I left Gym Guy’s house with my butthole virginity intact.
As it turned out, he was quite happy to respect my wish not to do anal on the second date (*GENTLEMAN ALERT*). Unfortunately, he was less accommodating when it came to maintaining a shred of communication beyond that point.
After he helped me load my overnight bag into the Uber to head home, he gave me a forced hug (think of the kind of platonic slap on the back footy mates exchange, then imagine something even colder) and yelled, “Let me know you get home safely,” as my car sped off out of his street.
“Home safe :)” I texted an hour later.
No reply. Perhaps his phone had gone flat?
I rechecked the next morning. Still no reply.
By this point, I’d become mildly obsessed with binge-watching the YouTube videos of dating guru/English hottie Matthew Hussey, and decided to use the knowledge I’d acquired to give GG a piece of my mind.
Okay, well, Matthew’s mind. Close enough.
I sipped on a small glass of red wine to settle my nerves (read: skulled half a bottle of year-old Midori to Celine Dion’s All by Myself), then copied Matthew’s ‘He’s not ready for a relationship? Say THIS to him’ video literally word for word into a text message and hit ‘send’.
OH, THE RELEASE!
I felt empowered! Enlivened! Renewed! I was WOMAN. Hear my roar!
An hour passed. Still no reply.
Pfft. It was cool. Like, I mean, I totally showed GG I wasn’t going to be his doormat anymore. What did I care if he didn’t respond? As Matthew always says, “Don’t invest in someone who doesn’t invest in you” (he may also have said something about not drunk-texting at midnight, but I skipped over that part).
Another hour. Still nothing.
Had I ruined everything?! Should I have been more cool, more collected, more – “So you wanted to plough my arse on the second date even though you only text me once every three weeks? That’s cool. I mean, who needs actual communication and emotional intimacy anyway??”??!
I was starting to sense the cool girl act wasn’t really my thing. And not just because I was now knee-deep in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, covered in Cheetos crumbs, with mascara strewn across my face and a half-written drunk text to my ex.
More so, the sheer thought of spending another night without a man’s body beside me in bed was starting to feel like it might bring me undone and send 32 years of repressed childhood crap and divorce stuff up and out of me like a scene straight from The Exorcist.
Actually, I could feel it already…rising in my throat like chunky bile… Oh wait. It was bile. Yep, it was throw-up time.
I’ll spare you the unnecessary gore of describing what followed, except to say, if you ever forget to turn your bedroom light on in the middle of the night when you get up to spew, Midori is a surprisingly effective illuminant – even when it’s been in your colon.
I woke up several hours later to my phone pinging. It was a message from Mum, asking if I was taking care of myself. (“Yeah right, thanks Mother! I’m only a 32-year-old GROWN woman..” I wanted to text, as I rolled out of a puddle of my own spew on the bathroom floor. But the irony seemed too palpable.)
After I closed the message, I flicked open my Snapchat to see if any of the previous 12 hours’ horror had been drunk-recorded.
THANK GOD. There was just a video of me from earlier that day I’d gotten a friend to take at work because I was having a good hair day – and, let’s face it, if it’s not on social media, it never happened.
I clicked the little icon at the corner of the screen to see who’d viewed it; a few of my girlfriends, the creepy guy from work, and – wait, WHAT? Could it really be..?
Suddenly my phone pinged again. It was a new Snapchat message.
HOLY OPRAH. MOTHER OF BABY JESUS.
Bet you wanna know who it was, right?
Because, let me tell you, THIS is where the story gets good.
But I’ve got a weekly gig writing this, so you’ll have to wait until the next column to find out.