If anyone tells you it’s not a good idea to f*ck someone you work with, you should probably listen to them.
Obviously, I didn’t. Because, like, I’m a big girl and I can handle myself and blah, blah, blah, *inevitably eats own words*…
To be fair, work had sent my new male colleague and I (did I mention he had an accent reminiscent of Hugh Grant??) to HAWAII. And then boozed us up with an OPEN BAR. I mean, my will power is only so resolute, you guys.
Long story short, I discovered the condom we had sex with inside me during a trip to the restroom on the flight home. Yeah, like I said, I’m no Malala.
I was also feeling nauseous when the plane landed. Not travel-sick nauseous. More like shit-I-left-a-condom-in-me-for-24-hours-I-hope-I’m-not-pregnant nauseous. I especially didn’t want to be pregnant to a 25-year-old junior at my work who’d just given me some of the most memorably bad sex of my life.
Fast-forward 24 hours to me nervously peeing on a stick at home, praying to Oprah to have mercy on me.
My five-year subscription to O Magazine must have paid off, because the stick lit up negative. Good news everyone: I wouldn’t be giving birth to an inferior version of Hugh Grant. CRISIS AVERTED.
Well, sort of.
You see, I have this little habit of taking something good, and sort of, like, shitting all over it again. TBH, if there was an award for putting up with an unrelenting stream of pointless drama, my best friend would have it.
“Dorkface is going to be at the pool party,” I informed her, a fortnight after things had settled from the Hawaii trip. (It was a theme of ours, not to refer to any of the f*ckboys we’d bumped uglies with by their actual names, so as not to confuse them with emotionally intelligent humans.)
“We should totally go, he SO has a crush on you since Hawaii!” She shrieked, as it became apparent this conversation could literally have taken place among a group of 12-year-old girls.
“I’m in. But we’ll have to be discreet. A few people from work will be there, and we’re trying to keep the fact we’re still screwing on the down-low,” I replied.
Oh yeah, I kinda skipped over that part, didn’t I? The part where Dorkface and I didn’t actually stop sleeping together after we’d returned from the Hawaii trip, despite the fact HR didn’t exactly look favourably upon work colleagues putting their penises in other colleagues’ vaginas.
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Anyway, I’d been pretty smooth at covering it up. There were rumours floating around the office we’d hooked up on the trip, but at this point, no one suspected we were regularly having sex after work.
And after several more attempts and a whole lot of feedback, the sex had become pretty decent. Annoyingly though, the frequency of it had not. I needed sex daily, while Dorkface could go for days at a time without it. I mean, there’s of course the faint possibility he was screwing someone else in the days between our sexual rendezvous, but given his complete and utter lack of game, it was unlikely.
Things eventually came to a head after a weekend he’d ceased contacting me. Weekends, in my book, were prime time for catching up on riding all the D I’d missed during the work week. In his book, they were for hanging with his geeky mates and binge-playing FIFA.
My sexual frustration erupted in a giant, needy text message exchange, in which I insisted he ANSWER MY MESSAGES, BITCH, and he politely responded, in not so many words, “You’re scaring me”.
The following week at work was predictably awkward.
“Want me to come ‘round after work and give you a blow job?” I texted.
“Sorry, I’m playing soccer/some other lousy excuse” came his reply.
I’d clearly pissed him off. And in the meantime, my sexual frustration was reaching boiling point. I’d already tried contacting two other f*ckboys on my rotation to no avail. One had “a big work project to finish” and the other was “busy, sorry”. Whoever said men always want sex is a giant liar. I literally could not find a guy in Sydney, it seemed, to do me.
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So naturally, I dealt with it like a total pro and necked half a bottle of tequila at that weekend’s pool party.
I have no recollection of the second half of the evening, but various colleagues recounted me cornering Dorkface in an empty bedroom at the party, telling the host (our friendly office receptionist) to “Fuck off!” when she sprung us, and then Dorkface fleeing the scene like a teenager caught masturbating, before I threw myself onto the floor and drunk-sobbed for roughly an hour-and-a-half.
So, Monday was set to be good, eh?
Ha. OBVS NOT.
Since my marriage breakdown, I hadn’t gone more than 24 hours without sex. Now, it had been A WEEK. And with no D to distract me from my wildly unresolved feelings, something unhinged in me that day at my desk.
I cried. Loudly. In the middle of a crowded office. Not a cute, “Aw, you poor sweetheart” cry. An ugly, snot-covered, smeared mascara, “Shit, girl, get your life together!” cry.
Mid-sob, my phone lit up with a text.
“Are you OK?” it read.
It was from Dorkface. He’d obviously heard me from his neighbouring cubicle. Great. Just great. If he didn’t already think I was the real-life Glen Close in Fatal Attraction, he surely did now.
“Yeah. Just family stuff,” I lied back.
The truth was, it was Me Stuff. Me Stuff that hadn’t been dealt with for over a decade. Me Stuff from being abandoned by my father, marrying the first man who showed me kindness, then using f*ckboys as shoddy Band-Aids for my gaping emotional wounds when it all went to pieces.
I didn’t stop crying that day. Or that night. Suddenly, things were turning dark. I couldn’t find a reason to get out of bed the next morning, and so called in sick.
Still lying there motionless some hours later, I defiantly picked up my phone to delete evidence of every f*ckboy who’d ever graced it. And that’s when I saw it – a notification from a dating app I’d forgotten I’d downloaded weeks earlier.
I had a match.
Kyle, 27, from North Sydney, with a naff profile pic of himself posing proudly in front of the Eiffel Tower, had ‘liked’ me.
“Hi. I like your smile,” read a message from him.
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I knew this was a trap. Kyle was of course just another slick f*ckboy, out to waste my time and energy again. And yet, some sex would really take the edge off.
“What do you say we meet?” I wrote back.
“Sure. When?” came the response.
“How about right away? Like, at a bar in town, in an hour?” I replied.
“Oh wow. You get right to the point! I’m actually having dinner with a mate right now,” he responded.
I stared back at the message, not sure of what else to say. Maybe it was for the best. I couldn’t keep using men and sex to patch over my issues. I walked back to my room and flopped on the bed, feeling utterly numb.
Then my phone pinged again.
It was Kyle.
“What the heck. Let me cut this dinner short. I’ll see you at The Treehouse in North Sydney at 8pm for a drink ;-)”
Want to catch up on the hilarious ‘Nadia Uncensored’ series from the start before the grand finale? Start here:
Nadia Uncensored 2: ‘What happened when I flew 900 kilometres for a man I’d never met.’
Nadia Uncensored 4: ‘I woke up in a pool of my own vomit to a VERY unexpected text message.’
Nadia Uncensored 5: ‘My date mauled my face like a Labrador, then became…creepy.’
Nadia Uncensored 6: ‘My Bumble date said three words to me that made my ovaries explode.’
Nadia Uncensored 7: ‘Immediately after we had sex, he gave a six word excuse to leave.’
Nadia Uncensored 8: ‘Something felt weird inside me…I ran to the restroom, and found it.’