Bathroom Eyes

Newly single and in Sydney for a night of frivolity with the Sydney Sluts component of my single girl crew I suddenly realised how quickly things change in the fast-paced world of singletons. (Don't worry, Tequila, you'll always be there for me).

Flipping many a flirtatious glance over the rim of my martini glass, I giggled with breathy anticipation as a hot (straight) Sydney boy approached.

Follow me.

Well… Why the hell not? Security personnel were looking suitably jumped-up and steroid-paranoid to take him down if I sounded the bar-room SOS, my drink was sans GHB and my buddies had my back. Thinking we were headed outside, I was a little confused as we headed for the same-sex loos.

My head started to spin – were Sydney's good looking, broad-shouldered boys really just a bunch of mummy’s boys who need someone to wait outside the door lest they look friendless on their mission to a bar-room cubicle?

Not quite. With an amorous grin, he yanked me into the – admittedly very nice – toilet…

The bathroom bang is rapidly gaining currency amongst my contingent of increasingly ADD, instant-gratification seeking, time-poor friends. Instead of spending the night rehashing worn-out old lines – when the point of the night was to hang with your friends anyway – you can knock one over before your drink gets warm. Even better, both parties are well-aware that the bathroom bonk is not headed for a second date. In their view it’s a simple sexual transaction: no strings attached, no complications, no time wasted.

Lotharios take note: it’s cheaper than a hotel room, there’s no awkward request that whats-her-name split before your girlfriend gets home, and women are supposedly way more up for it now thanks to Samantha Sex-Like-A-Man Jones.

Gemma took a whirl on a disco stick – in the disco’s toilets – a few weeks ago. Not a shrinking violet, she had only good things to say: not as stinky and cramped as aeroplane toilets, no boring chit-chat afterwards, and direct access to condom machines in the loos themselves. And mirrors. Her only concern was the feistiness of queue-dwellers, hating on those spending too long in the lav. In her post-shag bliss though, Gemma claims to be bullet-proof and (apparently) terribly charming to even the grumpiest loo-hunter.

Of course, the toilette shag doesn’t have to be confined to nightclub pick-ups. Anyone seeking to alleviate the tedium of a 5 day test match or obligatory family wedding need only seek out a good-sized disabled toilet (the support banisters and extra space for the disabled amongst us means there's way more room to move, and some useful prop-ups for non-toilet seat action) and an up-for-it partner, and suddenly your day can become a whole lot more interesting. Come prepared with a handy excuse for your use of the disableds at stadium events however: my mate Karyn found herself laughing off a “super hot” day to patrolling police when she emerged dripping with sweat from the disabled toilets after a shag at the Australian Open in Melbourne last year.


Rewind back to my Sydney encounter – those beseeching eyes, the L’Occitane products and mood lighting guaranteed to flatter… It was certainly tempting, but what’s a girl to do when she’s wearing a dress that took 20 minutes to slide into – and 20 hours overtime to afford? Monica Llewinksy would have been sad: leaving my dress intact I settled for a good old pash and dash. Almost as satisfying, still just as uncomplicated, and enough to gossip about later – almost on par with the bathroom romp.

Sometimes, You Just Know

Like the day I knew I couldn't be with my live-in boyfriend - The Mummy's Boy (on steroids) - anymore.

Having spent the day tirelessly and patiently collecting beer cans and preparing potato salads for an all-male drink-fest at our new abode, I was feeling pretty much over boys, beer and being a domestic goddess. It's rare for me to so much as sniff alcohol and not become an active, table-dancing drinking participant. More rare for me to clean up after anyone - including myself. A trail of clothing, shoes, handbags, keys leads directly to my bedroom any day of the week. Robbers - you know exactly where to go. Rapists, feel free: it's been about 3 weeks since my last shag.

After throwing my hideously drunk Mummy's Boy into the shower, I was horrified to glance over my shoulder (in a mirror of course - where else would one be on a Saturday afternoon but in front of a mirror, examining one's pores?) and see a monster.

First, I saw his butt. Two slices of prime beef, with a hefty slathering of hair perkily pointed in my direction. I briefly thought "I've had enough arseholes for one day, thanks." The thought died in the neuron receptors, as they processed the vision of a white towel, folded in half and very neatly nestled beneath the monstrously hairy arse cheeks of my apparently adult lover. Legs akimbo and pulled up to his chest, I stared in horror at the heartbreakingly child-like expression on his face.

"Change me" he whimpered, as he clutched at his toes.

You Give Good Text

Saturday night was a dress-up party. We don't celebrate Halloween here in Australia - unless you're a lame hipster attempting to channel Brooklyn-chic - so this was pure costume, for no reason other than the fact that costume parties are:

1. an opportunity to dress as sexily/skankily as possible; and
2. an opportunity to judge people - guys in particular. If they play it safe or don't dress up they're outta there. There are no '3 strikes' in costume-party-world.

Of course I leapt at the opportunity to dress in all my skin-tight, black, pussy-cat glory: tequila is wasted on the girl in the corner dressed as Mary Poppins.

3am approached. While I'd burned up the dance-floor and writhed senselessly with the doorframe, my whiskers were yet to be smudged by a tiger. My drunken text, only somewhat sophisticated by the addition of a picture, was delivered to 2 inboxes - a social experiment had unwittingly been created.

Option 1: Babe u are ridiculously hot, we are having a massive cook up should get here ... biggest babe ever! Mwah mwah.

I'm not joking. Every time I see "cook up", I think "cock-up". That was the worst text message I've ever seen... Except perhaps for "you can't keep drinking tequila like that".

Option 2: God you look good. Apart from a lot of kissing, I would definitely have to pay a great deal of attention to your breasts tonight. ....

(And then it became X-rated).

The Facebook Stalker

Facebook is indeed a very useful social utility. Not only can you stalk people, you can find out when someone you had previously been stalking has removed you from their friends list - possibly due to excessive stalking, or a proliferation of comments that were totally inappropriate and probably offensive when read by their girlfriend.

I have two comments to make about Facebook for today:

1. The Vet has had every opportunity to add me as a friend and has not. This suggests he doesn't want to stalk me which, bizarrely, also means he doesn't want to sleep with me. Epic fail.
2. I decided to check in on Rugby.

You may be thinking I did this because I was having regrets. I am still at the grand total of zero regrets, so never fear. I stalked out of curiousity, and to see whether he'd made some ridiculous comment about how "fucked" women are, or to see a public notice that he'd harmed himself on the weekend.*

Nothing.

Instead I saw what could only be described as a Rugby-Loving looking woman (from her profile picture, which of course I stalked) referencing the "footy" season and making suggestive comments about her, some rum, him and a pub. I firmly believe that one of the best ways to get over someone is to get under someone else, so for his sake I hope he catches up with her quickly. I think she will probably take care of the rest.

Thank you, Facebook.

* Rugby had rather pitifully whined (via email) that he has been "pretty down about a lot of stuff lately" and that this somehow explains his thumb's inability to stay in his pocket, rather than pressed rather insistently on the "call" button of his phone. To me, this was another "run for the hills" indicator (I'm sorry, but I have a preference for happy people), and - to be blunt - the final nail in the coffin.

How to Handle A Break-Up 101

Key words: Detached. Aloof. Dignity. Self-respect.

Key activities: Flush SIM card down toilet. Avoid alcohol unless SIM card is down toilet. Get busy. Get under someone else. Have a bikini wax, and remember that physical pain will always trump heartbreak in the OUCH! stakes. Have pedicure, and remember there will be others who will suffer your stinky feet (even if you have to pay them). See friends - remember others will love you (you shouldn't have to pay these ones). Keep trap shut about heartbreak to all others bar pedicurist and circle-of-trust friends.

Simple enough measures: if you're a non-rugby-player that is.

It was time to flick pass Rugby to another team. Although I will miss his lovely chest, I will not miss uninspiring sex, boring dates and a bizarre dearth of conversation.

It was gentle enough. I used line #12 in the break-up book of lines: "I don't have the time nor the inclination for a relationship right now, and it is not fair on you. I know you want something more, and I can't give you that."

He took it relatively well. Except for his monstrously lame comment that he "sure would miss the great sex". Please note, I did not add "great" to make myself sound good. He actually said that.

Not for the first time, I thought: WTF?

Having secured his promise to return a pile of CDs I was not willing to give up, I hung up the phone and resumed perving on other men.

I awok Sunday morning to a blaze of numbers which caused my head to ache. (Nothing to do with the tequila). I'm not much of a statistician, but my mobile phone is:

• 46 missed calls
• 12 drunk, slurry, voice mail that indicated his wildly optimistic view that I might be out at a rugby bar and desperate for his cock and if so, "let's catch up"
• 6 incomprehensible text messages (although one seemed to be suggesting we might like to have sex in the intervening period until I am ready for a relationship).

Or don't.

A few more, easily digestible statistics.

• Number of regrets since ending things with Rugby: none.
• Points of clarification: One. I am not that good in bed.

I Wish I Had Made This Up

But I didn't.

The characters in this article are real and any resemblance to other persons living or dead is purely coincidental and terribly bad news for people who have dated or are dating them.

This has been extracted simply because time is a-ticking on the dreaded assignment due in less than 2 weeks now.

Stress attacks: 50. Wanky lattes consumed as considered stressful state: 49. Actual work done: minimal.

• I studied all weekend.
• Studying all weekend makes me depressed. I hate it, I wish I was outside and/or having sex, I grow resentful of others who are outside and/or having sex, I feel stressed, my back aches etc.
• Rugby knows the above.
• Rugby wanted to catch up this wkend. I said let me know what you're doing Saturday night and maybe we can hang out.
• I hear from him at about 4pm saying he'd be over, but not until "later" in the night.
• I respond. Ask will he need food out of politeness (assuming that "later" means after dinner).
• Him: yes will need food.
• I panic. Have no food in house, and had been planning on eating tinned spaghetti on toast or some such instant dinner.
• Waste precious study time searching for food.
• Waste precious study time showering.
• Receive text at 7pm saying he'll be there in 15 mins. What part of 7:15pm = later?
• Waste precious study time panicking about cooking.
• Waste precious study time actually cooking and preparing a f *cking salad. what was I thinking? He's a rugby player. Like he eats salad.
• He arrives.


• He arrives empty-handed.
• No wine, no dessert, no bread, no cheese, no eff-ing anything.


• Murderous thoughts flit through my head. Do not consider this waste of time as so enraged following brilliant preparation and execution of seafood lasagne and rocket & parmesan salad.
• He comments, as I am muttering darkly about how I hope the food is ok (I didn't mean that sentiment at all, but felt it was the polite thing to say), that he had been thinking "all day" about cooking dinner for me.
• ALL DAY. And he arrived empty-handed.
• I am gobsmacked briefly.
• Resume brilliant preparation.
• Ask if he wants a glass of wine. Yes he would.
• Not that he brought a bottle.
• Eat. Delicious.
• Dessert. Also delicious.
• He still looks hungry, but I refrain from offering more food.
• I am tired and achy and crabby. He does not pick up on this.
• I request back rub.
• He looks at me as though have asked him to murder his mother.
• He commences lame, feather-light "massage".
• I suggest he take things up a notch and actually put some pressure on my muscles: "Well go on. That's what your muscles are for".
• He sighs. He SIGHED after I cooked him delicious dinner!!!!!
• 3 minutes of horrifyingly gentle, non-massage-y and also totally non-sexual "back rub" later - he announces "I'm stopping now". As though he is a martyr for allowing this highly inconvenient intrusion into his Saturday night in the first place.
• *sigh*
• I fall asleep on couch. Wake up. Tell him am going to bed.
• He continues watching 'Groundhog Day'. On free to air tv. With ads.
• Some time later, he appears beside me in bed with boner pressing into my tired, aching back expecting sex.
• I mutter something incoherent as in that stage of sleep where so tired, it's like swimming out of concrete to wake up.
• He SIGHED! again!!!!! And grumbled!
• And rolled over and did ANGRY SLEEP MANOEUVRE!
• Me = unimpressed.
• He drops me at library in morning and we have coffee. He sits silent as though we have been married 80 years and have exhausted all avenues of conversation.
• I take the opportunity to discuss how busy I am all week. This is building up to the "I don't have time for this and it's not fair on you" excuse.
• Receive text message later in day saying: "Hi Penny. It was fun hanging out this weekend. It seems i like you even when you're slightly demanding".
• Me = WTF?

Cents and Sensibility

I have a very uptight, English view on money: don't talk about it, but if you must, pretend you have loads of it. This means I regularly do things I can't afford (unless I eat tinned spaghetti for the remainder of the year - in March), and simply can't stand those who bang on about money and how little of it they have. After all, if you have nothing nice to say, keep your trap shut.

Rugby, I fear, is not of this school of thought. Staring at the menu of a nice-ish (approximately mid-ranking in my restaurant categorisations which consist of excellent! and cheap!! through to excellent! but expensive) restaurant with mains at about $30 I already knew not to even think about entree and dessert if we ate there. Definitely not drinks. It got worse. I watched with fascination as his already-thin lips pursed a little further, and indignation whipped across his face like an August wind.

"That," he said as he jabbed at the menu, "is ridiculous!".

Uh-oh. I knew what was going to happen here. Cheap Chinese, and the rest of the night agreeing that it tasted just as good - if not better! - than that stuck-up restaurant and how criminal it was what they charged for a meal these days. I could already feel myself prematurely ageing.

I stared at the 3 tiny straps of Italian gold leather that had been categorised by an import official as "shoes", and that had cost $200, and sighed. I decided now was not the time to declare my penchant for good, MSG-free food nor should I mention my plans of being a housewife to a Very Rich Man.