On being fucked and chucked
Let’s talk about being fucked and chucked. Sandwiched… and ditched. Fisted, and rejected. Rubbed and snubbed. Bored (into) and ignored. Destroyed and avoid…ed. Ok I’ll stop, although I was having so much fun with that I’m pretty sure I could have just turned this entire post into a list of horrendous innuendos. STUFFED AND REBUFFED! Come on, that one was good! Anyway, most of us have experienced this at some point in our lives and let’s admit it, we’ve also likely “kissed and dismissed” (the PG-13 version) a fair few people ourselves. If you’re one of those individuals who’ve spent most of their lives as one half of a smug, loved-up twosome then you probably can’t relate. But definitely read on, if only to feel a vague sense of pity and concern for the rest of us.
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that in the past, I was the QUEEN of this. I would meet someone I fancied and promptly fall into bed with them, spending hours pressed into their chest as we lay under sweaty duvet covers. We’d barely leave the bedroom, like literally not eating or going to work or university or showering or brushing our teeth. Sexy. But hey, a sex den is mainly quite clammy and full of bodily fluids, so why bother washing? Friends would text me asking if I was still alive but obviously my phone had run out of battery days ago. Lost in a haze of confused, loved-up hormones, I would consider running away to Las Vegas to elope with this dreamy boy I had picked up, although that would mean leaving the bed. Maybe we could just get the registrar to come to us?
At some point, one of us would finally have to leave. And as soon as I was apart from the new love of my life I’d realise that, actually, he wasn’t the love of my life at all. Whoops. Instead of warning him about this revelation, I would simply IGNORE, IGNORE, IGNORE. ABORT MISSION! ABORT ELOPEMENT! Text back friends: “Yes but if [insert boy’s name here] asks, I definitely died of the plague about 30 minutes ago. Or moved to Mexico. Or just, I dunno, developed early onset Alzheimer’s?” I’d then see that he had messaged me and throw my phone across the room and refuse to leave my house for a few more days, which would help to support the plague death story.
Obviously I am now aware that this is complete and utter dick behaviour. At the time I probably was too, but when you’re young you tend to be able to ignore these things quite easily. Plus I think I was 40% vodka at least half of the time, which tended to sway my judgment (and moral compass). And of course, there were also the countless times when I would think I had met “the one”, only to find myself wailing to my friends about how unfair life was when he never text back after our beautiful weekend of unadulterated passion and romance — aka drinking Red Stripe, smoking and eating his flatmate’s leftovers, and having pretty lacklustre sex as a result. I would then spend hours stalking said boy via social media, more often than not discovering that only a few weeks later he had managed to find a cute-looking girlfriend with whom he was apparently besotted. I’d bitterly hope that their sex life was as lukewarm as the beer we’d been drinking and, forgetting about all the times that I’d been just as harsh to various men in my life, I’d curse the male species for being a collective ballsack. (In other news, I just Googled “is ballsack one word or two?” Life.)
In the present day, I’m decidedly more mature. Says the lady who just Googled the word ballsack. Sorry, I can’t stop saying it. Ballsack! Urban dictionary tells me it’s one word so I’m sticking with that. I’ve been on dates, haven’t really felt it, been asked out on another date and simply told the person in question that I felt more friendship vibes. And this has generally been received very well. To be honest, even when it hasn’t, it’s still been appreciated that I’ve been upfront instead of stringing them along or leaving them hanging. Unfortunately, a lot of men haven’t had the decency to return the favour. Which brings me to the man that inspired this entire post — I bet if he reads this he’ll feel quite proud of himself.
I met someone while I was away over the Christmas holidays. He seemed intelligent and kind; he was also quite attractive AND actually knew what he was doing in life (as opposed to most men I meet who somehow are still mainly getting high on the weekends and currently living in their mother’s basement). We shared some cheeky holiday snogs before we both (rather conveniently) returned to the UK. A few weeks later I was in London and took a spontaneous, and may I add sober, midnight Uber to his house, which I felt was a very grand romantic gesture on my part. We spent the night together and the following morning he made me breakfast in bed. We then enjoyed a glorious day together strolling around on a huge countryside walk arm-in-arm like one of those smug couples I referred to earlier on. He also bought me coffee, and then lunch. The way to my heart is through food FYI. We even spent ages WATCHING THE RAIN FALL outside the window from the cosy comfort of his sofa, hugging and making out. Romantic teen movie alert! Although, to be fair, the chat was pretty boring but this was mainly because I was very sleep-deprived/perhaps a bit bewildered that I was actually being treated so nicely.
At the risk of looking/sounding like a fool (which I should be used to by now), yes I got a bit excited about this one. I returned to Brighton that night and blabbed onto one of my housemates about the amazing dreamy time I’d had. I envisaged more breakfasts in bed and hugs and PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION. The fuck was happening to me? I’ll blame my hormones. Always remember: I AM THE ICE QUEEN.
However, my bubble was soon burst. The messages became less and less frequent, until, on letting him know that I’d be in London a few weekends later, I was outright ignored. For. Fuck’s. Sake. I am smart enough to know by now that when a romantic interest ignores you it only ever means one of two things: they’re either a) not into it, or b) they’re into someone else. DUH. You can try to fool yourself that this person is simply too busy to text back or that they’ve experienced a tragic life event but will be in touch soon — that all those pictures they’re posting on Instagram of carefree nights out are obviously just them trying to cope with the current stress/anguish they’re experiencing. Sure. Or you can accept that they literally do not give a shit or got distracted by someone closer/hotter/more convenient than you.
Now, I truly hate being ignored. It makes me want to go the person’s house, knock on their door, and scream “I WILL NOT BE IGNORED” in their face. If they refused to open the door, I’d still just scream it through the letterbox for a few hours. Maybe I’d bring a megaphone with me. Or a trumpet. Or a brass band. This probably isn’t helping me to convince any men of my “I’m sane and lovely, please be my boyfriend” vibe, although I have yet to ACTUALLY do this, so don’t worry too much. It’s a hypothetical situation (for now). However, this time I did decide to call the young fellow out on his behaviour — and by young fellow, I mean 34-year-old man who should know better. I sent the following message:
“Yo, so you know we are part of a weird British culture where doing a sly ignore is how we reject people? Well it’s so much better to just tell someone you’re not into it. We obvs didn’t really have a connection and it’s cool man. Don’t be so BRITISH about it, we had fun and can still be mates/mature adults. And you totally wouldn’t have had as much fun in Bali without me, so you owe me really. Oh also, what is your last name please? I know the surnames of all the boys I’ve banged and I’d like to keep it that way. Lots of sexy love, Liz.”
I’ve no idea why I decided to insult my own heritage so much, although it’s justifiable. If booze/online dating didn’t exist, I’m pretty sure the English population would soon die out. I added an eggplant emoji in after the banging part, before cackling in amusement to myself and pressing “send”. I then went for a little 5k run feeling quite satisfied and generally pleased with myself. I assumed he wouldn’t respond and I didn’t even care. Clearly I just like having the last word in these kinds of situations. But, to my surprise, I didn’t just get a text back, no, I got a PHONE CALL. Respect, dude! It was quite nice too. He apologised and said he meant to call (sure you did, mate). We joked about the whole thing and I told him it was ok and I’d give him a pass this time. And yes, someone had “come out of the woodwork” (his phrasing, not mine), hence the ignore. Also, just in case you were wondering, I found out his surname. So I can add that to the list. (This list is also hypothetical, not a weird record I keep like some kind of psychopath.)
Unfortunately it wasn’t just left on this light-hearted note. No, instead I then received a message telling me that we should have got up to more “mischief” in Bali. For. Fuck’s. Sake. Pt. II. COME ON YOU PERVY IDIOT! I should have said nothing but instead I told him he couldn’t have his cake and eat it too. He replied, “I like cake”. Very witty. Also, no shit mate — most of us do, but if we ate it for breakfast, lunch and dinner we’d all be obese and have developed diabetes long ago. Don’t be so greedy. We then proceeded to have some terrible cake “banter”, for want of a better word, which was mainly me trying to tell him that if he has a favourite cake (aka this new girl) then he should savour it, and that this vegan cake was no longer on offer. FYI it’s not on offer to him, but it totally is to any other eligible bachelors who want to bone me and then make me a delicious breakfast in bed.
Ultimately, I just wish we’d all be a bit more honest with each other. And with ourselves. If you don’t like someone romantically, tell them. If it’s because you can’t stand the sound of their voice/being with them makes you want to stab yourself in the face/you think that they look like a gremlin in the mornings (I personally embrace my slightly terrifying A.M. aesthetic), you don’t have to be totally honest. Don’t be unnecessarily hurtful. But do let them know you’re not interested, because being ignored is fucking irritating. It lets the other person make all sorts of excuses for you. If they really like you, they’ll hold onto the hope that you’ll get back in touch. Which is unfair because it means you can get away with murder, maybe doing a few more fuck and chucks because you’re bored until they finally realise that you’re a complete bastard. Plus it’s cowardly to ignore someone. I respect honesty. It might initially hurt someone, but in my opinion it’s far more considerate than the silent treatment. It’s like ripping a plaster off a wound (or a hot wax strip off your leg) — you’ve just gotta do it. The pain dissipates far more quickly than if you cautiously try to pick it off over time. It’s also not advisable to leave wax on your legs for too long. This will most likely result in a nasty rash/scissors-related accident.
Like most people, I one day hope to find a person who (honestly) adores me. Or is too scared of our private life being aired on the internet to upset me. For now, I simply ask not to be led on/kept in reserve/left in the dark. As in, hidden in the cupboard from your girlfriend. Or your mother. Oh and PS, this particular gentleman definitely DOES owe me — specifically, three orgasms. I’ll accept payment in the form of a complimentary sex toy being sent to my flat; after all it is my birthday tomorrow. Thanks pal!
