Feed Me And Tell Me I’m Pretty
Posted on March 9, 2018
Coming back to Sydney after three months of solitude, the only thing I wanted, was to see my friends, spend time with the people I love, and of course, meet cute boys and waste their time. I don’t know if it was the lack of male contact that had made me less picky, or just a general good batch, but the moment I opened Bumble, attractive guys just kept rolling in. It’s a dangerous game to play if you’re only planning on staying for two weeks, but since I hadn’t met anyone remotely interesting (date-wise) in that whole year I’d lived in the city, and of course, given that my life is not a romantic comedy, I was pretty confident I wouldn’t meet a guy I’d actually want to see again. Man, I don’t have to tell you I was wrong again, right.
The whole first week I was just swiping left or right, talking shit to dudes, explaining to them why dating me is in fact like getting eleven nuggets when you’ve only ordered ten (spoiler alert: it’s because I give you heart disease). I joked to my friends that non-idiots seemed hard to come by, and that all I really wanted was a hot guy with a great accent to stroke my hair and read me books. Guess what. I know. In my life, you say? A guy that I didn’t want to punch in the face, that is genuinely the funniest lad I’ve ever met, that is very much very attractive, ànd is Welsh? The Pussycat Dolls always said you should be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it – and well, I got it good.
Never had I been on a date with a guy that had the balls to half-insult me before I’d even met him, that was as much a sarcastic dick as me, and that rocked up in his high vis worker outfit without actually being too bothered about it. It was just so easy. The day after we first met, I was in the neighbourhood when he finished work, and not for one second did I think that my Kmart sport shorts, my hair in a ponytail, and absolutely zero make-up were an excuse not to meet up for a quick chat. I mean, tough shit, but this is kinda what I look like pretty much always, so might as well just get used to it now – and given that my outfit was at least all black without any fluorescent parts to it, I figured I was doing at least as well as he was.
He came over the same evening, and minus the book reading, I got everything I wanted. He talked about his favourite bands, and knew a fuckton about movies, and I just enjoyed listening to his sing-songy accent – and also, god knows I think it’s way hot when guys can teach me shit. He actually remembered things I’d told him – whereas I had forgotten essential information like him having a twin brother – and I just couldn’t get over the fact that he was such a nice guy (did I mention he’s also really hot?). He said he’s just being a normal, kind person – which is true, and which is evidence that this world is a bit too fucked up, because here I am, swooning over a guy that doesn’t treat girls like shit. Douchebag is the new norm, unfortunately. Having said that, I reckon the Welshman is probably generally a way too good person to be hanging out with me, but I swear I’m actually a nice girl.
Unfortunately, the time has come to say goodbye. I’m off to Brisbane to see my favourite band, and after that – i.e. after five years of relentless nagging about Kiwis (the fruit, birds, and boys obvs) – I’m flying to New Zealand. He came over to see me one last time, and said we would hang out again once I’m back; I really hope we do, but I’m not going to make him stick to that promise if it turns out he’s half forgotten about me by the time I get back – four to six weeks is a pretty long time, even if I’m so worth the wait. I guess, like always, we’ll see. After all, I’m here to catch flights, not feelings.