Yeah… I’m A Heartbreaker Alright

Saturday 31st October.

“You have to get into cuddle position,” I said as I pushed my left leg between her legs.

“Assume the position, ey?” said Siobhan.

“Exactly.”

It was the second time I’d seen her and we were lying on my bed watching a movie. I kissed her neck.

“Jesus is my homeboy,” she said.

Maybe she was serious when she said she was religious. Cockblocked by the Christ. It was okay though. I couldn’t remember the last time a girl made me feel like this.

I blew into her ear.

“Gee, thanks for the refill.”

I laughed. “Sharp as a tack.”

I put my arm around her. Then I rolled her onto her back and lay on top of her. I looked into her eyes.

“You’re beautiful.”

The movie finished.

“So what have you been up to anyway?” she inquired.

“Just the regular stuff I suppose. Playing poker, reading. Writing.”

“Writing what?”

“Short stories for my website… About me and Age going to Sexpo.”

“You have a website? Is it a true story?”

“Of course it’s true. I’m a truthful guy. Yeah, I have a website. You probably wouldn’t like it… You might like it.”

“Cool, I’ll have a look,” she paused. “I’m not on it, am I?”

“No.”

“Good. I have this friend… She met a nice nerdy Asian guy at a party once or twice. They go to the same uni. She discovered six months later that he’d been posting updates on his blog every week, with pictures of her that he’d taken off her Facebook. The guy was obsessed with her.”

“Aww.”

“It’s six o’clock,” she said. “I have to go to this party that I don’t want to go to. And you have to go to work.”

“Heh. Work.” She means I have to go to the casino and play poker.

“Bye.” I kissed her, hugged her, and showed her to the door.

Friday 22nd October.

A week earlier I was sitting at Transport with Aster. I got a message from Tracy. Tracy was just about the spitting image of my ex-girlfriend Lucia, but she had better boobs. She also had the same personality as Lucia. I thought I might be setting myself up for a fall when I met her, with her acting so shy. Then I thought what the hell, she’s just nervous. I may as well give her a chance.

“Hey Jones, I just realised that I’m going down the Peninsula tomorrow so we can’t hang out. I’m free now though. How about I come over to yours?”

I checked the time. It was 10:30 pm, which in some circles is known as “Booty call o’clock”.

“I can’t tonight. I’m hanging out with my friend Aster and he only has a week left in the country. I’ll see you next weekend.”

Fifteen minutes later, I got another text.

“Damnit Aster,” I said.

“What?”

“I haven’t been laid in three months, and now I get two booty calls in one night. Have a look at this.”

It was from Siobhan. “Hey I saw you the other day at the tram stop. Thought I’d see what you’re up to tonight. I’m at home and bored.”

“Yeah, that’s a booty call alright. You should go.”

“But you’re getting deported soon. I probably won’t see you again.”

“I got an extension – I fly out on the fifth.”

“Oh… In that case – nah. We’re having fun here.”

I texted Siobhan. Honestly, I was kind of pissed. When I met her, I was quite smitten. The next day, I called her and she started dribbling the most out-of-control shit at me, stuff about how her breasts were full of venom and she shoots acid at people for fun. I could hardly keep up. I’ve hardly met a girl who talks shit like that. She was gaming me, shifting-sands style. I was impressed. She said she’d come to the party my housemates were throwing the following weekend. Then, nothing. No texts, no call. Didn’t answer, didn’t return my calls. For four months. Now she texts me for a booty call.

“I called you like a million times and you never returned my calls. Why are you texting me tonight?”

“You called me three times while I was at work. Like I said I saw you at the tram stop and was wondering what you were up to?”

In retrospect I have to reconsider whether it was a booty call… Probably not. She probably texted me after 10 on a Friday night not even considering that it could be interpreted that way.

“Okay. Anyway I can’t see you tonight. My buddy Aster is leaving the country soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I thought, with a touch of resentment, that by tomorrow she will have cooled down and won’t want to see me. My suspicions seemed to be confirmed when she didn’t text back that night.

Saturday 23rd October.

“What are you doing my little pudding-pop?” I wrote.

“I’m just at home. I’m going to be in Fitzroy tonight if you want to come. What are you doing?”

“Not much, playing poker, my little duck a la orange. Maybe we can get some pizza. Do you like pizza? I’m kidding – everyone likes pizza.”

“Actually I don’t eat pizza. We could get some coffee though.”

“I don’t drink coffee. But I could sit and watch you drink coffee – is that creepy?”

“A little yeah. Are you sure you want to meet up today? I have to meet my friend at 9.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I am consumed with desire for you, and can’t stand another hour without inhaling your sweet scent like roses to my noses, etc.” I literally wrote “etc.” I’m half-joking. “Meet me at such and such café at 8. See you soon.”

“Hee hee okay.”

I got off the tram, crossed the road, and saw her. Six foot tall, brunette, model good looks, with dimples.

“Hey – wow,” she said. “Nice jacket.” It’s gold.

“Thanks. Nice dimples.” I kissed her on the cheek.

“Thanks. They’re caused by excess fat in my cheeks.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys. Vamos.”

We started walking towards the café. I said “Can we swap sides?”

“Ah you want to walk on the curbside in case a car splashes something up.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re such a gentleman. Would you put your jacket down for me if there were a puddle?”

“Hell no. Manners cost nothing, but the jacket doesn’t.”

“Aw.”

“Aw. I don’t love you any more.”

“Aw. Well, Jesus loves me.”

“He sure does. Are you really a Christian or are you taking the piss?”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Really… I was reading the Sermon on the Mount yesterday.”

“The what on the what?”

“Oh. Silly me – you’re Catholic – you don’t read the Bible,” I said, playfully.

“That’s right, I don’t.”

We sat down. I ate some bruschetta and she drank some coffee.

She told me about her work. “You know, it’s funny. When I first started working as a nurse, they laid down all these rules. For example, you can never date a patient, and if you date a patient you’ll be referred to the national board and might get your licence revoked. And you can never take medicine out of the cabinet. Not even if you have a headache and need a Panadol. You just can’t do it.

“Then of course when I got on the ward, I found out that one of the nurses was engaged to be married to a patient. Fully engaged, and they didn’t even keep it a secret. Everyone knew.”

“Probably not the best way to start a relationship,” I said.

“Yeah, starting it by waiting on someone hand and foot. Being pampered by someone.”

“Yeah, it’s… not Stockholm Syndrome. Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Very Oedipal.”

“Exactly. Then a few weeks later I came in a little bit hungover. I asked one of the other nurses if I could have some Panadol. She said ‘Why bother with that stuff?’ She handed me some Codeine and some Zofran for the nausea. She said it was the best hangover cure you could get.”

I went to pay for both of us, but the barista went to high school with Siobhan and didn’t charge her for the coffee. They stood there crapping on for five minutes. A guy stood in line behind us looking impatient.

I walked with Siobhan up the street to her car. Mid-sentence, I took her by the hand. She collapsed into my arms and I gave her a passionate kiss. I kept walking without thinking twice about it. I looked over at her and she was bright red.

I laughed “Are you blushing?”

“I’m uh… not big on public displays of affection,” she said bashfully.

I said “I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” and embraced her again.

At the time, it didn’t occur to me that she might not have ever had a date who grabbed her in the street, without thinking, and made out with her. I suppose I had just swept her off her feet without realising it.

Tuesday 27th October.

“I haven’t talked to her in a day,” I said to Killingsworth. “And I feel anxious. I keep thinking about her… Does that make me gay?”

“Heh no dude, that’s normal. Just relax… I’ve never heard you talk about a girl like this before.”

“Yeah… It’s kind of embarrassing. It’s like I’m in high school again. Except this time, the girl actually talks to me and we make out and stuff.”

Just then I got a text from Tracy.

“Hey Jones. Just checking that we’re still good for this weekend. I can only see you on Friday.”

For our first date, Tracy asked to come straight to my place. That can only mean one thing. Three letters: DTF.

I hesitated, and texted back “Gee, I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

“Okay… I know it’s been a bit of messing around. I hope you still want to see me.”

I’d already been tossing it over in my mind. I weighed the pros and cons. If Tracy comes over, I’ll probably have sex with her. But so what, I’ve had sex plenty of times – that’s negligible. If I have sex with Tracy, it might bite me in the ass later with Siobhan. It probably won’t, but it might. The most important thing to consider in this case is my conscience. My conscience says no.

I swallowed hard, and texted: “I don’t think I can see you. I’ve started seeing someone else. I didn’t mean to mess you around. I’m sorry.”

“You what? How could you start seeing someone else when we planned to meet up next weekend? I wish you hadn’t made me feel so undesirable.”

“Kinder complicated… I met her months ago and I just managed to catch up with her on Saturday. Don’t feel undesirable – you’re gorgeous.”

“Saturday?? You sent me a text on Sunday asking me what I was doing! Don’t lead people on Jones!”

“I saw her again on Monday. Things changed. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

That was the last I heard from her. I felt a little nauseous. Why is it that doing the right thing and trusting your conscience doesn’t always feel so right?

You know, it would be nice if she were grateful for the explanation. If a girl I’ve just met or had one date with, drops off my radar, I never know why. It’s just: Poof! The closest thing I ever got to an explanation, was when a surfie girl came over to see me at my parents’ place. We’d met the preceding weekend. Ten minutes after arriving she realised it was really important for her to be home when the pest exterminator came over. She texted me saying she couldn’t make it for the date we’d planned on Saturday, no explanation. But three months later she texted me, out-of-the-blue, saying “Sorry Jones. I’ve been going through some stuff.” I texted her back saying that we can be friends… No response.

Thursday 3rd November.

“I read your website,” wrote Siobhan on Facebook chat.

“Really. What did you think?”

“…Interesting.”

“Muy interesante.” I’m trying not to let it show, but nothing could make me feel more vulnerable than showing this girl my website. It was like putting my balls in her hands and saying “Squeeze as hard as you want!”

“How much did you read?” I typed.

“Enough.” A full-stop has never been so final. “Enough to know that we are very different.”

“Sure we’re different. I have a penis and you have a vagina.”

“I didn’t enjoy reading about your conquests.” ‘Conquests’ is something of a misnomer. ‘Conquest’ implies that I did it for the bragging rights. Not really. I did it just to do it, because it was worth doing. An offering of value, a means of self-expression. I write about it on the Internet for the same reasons. An important distinction to me, but one that would be extremely difficult to explain to a good Catholic girl. In all likelihood, one that didn’t matter to a good Catholic girl. To her, I would appear as exactly the guy her mother warned her about. Instead of appearing as who I am, I would appear as a stereotype. The stereotypical player, an unfeeling narcissist.

Or, maybe she knew exactly who I was, and she didn’t like me.

“We need to talk about this on the phone. I’ll call you.”

I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hey.”

“Yo. What’s up my gangstur.”

“Heh… Not much… Look, I’ve been thinking. I read the stuff on your website about your views and things… You’re a good guy, but… I don’t think we should see each other any more in case it just complicates things later. I figure it’s just better to be honest about it.”

I sighed. I thought this might happen, and I knew that if it did, I would be able to find the right words to say.

“…” I said. Damnit man, say something! Tell her you refused two girls this week because of her. No, wait, don’t say that. Tell her you want her. Even just the word “No” would be extraordinarily eloquent right now.

“…” I said.

“…” she fired right back.

“…” – see, this is real communication.

“…Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay then… I’m going to go now.”

“…”

“Bye.”

I thought about messaging her after that and saying something brilliant and carefully thought out. But I would look like a fool, clutching at straws. And I would be a fool clutching at straws.

“What exactly was it that she didn’t like?” said Killingsworth when I told him the story.

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t even ask her why? You can ask her now.”

“What would be the point? What am I going to do, ask her what she thought and argue with her? Try to convince her that what she read isn’t really what she read? Dig myself a bigger hole? Forget it. It’s over.”

“You seem to be giving up pretty easily. I thought you wanted a pep talk.”

“I don’t.”

Tagged as: getting dumped, picking up girls, relationships