by Sami Lukis
I’ve run into Miss Ex several times over the years, and I’ve never once confronted her about her inexcusable behaviour. That’s just not my style. I figure it was revenge enough for her to see me and the tall, handsome stud muffin together and happy for all those years after her pathetic attempts to break us up.
In the end, I got the guy (and I really hope she got some help).
One of the most memorable dates I ever went on was the one where I watched that gorgeous five-star boyfriend fall in love with his future wife.
And I was probably partly responsible.
After three enjoyable years together, my fella went and ruined everything when he started mentioning the ‘M’ word. He told me he was ready to settle down with a white picket fence and a couple of rugrats in the suburbs. I was not. I loved him deeply and I thought we probably would get married one day, but I couldn’t ignore a gut feeling that I just wasn’t ready to tie the knot.
We had plenty of intense discussions about it and it was the same old argument every time. He’d ask why I didn’t want to get married. I’d say it was just a piece of paper and it wasn’t going to prove anything. He’d say it would prove that I loved him. I’d say that piece of paper wouldn’t make me love him any more than I already did, so why bother? And he’d say if marriage didn’t mean anything to me, why not just do it because I knew how much it meant to him?
He had a point.
But in a textbook case of passive-aggressive, completely dysfunctional manipulation, I’d suggest that he must be the one with the problem, not me. We lived together. We travelled together. We had great jobs, gorgeous friends, a wonderful relationship. We already had a perfect life. Why couldn’t he just be content with the way things were? If he needed to be married to feel secure, maybe he actually wasn’t happy in the relationship in the first place.
So I guess the relationship was already on shaky ground when we went to a birthday dinner for one of his work colleagues. The night kicked off with drinks in the bar. Just as everyone was invited to sit down for dinner, I popped into the bathroom to pee and freshen up. By the time I’d returned, most people were already seated at a long communal table, with about fifteen seats on either side. I was surprised to notice that my boyfriend was already seated and he hadn’t saved a seat beside him for me. I didn’t make a fuss about it because I knew most of his colleagues and friends anyway, so I just plonked myself down in the empty seat diagonally across from him and started chatting to the folks around me.
I wonder if it was fate stepping in with my bladder function that night because those seating arrangements gave me a front-row seat to the love affair unfolding before my very eyes . . . between my boyfriend and the tall, attractive blonde sitting beside him. She was a colleague of his, so they already knew each other. But whenever I’d glance across, I couldn’t help noticing that this wasn’t just two workmates having a chat. There was a subtle chemistry between them I couldn’t ignore. Like an invisible electric love current, drawing them together. I saw the way his eyes lit up as he looked at her. And there was something quite beautiful about the way he focused on her mouth as she spoke. Like he desperately wanted to know what it would feel like to put his lips on hers.
It was such an odd feeling as I sat there watching them, mostly because I didn’t feel an ounce of jealousy. I actually felt a bizarre sense of calm about the whole scenario. By the end of the night, the same gut feeling that had been telling me I didn’t want to marry him was now telling me that the tall, pretty blonde sitting beside my boyfriend was supposed to be his wife. And I was totes okay with it.
I told my best friend the next day that I was ready to break up with my boyfriend, because I’d just met his future wife. She thought I’d fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. ‘That’s insane, Sam. He loves you. It’s so obvious. He wants to marry you!’
‘Nope,’ I insisted. ‘He thinks he wants to marry me. But he’s meant to be with her. Trust me!’
I broke up with him a few weeks later. And I wasn’t the least bit shocked when I found out that he had started dating the tall, pretty blonde from the birthday dinner not long after. Just as I’d predicted.
It did briefly occur to me that they might have been having an affair already when I saw them together that night. But, to be honest, I couldn’t care less. It seemed perfectly inevitable that they would end up together anyway. He didn’t look at me the way he looked at her.
A couple of years later he married her. Last I heard, they’re still together with a couple of gorgeous kids. And I’m genuinely happy for him, and for her.
It must be super inconvenient to meet ‘The One’ when you’re already with somebody else. This also happened to a friend’s mum back in the 1960s when she agreed to attend a premarital counselling course at the local church with her fiancé and ended up falling in love with the counsellor. The very thing that was supposed to provide the young couple with a strong foundation for their future was the catalyst for their breakup.
She simply couldn’t deny the strength of that invisible love current, so she dumped the fiancé, cancelled the wedding and married the marriage counsellor instead. And they’re still together fifty years, four kids and eleven grandkids later.
Lucky she didn’t let an unfortunate inconvenience, like the fact that she was engaged to someone else, stand in the way of her happiness.
You really can’t fight the strength of that invisible love current.
True love for the win, right?
If life occasionally throws you curve balls, I think it’s fair to say the dating process can sometimes lob hand grenades at you.
If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to dodge those nasty missiles. But if you end up directly in the line of fire, they can blow up, rather awkwardly, in your face.
A girlfriend of mine once nervously turned up to a blind date, to discover she’d been set up with a dwarf. She was shocked, to say the least. At no stage throughout the entire set-up process had anyone thought to mention that her blind date was, in fact, a little person. You know, like ‘Tom is thirty-five. He works in finance. Loves to travel. He’s been single for nine months. Oh, and he’s three foot four. You’re cool with that, right?’
After briefly toying with the idea of leaving, she realised that would be insanely rude and downright offensive. She told herself to stop being so judgemental. He was probably a lovely guy. So she decided to go ahead with the date. He bought her a drink. They chatted. He seemed fun. She was quite enjoying his company. And then, out of the blue he said, ‘Yeah. I’m going to be really honest with you. I’ll only fuck girls who are a size six to eight. And I quite like Asian.’
My friend is a healthy size ten to twelve. And she looks about as Asian as Cameron Diaz.
She never saw him again.
My gorgeous friend Danielle was getting understandably frustrated by her fella’s casual attitude to dating. Despite seeing each other for almost twelve months, they still only caught up once a week. Sometimes she’d go a week or two without hearing from him at all. Then one night, when she was lying in his arms after some especially awesome sex, he hit her with this grenade: ‘You know, Danielle, if your weight didn’t fluctuate so much, I might be able to get serious about you.’
She lay there stunned and humiliated, in total disbelief that the man she had just been so intimate (and naked) with, could be so rude, crude and insensitive. She didn’t hear from the fuckbucket for a week. And when he called her to beg for forgiveness, it pains me to tell you that Danielle accepted his apology and took him back! I know, right? Sometimes love isn’t just blind. It’s deaf as well.
Four months later, he left her for another woman, who was a size 2.
I found myself on the receiving end of a memorable foot-in-mouth moment while on a blind date with a not-so-charming fella named Dan. Dan’s sister Dee offered to set us up. I didn’t know Dee really well, but I’d met her a few times and she seemed like a cool chick. So I agreed to meet her bro
ther for dinner, on the proviso that Dee and her boyfriend join us as well.
On the day of the date, I bought a new dress but then I still couldn’t decide what to wear so I called a friend several times to workshop my outfit. Then I spent another hour doing my hair and makeup so I could look as desirable as possible. I hadn’t been on a date in forever and I really wanted to impress.
Dan arrived for our date forty-five minutes late, completely dishevelled and hammered. Not quite Charlie Sheen wasted, but he did proudly confess to coming straight from a seven-hour ‘business’ lunch. We all laughed about the fact that he’d arrived in that state for our date, and Dee warned her little brother to be on his best behaviour. But just after main course (and another four vodka sodas), Dan started ranting about how he really wished he’d been set up with another friend of Dee’s – a girl he’d apparently fancied for a while. ‘Whatever happened to that hottie friend of yours, Michelle?’ he asked Dee. ‘When are you going to set me up with her, like you promised? She’s such a babe.’
Dee tried to tactfully change the subject, but little bro wouldn’t let up. He went on and on and on about how smoking hot her other friend was and how he really wanted to go on a date with her and why wouldn’t she just make it happen already?
Meanwhile I sat there feeling completely invisible. I was mortified.
Um, buddy, can you fucking not? I wanted to scream. Because I’m the girl she did set you up with. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m sitting here. On a date. With you. Right now.
But dear old Dan wouldn’t stop carrying on until Dee finally, sheepishly, agreed to set him up with the hottie. And then she very quickly changed the subject.
I had somehow found myself on a blind date with Sydney’s rudest, most passive-aggressive man, but his message couldn’t have been any clearer. Dan just wasn’t into me. He was either too drunk, too rude or just too clueless to see how awkward the situation was for me. Or maybe he just missed the memo on how to be a decent person.
I certainly wasn’t going to cause a scene or let the idiot know how much he’d hurt and humiliated me. Luckily, I’d had a few wines by that stage, so I was sufficiently buzzed to see the funny side of it. And as I sat there, amused, for the remainder of dinner, I couldn’t decide who I felt more sorry for: his sister Dee or the poor girl she was setting Dan up with next.
Yeah, good luck with that, Michelle!
There are certain things a guy should never do on a date. Openly admit that he’d rather be on a date with someone else, for starters.
Also, he should not pick his nose. Eat it. Fart. Perve at other women. These actions should only be attempted in front of the opposite sex after you’ve known each other a really long time (and even then guys, please don’t pick your nose and eat it in front of me. Ever.)
I discovered something else men shouldn’t do during the early getting-to-know-you phase, courtesy of a guy I’d been out with a few times. After dinner on our third date, Jack suggested we head to one of his favourite bars. Imagine my surprise, upon entering the venue, to discover it was a strip joint.
At first glance, it could have been any other club, with pumping music, trendy leather lounges and dim lighting. But that was before I spotted the completely naked woman on the stage, demonstrating her impressive flexibility, rather enthusiastically, on a pole.
We got a drink and I sat there awkwardly, trying to work out why on earth a guy would bring me to a strip club on our third date (and how on earth Kristal could possibly get her foot behind her ear like that). I noticed some other half-dressed women leading guys through a little hidden side door. Jack told me that was the ‘private room’, where the dancing is performed in a more personal setting. ‘A bit of touching’s allowed,’ he said, ‘but no sex.’
After initially trying to pretend he’d only ‘heard’ about the special room from some of his mates, he fessed up to being in there himself. A few times. ‘Bucks’ nights.’
Yeah. Sure. Whatevs.
Sometimes, in the early stages of dating, a guy says or does something that’s a major no-no. It’s in that moment that you just know this guy will never, ever see you in the big white dress. A moment of perfect clarity. A moment of ‘You and Me. Will Never Be’. Different strokes for different folks, and all that. But taking me to a strip club on our third date is a very good indication that you and me are not meant to be.
My friend Kerry’s moment of clarity came on her third date with a 26-year-old backhoe driver. He’d suggested they grab some takeaway and watch a movie at home. He chose Top Gun and then he sat on the couch next to her making aeroplane noises, loudly, throughout the entire movie. She felt like she was on a date with a toddler. She never saw him again.
Another friend was invited by a guy to his favourite Mexican restaurant in Bondi for their second date. When the bill came, he produced a Shop A Docket with a two-for-one voucher and used it to pay for his half of the bill. She knew, in that moment, that there was no future for them.
One of the most unsavoury turn-offs happened to my dear friend Penny, on her very first date with a high-profile Sydney businessman. After a lovely dinner at a posh restaurant, he drove her home in his Porsche convertible. But, as he pulled up outside her apartment building, he boldly asked if she would prefer to go back to his place instead. She laughed it off and said, ‘No, thank you. Not tonight. But thanks for a lovely evening. And thanks for dropping me home.’
Now, instead of jumping out of the car and racing around to open her car door and say a gentlemanly good night, he just sat there in the driver’s seat and said, ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come home with me?’
‘Yes, I’m very sure,’ she replied politely.
And that’s when she noticed that somehow, during that brief exchange, he had managed to unzip his trousers. And he was sitting there, with his right hand in his pants, slowly stroking his exposed, semi-erect penis. He watched her gaze down at his dick, so he knew that she knew exactly what he was doing. But he didn’t stop. He just sat there in the driver’s seat of his Porsche convertible, wanking, before he leaned across to her and said, ‘How could you possibly leave me now?’
‘Um. Quite easily,’ she replied. ‘Watch me!’ And she bolted.
As completely feral as that whole experience was for poor Penny, I guess the really positive thing to come out of this story is confirmation that Porsche drivers really are wankers. Because, ladies, now we know for sure.
I’d been invited out to lunch by one of the bosses at the TV station where I was working at the time to discuss my ‘future at the network’.
This was a major deal. I’d been working my little butt off, hoping the television superpowers would notice me and decide I was most definitely destined for bigger and better things. So that lunch invitation was a promising indication that my career was heading in the right direction.
I wore the Cue suit I’d bought specially for the occasion. Back then, Cue was the go-to store for the trendiest female corporate attire. I had never worked in the corporate arena, but I hoped my new suit would exude a Jana Wendt level of professionalism, ambition and credibility.
Lunch got off to a cracking start. We discussed my job, the show I was working on and the general goings-on at the network. Just after main course, the mood changed slightly as Mr TV leaned across the table and with a weird smirk, said ‘So . . . you’re a journalist?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I replied, wondering why he didn’t already know that. ‘I graduated with a Bachelor of Business Communication with majors in Journalism and Film and Television Studies from the Queensland University of Technology.’
‘Impressive,’ he purred. ‘So I guess that means you’re good with words?’
‘Well, I hope so.’ I laughed. ‘My career kind of depends on it.’
By this stage, I was convinced that my Jana Wendt Cue suit was working its magic and he was about to offer me a job reading the prime-time news.
But instead, he leaned a little
closer, like he wanted to tell me a really big secret, and said, ‘Do you know what my favourite word is?’
Awkward silence.
I mean, what sort of question is that? There are more than 170 000 words in the English dictionary. How could I possibly guess his favourite? Was it a trick question? Did my future at the network depend on knowing the answer? Would Jana Wendt know the word? Good god! What could it be? ‘Television’? ‘Winklepicker’? ‘Kakorrhaphiophobia’?
But instead, I just said, ‘Umm. No, I don’t know what your favourite word is.’
And then he leaned even further across the table, leered at me intently and, in a deep, suggestive, growling voice, said, ‘Moist.’
Yikes.
That’s a word that makes most women cringe. It’s up there alongside ‘discharge’ in the repulsive zone.
So why the hell was this guy forcing it into our conversation over a business lunch? Was he deliberately trying to make me feel uneasy? Or was it an attempt to steer our conversation down that suggestive little path towards his casting couch? Was he just throwing it out there to see if I might bite? I know for sure he wasn’t about to invite me for a game of Scrabble.
After clearing the little bit of vomit that had surfaced in the back of my throat, I laughed out loud, like it was the funniest joke I’d ever heard. And then I quickly changed the topic. I’m a nervous talker. When I don’t know what to say, I somehow manage to talk incessantly. I’m not even sure how the words come out of my mouth. But they just keep coming. I guess it’s my superpower (my other superpower is making champagne disappear, by the way).
We finished lunch without further incident. He didn’t bring it back up and we never spoke about it again.
A friend had a similar experience after she’d just started working at a popular radio station. A well-known announcer at the station, who also happened to be much older, invited her out to lunch. She was flattered and honoured to spend time with a man she had respected for so long. But as their business lunch was winding up, the dirty old man leaned over to her and said, ‘I get the feeling our relationship could be like a ride in a Ferrari. Fast, exciting and fun while it lasts. I’ve booked us a room at the hotel around the corner. Let’s go.’ Ewwwwww.