I’m trying to work out why I’m chronically single.
I’m about to turn 29 and the longest relationship I’ve had is with a three-month-old jar of Nutella. I can safely say that that was an achievement in itself – three months too long. Let me paint a quick picture. I’m successful in a professional sense. I have many friends in a worldly sense. I am by no means ugly.
So what is it?
I’m constantly racking my mind as to what it could possibly be. I haven’t necessarily ever been dramatically hurt by men. In fact, I love them. Maybe there were signs way back when I was first ‘active’, and by ‘active’ I mean having my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. Hell, I grew up in a conservative Lebanese family. I’d be shot if I ever brought home a guy in high school. Instead, I ‘chose’ to focus on my studies. Now my parents are begging me for grandchildren – the irony! Ethnic parents, am I right?!
The Mamamia Out Loud team deep dive on one night stand etiquette. Post continues after.
The first guy I ever dated ‘Bad George’, dumped me for being too prudish. He figured out I was a virgin. I was too embarrassed to admit that I was. I was eighteen. In my mind, I was too old to be one. He wondered why I would never play with his dick whilst he viciously made out with my whole face in the passenger seat of his BMW. He would always say “touch it”. Did I mention he had a girlfriend? Hence the ‘bad’ in his name.
It may well be this incident that started the fear of relationships.
After the quick realisation that ‘Bad George’ was the kind you don’t take home to mother, I became a player – virginity still intact. I would hook up with every guy in the Western suburbs. By hook up, I mean kiss. Add in a few digit slip ins along the way. I pretended to be sexually liberated and oozed confidence when I really wasn’t. It worked. When it came down to the crunch of the prospect of a real relationship, I was embarrassed by my lack of sexual experience, I’d make an excuse and leave. His hands were too scrawny, what was with his nostrils? He’s not cool enough. When in reality, I was too scared to “touch it”.
I was and still am the life of a party. Overly confident for someone that is riddled with anxiety on the inside. I’m not your stereotypical, ‘shy’ chronically single. I was never a stunner growing up, so I made myself have a ripper personality to make up for it. I am notoriously loud and brash. So when I started to develop into my body and peak physically, on the surface I had the package (or so it appeared).
When I finally lost my virginity at the ripe old age of twenty-two, it was the happiest day of my life. I still have saved the Facebook group message I sent my twenty closest friends – Subject: I lost my flower.
He was a gorgeous boy who was not convinced I was a virgin. A common thought amongst many men prior. Unable to bleed on the sheets didn’t help the cause but I told him to give it a spin and go slow. That he did. We high-fived once the job was done. It was like signing a contract. You have my flower and in return, I have pure sexual liberty. He too ended up rejecting me. We were on exchange overseas and this meant that when we got back to our realities, we would live in different states. He convinced me that long distance would never work for us. I was heartbroken, in my eyes, I loved him and would make the sacrifice. The feeling was not mutual. I was slowly phased out. Being ghosted was painful for me. I should have realised the signs sooner, I mean, who high-fives after sex with a virgin instead of snuggle? No one according to Mills and Boon.