trying to remember what my name was.

PB burst into laughter, which was *obviously* like the sound of a million magical birds chirping a Disney melody.

“You’re weird. I like it,” he chuckled.

New fave toy. It’s so prettayyyy.

A post shared by Nadia (@nadiabokody) on


Was this a bad time to tell him even though we’d only just met, I’d planned our wedding on the plane trip over and had strong opinions about how we should raise the children?

The rest of the day felt like a romantic movie. We held hands walking along the water’s edge on the beach, laid on sunbeds by the pool sharing details of our lives, and munched on burgers at a beachside café.

I mean, okay, like, he also took me back to his dank, nine-bed hostel room where he tried to convince me to give him a quick BJ while someone slept on the top bunk above us, made me pay for my own lunch after I’d just spent $600 on flights to see him, and asked if I could spare some change before I left.

But other than that, you guys, it was SO dreamy. And I was in FULL TOUCH with reality. No unresolved feelings from the divorce I’d neatly swept under the rug manifesting here. None. At. All.

Okay, maybe some. But, that’s for my next column.

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