"At 25, I got sent a feral d*ck pic. Six years later, I'm marrying the man who sent it."

I was 25 when I became single for the first time in my adult life.

I’d been living in Philadelphia (random, I know) with my boyfriend at the time who I met through work. I’d come home for my best friend’s wedding and we both decided it would be best if I just… well, stayed in Sydney. Before him, I’d been with my uni boyfriend for 6 years and we met on the first day of O-week so I really had never been single!

Tinder had begun gaining popularity and my newly married best friend helped me set up a profile. Mainly so the pair of us could waste entire days pissing ourselves laughing while we trolled tools and flicked through the local talent. 

I swiped right on one guy and I wish I could say that his profile appealed to me because he had a picture of a dog or his bio listed the same fave film as mine. In reality, his pics were mainly shirtless and he had a rig on him. We sparked up a conversation and it was easy banter, so when after a week or so of chatting, he asked me for a drink on a Saturday night, I agreed knowing I would cancel like I had with other dates I’d agreed to. It just seemed too scary, going and meeting a STRANGER in a BAR and attempting conversation!? No thanks. 

Sidenote: Kelly McCarren, Flex Mami (Lil) & Lama Zakharia talk therapy, stalking your ex on Instagram, and vaginas, on the very first episode of Overshare. Post continues after podcast. 

I was already having a bit of a laugh about rig boy if I’m being honest. He wasn’t coming across as overly intelligent in his messages and had an odd habit of putting ‘haha’ at the end of EVERY. SINGLE. SENTENCE. 

I’m not joking, let me give you some examples;

‘How was your day haha’

‘Excited for Saturday haha’

‘I have dinner with friends haha’

‘I’m cooking sweet potato haha’

Watch: Dating, translated. Post continues after video.


And then, one quiet evening at home in my new sharehouse I was puzzling in my room. If my male housemates asked, I was doing something way less dorky like… actually I can’t even pretend to know what cool people do in their free time at home. To this day I’m either puzzling or working. Anyway, I digress. I was minding my own business and heard the unmistakable ding of a Tinder notification. Seeing it was from rig boy I started smiling until the smile turned into a look of horror as I opened what he’d sent me. 

A picture. OF. HIS. D*CK!



And I’m no prude, I’d sexted before (make sure your face or anything else recognisable is never included ladies and gents), but with my boyfriend, after we’d already banged. NOT TO A COMPLETE STRANGER I’D EXCHANGED LESS THAN 50 MESSAGES WITH. 

So I did what every normal person would do. I marched into work the next day, proffering my phone in everyone’s face so they could witness the flaccid penis in all of its… well, sadness really. There’s nothing sexy or proud about a flaccid willy on a strapping, 6’3 gent. 

We wasted a good 10 minutes squealing over the penis and zooming in on the details (you know, veiny-ness, turtle-ness, pube-age etc) and I sent it to every friend I had saved in my phone too. My phone was lighting up more than it did after a solid swiping sesh with many ROFLMAO responses. 

I was shopping with my girlfriend on the Saturday and had every intention of cancelling on rig boy (who I now referred to as Mister Flaccid), but then I opened a text from my ex. It explained that although only a short time had passed since our official breakup, he was serious about someone else and wanted me to hear it from him. Which hurt like a bitch but was definitely the nice thing to do in retrospect. So my girlfriend firmly told me that I wasn’t allowed to cancel my date and that I absolutely had to go. ‘Get out there and back on the horse’ and all that jazz. 


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So being a dating novice and with the knowledge that my first date EVER was with someone who; a) used ‘haha’ extremely unnecessarily; and b) sent unsuspecting ladies on Tinder his sad, unsolicited dick pic – I did what any normal person would do to ease my nerves. Polished off a bottle of wine while doing my makeup, resulting in me tottering up the hill to the pub in a far more inebriated state than I planned for or anticipated. 

I got there first, bought us both a drink and settled in, looking up when a bloody adonis walked into the room. My jaw dropped so far open that my tongue got stuck to the sticky bar floor and I had to roll it back up while furiously wondering how I missed how damn hot Mister Flaccid was, while warily peering at his pants, hoping he was more of a grower, given what had been on offer in his supplied imagery. 

On Saturday, I am marrying this man who sent me my first d*ck pic, and just so you know… he’s a grower.

For more from Kelly McCarren, you can follow her on Instagram

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