The Leg Humper

Internet dating and I are back on. I haven’t actually been on any dates yet, so here is a story about something that happened a few years ago when I was traveling.

After a dinner that consisted mostly of beer, followed by special brownies for dessert, I wasn’t in the most clear-headed of states by the time I rolled into my hostel some time around midnight. I found my way to bed and was just drifting off when Jim, who was staying in a bed near mine, came home and climbed into bed with me. He was in about the same state I was and decided it was a good idea to lie next to me and tell me all about the lovely girl he had just had sex with that night.

“Hug me please,” he said.
“No, go to your own bed” I replied.

He insisted on staying for hugs. Wasted hugs are always nice, so I decided to let him stay.
I said “fine then, sleep here, but we are not having sex”
All clothes stayed on and nothing happened and I started to drift off back to sleep.
Then boy started dry humping my leg.
“Is this ok?” he asked.
“No Jim, bloody hell just go to sleep or go to your own bed or something.”
“Ok ok just hug me” he said.

So we two mash-heads hugged and started falling asleep. We started falling asleep until he started trying to dry hump my leg again.
“Is this alright?”
“No seriously I want to sleep, I don’t want to have sex with you, stop it and go to sleep.”
All clothes are still on.
He tried at least two more times that night to dry hump my leg then insist on hugging me when I told me to stop it.
Not sure what the plan was; dry hump my leg until he came in his pants, or hope that his erotic dry humping would turn me on and I’d bang him.
Finally the dry humping attempts stopped and we both fell asleep properly.

In the morning I woke up feeling a little less messy in the head. When Jim woke up he again decided to tell me the story of the wonderful girl he had sex with the night before. I think he was still pretty drunk. By now I was sober enough to realise the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Ok Jim go to your bed now.”

“Can’t we just hug”

“Bed. Now. Go.”

“Ok Evie. Ok.

Cheap Date

I recently returned to online dating. Online dating and I have a sort of on and off again relationship. We are currently off, but for the last few months we were on. We called it off this time because the two dates I did go on were spectacularly unsuccessful.

One of my unsuccessful dates was with a man we’ll call James. James asked me out and arranged for us to meet at The Beach Hotel, a pub not too far from where I live. Call me crazy, but as we were meeting at a pub in the evening I thought we might have a few drinks, a snack perhaps?

I had arrived a little early and was already half way through my first drink when James rocked up. He wasn’t exactly dressed to impress, in old jeans and a worn sloppy-joe, but that was ok. He sat down and we both stumbled through some nice-to- meet -you awkward chit chat, which led to meaningless small talk. I started to notice he was making no effort to get up and grab a drink, so I said,
“So, are you going to get a drink?”
“No, no, I’m driving I don’t think I will.” He replied.
I smiled politely and thought “hmmmm so we are going to sit here in a pub while you watch me drink.”
I resolved not to get too rolling drunk and sipped my drink, but it inevitably ended and I got up to go to the bar again “can I get you a drink?” I asked, “Soft-drink? Water? Lemon lime and bitters.”
“No, I’m fine.” He replied. So he really was just going to sit at the table watching me drink. I wondered why he chose a pub, if he wasn’t going to have a thing to drink. Fair enough he had to drive, but not even a soft drink? Did he just enjoy the smell of beer perhaps?

I wish I was one of those people that could just stand up and say, “hey, it was nice meeting you, but you are making me feel weird sitting there watching me drink and not having anything yourself, so I’m off. Look after yourself now,” but I hate anything that remotely resembles a scene/confrontation/awkward conversation so I continued to sit there, sipping my wine and making polite small talk.
My third and final trip to the bar, I tried one more time “are you sure I can’t even get you a water?” I said.
“No, then I’ll just have to go to the toilet.” he said.
Well yes that is how the human body works, I hope you don’t have that attitude toward fluids for too long, or you will die.
I wound it up after my third drink. Seeing as he was driving anyway, I had him drop me home, saving a cab fare at least. He never contacted me for second date, which was a shame. Maybe we could have gone to a restaurant and he could have sat there watching me eat, or to the movies, but rather than watch the movie he could have watched me watch the movie. What about we go for a drive, only instead of going in the car with me, he could have stood outside and watched me drive past. So many missed opportunities.

 

Do Bed-Bugs Count as an STI?

A taxi driver named Tim and a shitty date flashback.

 As per my previous post, where I woke up with no memory of getting home, I have come across a clue. In my bag I found a note with the words “Tim (taxi) 4pm- 4am Wednesday – Sunday” followed by a phone number. I’m tempted to ring Taxi Tim but I’m slightly concerned I may have got a cab home and not paid, which ethically is probably all the more reason to give Tim a call.

Ethical dilemmas aside, here is a story about one of the shittiest dates I have ever been on.

I met Patrick when in a bar in Sydney when I was about 23. He asked for my number, and a few days later, rang and asked me out. I am still not sure exactly why Patrick asked me out, when he apparently had no interest in going out with me what so ever.

Patrick and I arranged to meet on the Town Hall steps and after a quick awkward hug he told me he couldn’t stay long as he had to go and meet up with his friend. I have my suspicions that there was no ‘friend’ and he just wanted to cut the date short before it even began. Perhaps he thought I was less attractive than he remembered, the cold harsh light of day not doing me the favors that a darkened bar and beer goggles had.

We didn’t have any specific plans for the date, but as we’d arranged to meet in the early evening I ‘d just assumed we’d be going to dinner. I was starving, but as it turned out, Patrick had apparently already eaten. I’m not someone that can miss a meal, so I ended up grabbing some McDonalds, while Patrick sat at the table, watching me eat. I suggested we go for a drink, but Patrick didn’t want to do that. A coffee then? No, Patrick had been drinking coffee all day and didn’t want any more, so in the end we took a walk to Darling Harbour.

The conversation flowed well enough, but I could feel his dis-interest. When we sat down, he put his man-bag between us, in case the past hour hadn’t been clue enough he wasn’t keen. We sat chatting until Patrick felt he had done his dating duty and told me it was time for him to go and meet his friend at Central Station. I said I’d walk with him, seeing as I had to get my train anyway.
“You know,” he said, “it’s probably closer for you to go to Town Hall station.”
“Ahhhh there’s not much difference from here,” I said, “we are pretty much in between Town Hall and Central.”
“Central is pretty far you know.”
“It’s only two blocks.”
“Yeah,” he said, “two long blocks.”

So with that, feeling slightly mortified that he didn’t even want to walk to the train station with me, I gave him another quick, awkward, good-bye hug and turned and headed to Town Hall.

A man we’ll call Ged.

I have no idea how I got home last night. I woke up at 630am, fully clothed, with grazed elbows and a cigarette burn in my dress. Vaguely remember pashing a 22 year old. I have decided to stop behaving so appallingly and seriously cut down on drinking.

Anyway

A couple of years ago now, I started seeing a man we’ll call Ged. I actually really liked Ged. Ged was fun and smart and great in the sack. Unfortunately, while I thought I was seeing someone who any moment now was about to ask me to be his girlfriend, he was sleeping with his boss.

We’d been dating for 6 weeks when he headed down to my place to come to a party with me and meet my friends. I was excited for everyone to meet the wonderful guy I was seeing. I picked him up from the train station and it quickly become apparent that he was rolling drunk, evidently having been drinking alone on public transport for the last hour.
Back at my place I started to get ready while he sat on the edge of my bed, fiddling with his hair.
“Stop looking at me!” he said when I glanced over at him, ” you hate my hair, don’t you.” His hair looked exactly the same as it always did, hipster and try-hardish, but that hadn’t bothered me for the last 6 weeks.
“Your hair is fine” I told him.
“Evie, I know you hate my shirt”
“What? Ged there is nothing wrong with your shirt, come on let’s get going. “
“No, just admit it, come on you hate my shirt I shouldn’t have worn it.”
There is nothing more fucking annoying to me than someone else telling me what I think, but there is no reasoning with a drunk so i didn’t bother trying to argue. He was still drinking beer at this point, while continuing to toss around accusations of my shirt/hair hatred.
Then his phone rang. I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end, but I could hear it was a females voice. He started agreeing that yes, he’d see her tomorrow, which was news to me cause last I checked we were going to this party then spending the following day together.
As soon as he got off the phone he asked me to take him back to the station, he couldn’t possibly go to the party with me while I was hating on his hair and shirt.
“I just shouldn’t have worn this shirt Evie, lets blame the shirt.”
Fuck. The. Shirt.
I should have told him to fuck off and get a cab to the station, but I drove him back. He then proceeded to spend the entire trip trying to get me to admit I hated his shirt. In the end he conceded, “lets just agree to disagree”, at which point I lost my shit a bit, ” how the fuck can we agree to disagree on what I think!?” I yelled, “Only I know what I think and I don’t have a problem with your fucking shirt”. After he got out of the car I had a little cry in the car park before heading to the party. Clearly, Ged was a bit of a dick, and I should have just stopped seeing him after that, but I really liked him and hoped he was just drunk and it would be all ok once he sobered up.

A few days later I needed to go over his place to pick up some clothes I’d left there. He let me in and we made small talk before he said, “I felt like a bit of a cunt the other night hey”.

“Hooray” I thought “he is going to apologise”. There was a good explanation for the girl on the phone and everything was going to be sweet.

“Yeah Bunny got out and I didn’t realise, so she was out in the cold for ages, poor Bunny, I felt so bad.”

Bunny, of course, being his pet bunny, the little bundle of fur whom he would lavish his affection on, leaving me with a feeling of envy. I believe there is something to be learned from all relationships. For example, any relationship where you find yourself feeling jealous of a bunny rabbit, is a relationship that probably doesn’t have a long, happy future ahead, and perhaps, you should cut your losses and get the hell out.

Happy Valentine’s Day. I stole a sheet.

I stole a sheet from work this morning, which is the closet I have ever come to getting anything on Valentine’s Day. Though to clarify I didn’t steal it as a Valentine’s present to myself. That would be weird.
Seeing as my only plans for today are cleaning the house and then catching the train to Sydney, it’s likely I won’t have a riveting post for my single gal about town blog, so I am going to tell the story of last Valentine’s Day instead.

On Feb 14 2012 no one was more surprised than me to receive a text message with the words, “will you be my Valentine tonight?” It was from Marley, a 20 year old I had met a couple of weeks earlier in the street outside a bar at that peak of trashbaggery where the club has shut and everyone is waiting for a cab. I reminded him I was 29, and he reassured me he was ‘nearly 21′, and so I agreed to be his Valentine.
A few hours later Marley pulled up in his ‘p’ plater car. It was actually quite a nice car and I told him so.
“It’s my Mum’s.” he said.
So off we went in his Mum’s car to the local shopping centre for hamburgers and a movie. Marley, while being rather nice looking, looked his age, or possibly even younger, and I sort of wondered if people were looking at us thinking wasn’t he a nice young man taking his Mum out for dinner. He was good company and the conversation flowed and as we headed into the theatre he slipped his arm around me.
After the movie we headed home and I thought that was that until he suddenly asked,
“So, do you want to go down to the beach?”
I hadn’t ‘gone down the beach’ at night with a boy for a long time, you know, since I’d been an adult and had had parent -free houses to go back to. I had a flashback to when I was 17 and was first fingered by a guy, in the sand dunes at a beach on the south coast and decided we weren’t going to turn a beach walk into a beach shag.
We parked at Bar Beach and went for a moonlit stroll. Further down the beach, he took my hand and pulled me down onto the sand with him. We were just about to kiss when the sky opened. A few drops turned in seconds to torrential downpour. We started to run back along the beach toward the car laughing and screaming, when he grabbed me and kissed me and then said ” Now I can say I’ve kissed a beautiful girl in the rain on Valentine’s Day”, which was cheesy but made me feel a bit awesome. It would have been like a scene from a movie, only in the movies the girl’s hair doesn’t revert back to its natural fuzzball state on contact with water like mine does.
We ended up back at my place where we kissed and talked but kept our wet clothes on. He told me he couldn’t believe a girl like me was single. Then left and never called again.

This isn’t like Sex and the City at all!

And so it was, that I celebrated my 30th birthday totally and utterly single, surrounded by friends, but without so much as a casual date on the horizon. Far from some New York living, cocktail swilling, stylishly dressed 30 some-thing single personified by the ladies from Sex and the City, I entered my 30s on a bus in Thailand drinking cheap vodka with other travellers before drunklenly pashing on with a 25 year old French backpacker who’s name, if I ever knew it, has long since left me.

My name is Evie, and I’m single. I’m the girl men love to drink with and party with and sleep with in between real girlfriends. I stumble from one to another, often slightly intoxicated, like a 30 year old teenager. The stories that arise from my often train-wreck like dalliances provide plenty of entertainment for my friends, who are always telling me I should write this stuff down. So I have. While names and sometimes places have been changed to protect the innocent, the stories are all true. I don’t think you could make some of this stuff up anyway.