There, on the screen, staring back at me, were three little – though not entirely insignificant – words…
I glanced back at the receiver’s name at the top of the text – an all-caps warning not to proceed further: ‘DO NOT MSG UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES’. Well, yes, I’d renamed this contact for a reason.
He was a bonafide f*ckboy who I had almost zero will power around on account of the fact he was arguably one of the most attractive men I’d ever laid eyeballs on.
So, who WAS this mystery douchebag, I hear you asking? Well, his real name was James. But, like every other f*ckboy before him, I assigned him a new title in my head; Country Boy, because he was, by every sense of the term, a country boy.
He was a 29-year-old tradie from Armidale who’d relocated to Sydney to install commercial air-conditioning systems for a living and was house-sharing a trendy flat in Coogee with a mate. It had been two years since he’d been in a “real relationship” (his words, not mine) and he was ready to meet someone new. I learned all this over small talk on Bumble, before he finally bit the bullet and asked to see me in person.
We met under the pornish red lights of Uncle Mings bar in the city – an Asian-inspired cocktail haunt for hipsters and the after-work crowd.
‘I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, wearing chinos and a button-up blue shirt,’ came a text, as I made my way down the poorly-lit staircase in an impulse-purchase pair of Nine West heels.
At the base of the stairs, I could see straight across the room, to a lone figure sitting at the bar, nursing a Corona. As if sensing I’d just arrived, he swivelled around in his chair and made eye contact with me.
Now – not to be dramatic, but – if this moment were a Julia Roberts movie, it would have been underscored by a Ronan Keating soundtrack and a wind machine.