A NOTE TO THE READER: This was written in 2019, and based on events which transpired in 2018. I didn’t publish it at the time because it felt like too much of an overshare, and I didn’t want every dick and her dog wanking over it.
Looking at it through the modern lens of 2024, I still concur it is indeed an overshare.
The only difference is now I’m quite happy for everyone to wank over it. Go forth you horny fuckers!
FOR people on the modern dating scene there are three certainties in life they’re gonna need to come to terms with pretty early on in their pursuit of love.
- A fuck boy loves to fuck.
- A fuck boy is gonna fuck.
- A fuck boy is gonna fuck you.
Life is a choose your own adventure, and so what you choose to do with this information is entirely up to you.
Fuckboys generally get a bad wrap, but I’d argue they’re a necessary evil. Much like maggots are an unnerving, yet integral part of nature’s ecosystem, these flat capped fuckers also have their role to play in the delicate dating eco-system.
Even the parasites have their place.
There’s plenty of fish in the sea, but back in the summer of 2018 I found myself freshly heartbroken for the millionth time, unsure if I’d ever love again, and stuck swimming in the sewers with all the other emotionally unavailable Sea Rats.
Some people just refer to it as Tinder.
One Sunday afternoon after a long day swimming in my pool, I was swiping in the sewer, when Fuckboy and I matched.
Love knows no bounds, but dating these days is usually limited to a 3km radius, give or take a few kilometres depending on how many wines one’s had, and this guy lived mere streets away – TICK!
Honestly, at this point in my dating journey, the bar was in hell. However, we got chatting, and he was polite, wrote decently, and asked questions.
Talk about a Greeeenishred flag… I’LL TAKE IT!
After a couple of days of texting, I got a sense he was chill, and I was also in an uncharacteristically chill phase too. Chill AF all around, yanno? We decided to meet up at the crusty pub 40 metres from my house where I used to take all the low-stakes dates – The Empress.
I wasn’t exactly searching for anything casual; I was simply bored, going through the motions of swiping and chatting that defined that stage of my life. Yet, like any single twenty-something-year-old, there’s always that tiny nugget of hope nestled deep down. Maybe, just maybe, this is the one that’s going to rescue me from the sewer, ride me all the way to monogamy town, impregnate me with his offspring, and then proceed to blissfully neglect my emotional, social, spiritual, professional, and individual needs for the next decade or so, and in turn, wonder why I won’t fuck him? Inevitably, this will result in him making every relational issue or fight about the lack of ‘physical intimacy’ in the relationship and insist that I am actually BEING ABUSIVE BY DEPRIVING HIM OF HIS RIGHT TO PHYSICAL INTIMACY, only to then wonder why I inevitably divorce him.
Aaaaaaaahhhh a girl can only DREAM!
Disappointingly, as soon as I walked in, I could tell this wasn’t about to be a modern day love story.
But a girl’s still gotta eat. Not a euphemism, I was hungry as fuck, so I ordered an entire pizza for myself, even though he wasn’t eating anything.
So here I was stuffing my face with pizza, downing wine, yabbering on, and enjoying our ‘mateship’.
We got along reasonably well, but had very little in common. He was a former tradie, turned project manager hailing from the Gold Coast, who loved to snort thousands of dollars worth of cocaine with his horny doctor mates every weekend.
I was a 28-year-old woman looking for companionship, someone to tag me in memes, read my mind, understand my contradictions, interpret my tone and mood through text, give me plenty of attention… but not too smothering, make me laugh (but only when I’m in the right mood), be invested in us (but not a complete doormat), open to a future together very early on in the piece (but don’t tell me, because that would give me the ick), but at the same time keen to take it slow, see what happens, and understand that me refraining from reading your birth chart without your consent is the highest display of respect.
This was never gonna work.
But the night went on and our chats deepened ever so slightly.
He told me something pretty sad, and I found myself empathising with him. I sort of liked him enough as person, I guess he was nice?
But there wasn’t really an attraction, or even an interest in friendship.
Eventually I got tired and suggested we wrap it up. As we got up and walked out the front, the conversation continued to flow, and we started walking to my house. It was a really beautiful night in February so we walked, and walked, and walked the streets of Fitzroy North.
The fact I knew there was nothing between us made me comfortable. I just chatted away about all my dumb little thoughts, and he laughed and shook his head.
As we were walking, he linked my arm and I thought, “Hmmm… that’s pretty weird…but okay…”
I didn’t exactly mind. He had a nice arm, a nice smell, and a nice height. I also liked his shoes. But I still didn’t particularly feel vibes, and I doubted we’d see each other again.
When we got to my front door, we said our courteous goodbyes, and politely pecked on the lips.
To this day, I still don’t know what happened or how to explain it, but in the moment after we kissed, I felt a huge bolt of energy hit me. I can’t explain it, but it was like this sexual surge that completely took me by surprise and overwhelmed me. It must have only lasted milliseconds, but it honestly felt like everything was in slow motion. We stopped, looked at each other, and then launched into the most intense and FULL ON make-out session of my life.
It was as if our bodies took over before our minds could even realise what was happening.
Looking back, I think it was just Fuckboy energy… but honestly, the only way to describe it was purely primal.
We started making out with such fervor, it was actually embarrassing. I was basically mounting him, and he was ripping at my clothes, squeezing my boobs, and dry humping in the lobby. It was fucking ridiculous.
I’d never felt something like that before.
Eventually, after god knows how long, we both pulled away and just looked at each other. I could tell from his face he was as confused and shocked as I was. We were speechless. He quickly gave me a hug, didn’t say anything, and we pretty much both just ran away.
I went inside and laid down on my bed, stunned, just staring at the ceiling.
*BZZ BZZ*
Text from Fuckboy:
Fuckboy: “Well that escalated…”
Me: “Yeah…What the actual fuck just happened?”
Fuckboy: “I honestly don’t know, but we should meet up again soon”
Me: “Yeah… I feel like we have to?”
Fuckboy: “Well we live so close, so it will be easy”
Me: “Okay cool, when?”
Fuckboy: “Thursday?”
Me: Cool
Fuckboy: “Goodnight x”
Thursday came, and I was eager to as well.
I wasn’t looking for a shared bank account with this man, but I knew I needed to share his bed, if only for a night.
I followed up like clockwork. He told me he was working late but would let me know. Given that he lived around 800 meters away, I was okay with being uncharacteristically flexible.
Naturally, he didn’t let me know.
Part of me was pretty relieved. I felt like it was for the best. This guy wasn’t going to be relationship material, so why would I really want to sleep with him, ya’know? It would be pointless. A waste of time. It was just a good kiss. Nothing to get hung up over. I wasn’t going to think about him or the kiss. I just chalked it up to a good experience and went on with my business.
*TikTok robot voice* TWO WEEKS LATER – Monday, 7am.
*Bzzz Bzzz*
Text from Fuckboy:
“I have a free house for two days, you should come over. I have some making up to do ;)”
🚨*Wee Woo Wee Woo Wee Woo*🚨
SOMEBODY SOUND THE ALARM BECAUSE FUCK BOY MODE OFFICIALLY JUST GOT ACTIVATED
I talk a big game, but I’m actually a bit of a scaredy cat. I agreed to go over, but as the day drew on, my frigid feelings crept in.
I sent him a barrage of anxious texts explaining how if I did come over, this wasn’t automatic consent to anything and I would need to evaluate how I feel once I got there.
He assured me he totally understood and there was no pressure or obligation for anything. He just wanted to see me.
LOL. Sure.
We sat in his lounge room, drank wine, and watched SO MANY BORING MUSIC DOCUMENTARIES featuring his shitty favorite band. I swear this must have gone on for two hours. For the first time in my life, I genuinely empathised with the men who’d sat through hours upon hours of my Hanson YouTubes, Tarot readings, star sign evaluations, and emotional deep dives in the vague hope they might get to touch my boobs.
Is this really what it was like???!!? jesus.
I suppose I owed it to all those poor men, so I paid my dues and humoured him. I sat there, smiling, feigning interest in this bullshit, all the while just asking myself, am I really willing to endure this hell for the sake of dicking?
Spoiler Alert: I was.
I don’t know if it was his nerdy enthusiasm which disarmed me? Maybe just the bottle of wine? But the moment he switched that TV off, and pulled me onto him, that electricity sparked right back up from where we’d left it.
He tore my dress open, ripped my bra off and moaned as buried his face into my chest, pulled my hair back and kissed me so hectically all the way up my neck and to my face, as he stood up and lifted me against the wall and took me to pound town.
The chemistry was intense. We ravished each other from the window, to the walls, till the sweat dropped down our balls. We literally couldn’t peel ourselves away from each other, and over the course of the evening I missed three Ubers home (my rating has never been the same since)
The man didn’t have much going for him, but my god did he have Fuckery down to an art form. He was basically Fuckasso
I walked away from this evening’s encounter disheveled and smug. I’d been hit with a bad case of Fuckboy fever, and I knew right then, this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. One night of Fuckboy “passion” turned into about 8 months of casual, sporadic banging.
But in the truest sense of the word, it meant nothing.
I didn’t wonder when he’d call, because I knew he wouldn’t. I didn’t care if he had feelings for me, because I didn’t either. I wasn’t worried about his sexual attraction to me, because it’s all we had.
When we weren’t together the man never even crossed my mind. I don’t even think my friends knew about this guy? I never mentioned him. He was just my salacious secret, there when I needed him, but didn’t exist in my world in any other way.
As the hookups continued, I kept waiting for myself to get ‘the feels’, or for it to start feeling shit, but it just never happened. It was liked I’d hacked my innate attachment biology?
Years of relationship rollercoasters, disappointments, and painful breakups had left me feeling numb and burnt out. My nervous system was so out of whack, this new foray into a “once or twice a month” arrangement was pretty much all I had capacity for, which suited me fine – I suppose kept me in the sheets and off the streets?
During this time I felt incredibly single, but I didn’t sleep with anyone else either (I’m embarrassingly monogamous like that). Instead, I used my spare emotional bandwidth to invest heavily in my emotional growth and spiritual healing. It sounds like a massive wank, but I really did grow a lot during this time, and slowly, bit by bit, as I peeled back the layers of myself, I started to connect to my heart again.
SURELY THIS INK ISN’T PERMANENT?
One Saturday morning after a particularly wild friday night with him, I woke up hung over as fuck, next to that stupid tacky naked sailor lady ink on his arm.
Usually I’d associate that arm with morning sex, but this particular morning I was repulsed, and as he started kissing me, I thought to myself “I don’t even like you,”
“Don’t touch me right now please,” I huffed as I scooted over to the far side of the bed.
I could feel he was taken aback. Hurt, even. But honestly by this point, it was about 8 months into our ‘casual dalliance’, and while I still didn’t have feelings for him, the attraction and chemistry was significantly waning. The truth is that I like a man with emotions, depth, integrity, humour… intelligence… all the things this guy didn’t seem to have.
I sat up, reached over him aggressively, got my clothes and headed straight to the gym without staying for morning “cuddles”.
Months of hardcore healing, self-reflection, and therapy had me starting to respect myself and my emotional needs again.
Over the next few days, I started to think about the situation through a more critical lens. Was this really just a harmless sexual fling? Did this situation truly not matter or have any effect on my emotional and spiritual well-being? These questions plagued me for weeks, as slowly it started to dawn on me that many of the behaviors I’d been letting slide – flakiness, poor communication, cocaine-fueled sex – were really not in my best interests at all, and they weren’t ‘harmless’.
They were a reflection of a low-vibe, low-self worth, view of myself.
Shit. What the actual fuck was I doing?
SURELY ONE MORE BANG CAN’T HURT?
Peak adulthood is bottling up your feelings, emotions, and concerns for a long enough time, until you eventually self-combust and spiral into a fit of rage over something minor or seemingly insignificant, only to come out looking like a full-blown psychopath.
Hello, it’s me, a psycho people pleaser.
The next time we planned to meet up was no different to usual; he was being non-communicative, flaky, last minute Fuckboy self.
He’d told me he was coming over, but never showed up. I’d cleaned my room and shaved my legs. No text. No response. Nothing. I assumed he’d gone on a coke bender – which was common practice – But this time I WAS. NOT. IN. THE. FUCKING. MOOD.
I absolutely blasted him:
Me (paraphrased): IT’S SO FUCKING DISRESPECTFUL AND UNNECESSARY FOR YOU TO SAY YOU’RE GONNA SEE ME, AND THEN NOT EVEN SEE ME. I cleaned my room. I sat around WAITING for you and you didn’t even bother to message me to say you weren’t coming over. It’s so rude and unnecessary. I never ask for ANYTHING from you. This has been going on for 8 months! All I have EVER asked is for you to keep me in the loop you disrespectful cunt. Fuck you. I’m not even attracted to you anymore. Leave me alone. FUCK OFF.
I went to bed fuming.
In the morning I woke up to this:
Fuckboy: “Mate, calm your fucking farm. I was disgustingly sick and went home to sleep. I’ve only just gotten to my phone but whatever.”
I always feel guilty after I’ve cracked it. I’m like a dog that’s been caught ripping the fuck out of a new couch. So tempting at the time, but really embarrassing when you get caught out.
I feel like a lot of ‘people pleasers’ can probably relate to these implosions. We overgive, cross our own boundaries, let enough shit slide for the sake of keeping the peace, only to eventually self-combust over one tiny thing. Now that I’m older, I realise this is a co-dependent pattern that can absolutely be healed with work. But in my younger, less aware state, I ended up apologising to him. Classssssssic me.
We made amends, sent some memes, and arranged to meet in a couple of days.
A couple of days came and went, but I still didn’t. Mister flakey Fuckboy was up to his flakey Fuckboy trickery… “My phone was dead”… “You still up?” “What about tonight?” “What about later?” ETC ETC. It went on and on and on and on. Urghhhhhhh.
I wasn’t mad, but I was just so over it. One weekend, I rebelled about two decades too late and dyed my hair pink and went to a party.
For a fun loving ‘gal’ I can be a reeeeeeeal moody little fucker when someone is pissing me off. As a result of said mood, I spent the entire night brooding in the corner. Eventually some idiot came up to me and asked what was wrong. I replied, ‘Nothing,’ in that way women say it so men know there is absolutely something wrong. He laughed. He was hot. Really hot. Sandy brown hair, twinkling green eyes. Adorable smile, with strapping shoulders and a nice, yet casual linen shirt. He asked me what I was drinking. ‘Myself into oblivion,’ I responded. He asked if I wanted another drink to push me over the edge? I said, ‘Do I look like I need any more?’ He replied, ‘No, but I wanna keep talking to you; you seem like a beautiful weirdo.’
I never understand why guys seem to like me most when I am being a little nightmare, but I wasn’t complaining.
“BRB”, I muttered, as I went into the other room to grab my phone.
THAT’S IT! I’M FUCKING DONE!
I texted Fuckboy an earnest, oversharing and thoughtful essay explaining how we both deserved better than what we could offer each other. The time had come to stop using each other’s bodies for comfort from chronic boredom and loneliness. It was the most emotional I’d been with him. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was drunk and “poetic”… lol. It was something along the lines of how he knew my body intimately, but knew nothing of my SOUL and while my body may be just another bag of tits and arse. But my soul? That shit is fucking deep as fuck, and invitation only and that he was officially UNINVITED.
Alright, Shakespeare. Put your phone away and have another cruiser.
In classic Fuckboy form, he didn’t even respond.
Weeks went by, still no word. I forgot about him.
He didn’t know me anyway. It didn’t matter. It meant nothing. The whole thing was nothing.
*TikTok Robot Voice * TWO WEEKS LATER – Monday, 7am.
*Bzzz Bzzz*
Fuckboy: Hey I’m moving to WA next week for work. We should have sex again before I leave 😉
Now, it’s not like I was despo for the dick or even to say goodbye. I genuinely hadn’t thought about this person.
But when push comes to shove, I really am such an earnest, nostalgic, forgiving and sentimental person.
Mental clearly being the operative word.
I knocked on that all too familiar metal door, and stood there in the dark. He opened the door wearing his white fuckboy t-shirt, grey shorts, and a sheepish smile on his face.
He seemed a little sad, like a scared little kid.
I’d never seen him like this.
He was turning 30 and leaving the city. Was that what was bothering him? I couldn’t tell.
I tried my best to talk to him, but the man was honestly the most emotionally clogged person I’ve ever met. There was only so far I could get with him emotionally. I mean, he was a Crapricorn after-all.
In the morning, I lay on that shitty tattooed chest, and leant down to kiss his freckled nose.
We said goodbye and as I left, I felt happy that this chapter was closing on nice terms. I was proud of myself. I’d managed to successfully navigate a long-term casual sexual relationship, and end it with only one tiny blow up.
I’d come so much, and so far.
I walked home smiling.
This was growth.
Maybe all this self-development was actually paying off?
But as I walked inside my apartment, the strangest feeling came over me. Call me psychic, call me psycho, but the moment I stepped back into my house, a voice came into my head as clear as day and interrupted my zen. The voice said, “He’s not really moving to Western Australia”. I stopped for a second and processed what had just happened. I sat down on my bed and stared at the wall.
I felt crazy. Even crazier than usual. I shook my head. That’s fucking mental, Alex. Surely not?!
But something inside me just… knew it was true.
According to his plans he would be out of town by Monday. Monday couldn’t come sooner. I needed this dick out of my neighbourhood. I needed to know I was being paranoid.
Monday came around and the temptation to check his location on Tinder was strong. We were still matched from earlier on in the year, so I gave it a little look.
Okay. He was still in the vicinity.
Not a big deal. Don’t react.
A week went by, still in the vicinity.
Benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was delayed?
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Two weeks, three weeks, four weeks, six weeks.
Still in the fucking vicinity.
We weren’t connected on Instagram, but I could still access his account via my secret accounts. All of his stories were being posted from his fucking house.
This shit went on for 7-8 weeks. I watched relentlessly on his stories, each post sending me ever slightly more maniacal.
Social media has this way of infiltrating your mind, and your life. You got an insecurity? Great! Social media is gonna come in and multiply the shit out of it. Got a narrative in your head? Yep, social media is gonna feed that shit and introduce even more characters you didn’t even know existed. On the flip side, social media does have a way of exposing the truth.
Nine weeks went by and this absolute gronk continued to post on his IG stories from Melbourne.
I felt like I’d been played by this flatcapped fucker, and and honestly, I just felt so, gross?
This idiot had duped me into sleeping with him one more time under the false pretense that he was leaving the state.
I’d spent a whole night consoling him about a huge move, and “new era” which turns out, was probably a complete lie. That supposed vulnerability wasn’t fear and insecurity – it was guilt! Who the hell does that?
Honestly. What is wrong with these people?!
I could feel the maturity, and ‘zen’ draining from my soul as the fury rose within my body. But I really, truly didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of exploding. I’d been doing so much self-development, healing and growth, and genuinely felt like I was in a place where I didn’t have any interest in engaging in anything tumultuous or dramatic. It was a reflection on him, and not me. I was a new and improved Zen bitch who was willing to play the bigger person.
Until…
Saturday night, maybe two months after his “departure”…
I get the late night Fuckboy Bzz Bzz.
Fuckboy: Guess who’s in bloody Melbourne for the weekend! 😉 haha
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
Please don’t provoke the beast within.
Ugh. How stupid does this idiot think I am?
I waited until the end of the Sunday to respond. I didn’t know how I was gonna play it.
Me: Omg! Really? Welcome back! Melbourne has missed you! We gonna bang…orrrrr?
No response.
That’s fine, I thought. He’s essentially just given me permission to enact my revenge.
The good thing about banging someone who lives 800 metres away is that it is convenient.
The really good thing about ending something with someone who lives that close is you can drop by unannounced, whenever you goddamn want.
So that’s what I fucking did.
Whenever I got a spare minute, I popped by his house and rang that buzzer.
I say it casually because for me breaking social conventions like that is a casual thing to me. It’s logical I would do that. To some people, I get that would be a bit too full on and taking it too far.
You think I care?
Nah. Knock Knock. It’s me again, bitch.
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
One night I was with my housemate, a few wines deep, and I felt it was the night where the magic was gonna happen. I don’t know it’s a sixth sense, or delusion, but I knew it was ripe for the picking. I headed over to Fuckboy’s house. I was salivating.
I caught an Uber the 800 metres, because I am woman, and this was Fitzroy afterall.
I knock on his door. Once, twice, maybe about 45 times. I try and call – can’t get through. So I start calling him via FB messenger. Calling and messaging saying “You need to answer me RIGHT NOW.”
To my surprise, he responds.
Fuckboy: Hey! Huh….what’s going on?
Me: You need to answer my calls right now.
he calls me.
Me: *Sweet, happy and cheerful* Hi Fuckboy, how’s WA?
FB: Um… good…. what’s going on?
Me: Where are you?
FB: I’m at home.
Me: Come outside, I’m out the front.
FB: What?
Me: I KNOW YOU NEVER MOVED TO WESTERN AUSTRALIA YOU DUMB FUCK
FB: *hesitating* yeaaaaaah
Me: What the FUCK is your problem?!
FB: I’m in the Gold Coast at my Mum’s house!!!! You’re a fucking psycho.
Me: I am NOT a psycho; YOU are a psycho for lying as means of sleeping with me again.
FB: *whispering* My Mum’s sick, I’m in the Gold Coast
Me: YOU’RE SUCH A BULLSHITTER I KNOW YOU ARE HOME. You don’t get to lie to women just to sleep with them. You don’t get to fucking put your dick in people then disrespect them and make shit up to suit your agenda. Grow up.
FB: You’re actually insane.
So I’m standing in the street questioning my life choices and wondering how I made so many wrong turns to end up here?
His front door opens, he’s standing there in his typical Fuckboy attire.
He yells out, “Oy, you little mental, what the fuck are you doing?! Come inside.”
Here I am standing there in my tracksuit, hair dishevelled, feeling absolutely ratshit. I didn’t expect to see him, and in the event I did, I had no idea what the fuck I was gonna say.
Months of fury and torment at his STUPID and POINTLESS lie caught up to me and I just burst out crying. I’m talking one of those full blown wails usually reserved for the shower.
Sobbing.
He dragged me inside and I sat on his bed. I just kept hysterically asking him why he had to lie? WHY? We didn’t even love each other. This wasn’t even a relationship. The nature of this extremely sexually intimate relationship rested on the foundation of mutual respect and truth. When you take that away it screws with the natural order. Why are all men the same??? Don’t you know I can handle anything, as long as I am living in truth?????
He just sat there. Like a stunned little man child. He’d never seen me show any emotion, let alone this much.
Finally, he muttered:
“I just didn’t think it mattered.”
In that moment I realised it didn’t. Well, not in the way I thought.
I was sitting here howling on a some man’s bed, but for what, exactly, I wasn’t sure? This man never gave a shit about me when we were sleeping together, why would he now? Just because you give your body to somebody doesn’t mean they will respect you, or your heart. Ultimately that is your responsibility. Which is why our choices are so damn important.
Ultimately, people will treat you the way you let them. I’d let him treat me like a disposable fucktoy and then I was acting all surprised when he treated me like a piece of trash?!
Maybe I was being crazy, maybe I took it too far. Maybe I didn’t take it far enough?
But in that moment I realised that this situation was a direct result of every small decision I’d made along the way. All those little micro moments of self-abandonment that you think don’t matter will eventually all culminate into some sort of boiling point.
How you spend your hours, is how you spend your days, and how you spend your days is how you spend your life. And if you give even a minute of your time to someone who doesn’t respect you, that is how you’re spending your life.
Was this really what I wanted my life to be like?
No. Not even remotely.
I stood up, wiped my face on his dirty gym towel, and grabbed my bag. He was leaning against his wardrobe and I walked up to him and got uncomfortably close. He towered above my 5’2 stature, but I felt about 7’5.
Me: “You represent everything wrong with my life, and it’s not your fault at all; it’s mine. I have the power in this situation, and by making me feel for a moment as though I’ve lost it, that’s all I needed to actually get it back. I’m sorry for this outburst, but please don’t ever treat someone like this again. Goodbye, good luck, fuck off.”
He bowed his head, lip quivering a little as he opened the door to let me out. I walked outside into the crisp winter air, put one foot down on the pavement and walked away into the night.
We never spoke again, and I know we never will.
It's like fundamentalism without 'da mental' part 