by Sami Lukis
When he left – yes, I did kick him out – I lay there and wondered a) how many other boyfriends had cheated on me, b) how often, and c) how many times I’d been the other woman.
I’m guessing the answer’s not zero to any of the above. And I’m absolutely sure I’ll never know for sure. I suppose, in the end, you’ve just got to believe that karma really is a bitch. And hope that she always shows up when it counts.
I can vividly remember three first kisses in my life. My first-ever pash at the age of ten (thanks, Kylie), my first kiss with the One (which I thought would be my last ever first kiss), and the absolute worst first kiss of my life, with the Foreign Correspondent. Which didn’t actually happen until my mid-forties.
I met the Foreign Correspondent when we were both holidaying in the Austrian ski resort of (yep, you guessed it!) St Anton. He worked for a German television news network so we had plenty in common and lots to chat about. He was fiercely intelligent, really interesting and seriously attractive. Plus, he seemed like a genuinely lovely fella. A gentleman. The kind of guy I could imagine having a relationship with, if we lived in the same city. Or even just on the same continent.
At the end of the night, we found ourselves standing outside my hotel, fairy lights sparkling all around us in a charming alpine village, snow starting to fall – and I knew it was time for the kiss. As far as romantic situations go, this one was pretty spesh. It was all systems go.
But then, as his face moved slowly towards mine and I readied myself for the magical moment of our first kiss, my romantic little fairytale turned into a Wes Craven nightmare. He had very hard lips, almost like they were pursed. And there seemed to be too many teeth. I hadn’t noticed that about him before. When our mouths met, there was a significant amount of enamel clicking and clacking. But the worst part? His tongue, and the way it darted in and out of my mouth. Very hard. And fast.
All I could feel were those thin, hard lips, and that thin, hard tongue. Darting. In and out. In and out. Hard and fast. Fast and hard. Like a woodpecker trying to locate my tonsils. And I remember thinking, Um. Can you fucking not? Please.
All those years ago, Kylie had taught me that a kiss should start off soft and slow and gentle. (How in the name of Aphrodite did she know this shit?) But the Foreign Correspondent went straight in there, without warning. All tongue. And all kinds of crazy aggressive, desperate desire. I felt like my face was being assaulted. Methinks the Foreign Correspondent had spent way too much time in war zones.
Still, I persisted, hoping the tongue action would eventually subside. It did not. That’s when I spontaneously laughed out loud, mid-kiss. Which prompted him to disconnect and draw breath for a moment.
Thank god that’s over! I thought to myself. Surely he felt it too. It must have been just as bad for him. How embarrassment!
But he wasn’t laughing. He looked a little puzzled at first. Then he looked longingly into my eyes and, before I knew it, his mouth was coming at me again. I made the split second decision not to turn away. By that stage I was kind of invested in the idea of a fun little Austrian fling with the German foreign correspondent, so I told myself it couldn’t have been that bad, and puckered up for another try.
It wasn’t just bad. It was face-numbingly bad. Again with the tongue, poking, and violently thrusting into my gums. A little voice inside my head started screaming obscenities, begging for this horror show to end. It was undoubtedly, absolutely, the most excruciatingly ghastly kiss of my life.
Another guy I dated many years before produced excessive saliva whenever we kissed. Every time we locked lips, my mouth would fill up with his spit. I felt like I needed one of those suction tubes the dental assistants use to remove excess fluid, just so we could keep kissing. (Yes, it was every bit as gross as it sounds.) And, sadly, it wasn’t half as bad as this guy and his savage, stabbing lizard tongue.
The kiss with the Foreign Correspondent was so bad, it completely turned me off the idea of having sex with him. So I told him I wasn’t feeling well, said goodnight and left him standing there outside my hotel.
I spent most of the next day dodging him and analysing the situation with my girlfriends, trying to rationalise and understand how a man in his early forties could possibly be such a horrendous kisser. Should I accept some of the blame? It takes two, after all. But I’d never experienced anything like it before. And I’d never had any complaints. Plus: Kylie.
There was some lively debate about whether I should bother to see the Foreign Correspondent again. If everything else about him was so great, was the kissing part really that important anyway? And is a terrible kisser guaranteed to be just as clueless between the sheets? I decided not to risk it. Engaging with the Foreign Correspondent at snogging level had proven to be way too much of a hostile environment for me already.
Dating in my forties has presented me with a surprising variety of ‘never have I ever’ scenarios: the Gyno, the worst kisser, the snoring mash-nazi, the choke and pokers (plural) and, my least favourite so far, the Shithead.
I’d been dating this guy for a few months but after a strong initial attraction, things weren’t really going anywhere. He’d just become a part-time single dad after his wife of ten years left him, so I was willing to account for the fact that he was in a major period of readjustment. Another serious relationship probably just wasn’t a priority.
But even on his child-free weekends, he didn’t seem especially keen to spend time with me. There’d be an overnight stay and maybe a smashed avo the next morning but he’d always have to rush off to the gym or lunch or drinks at the pub with mates. And I was never invited. I hadn’t met any of his friends, I’d never been to his place and I’d never met his kids.
I resigned myself to the fact that he was only interested in some obligation-free slap and tickle and decided it was probably time to be letting this one go.
And then he suddenly offered to come over and cook me dinner. I took this as a promising indication that he may have made it through the adjustment period and was ready for something a little more serious. (Or I was desperately clinging to anything that might suggest this guy actually gave a shit. I don’t know. You decide.)
Anyone can make a dinner reservation. (Or ask their secretary to do it.) But it’s a thoughtful, romantic gesture to plan and prepare a meal for your lover. Isn’t that supposed to show that you care?
Sadly, things went from romantic to rank on the day he was supposed to come over and cook for me. He left a message on my phone, asking if he could email me the recipes for the dishes he was planning to cook, so I could go to the supermarket and buy all of the ingredients for him.
What the actual fuck? Isn’t the whole ‘I’ll cook you dinner’ experience meant to be an all-inclusive deal? A guy had never before offered to cook me dinner, only to ask me to buy my own ingredients. Sure, it’s something you might ask of a partner if you’ve been together for a really long time, someone you’re comfortable enough to pee in front of. But we’d only been dating (shagging) for a few months, so I did not feel comfortable enough to a) let him watch me pee or b) buy his groceries.
Also, I really wanted him to make the effort. Actually, at that stage, after months of very little effort, I needed him to make an effort.
I happened to be having lunch with another trusty truth-telling friend when the message came through, so I asked her opinion. Was I a bitch for expecting the guy to buy his own groceries? Did that make me high maintenance?
‘No way!’ she screamed. ‘Tell him to buy his own fucking groceries. Or to get fucked.’
Solid advice from a straight-shooting girlfriend. Who doesn’t love that? So I sent him a text and said, ‘Hey, I’m not going to the supermarket. If you’re too busy to cook, we can eat out, no problem x’.
He immediately replied, ‘haha thought you might say that ☺. See you at yours, 7ish’.
So the guy knew he was being naughty by even asking in the first place! That annoyed me. Along with the blatant abuse of
the smiley face.
I don’t want to sound like a total punish here, but the meal was not quite as fabulous or romantic as I’d hoped. Some plain spaghetti with a little garlic and onion and some feta cheese on top. Minimal effort on his behalf. It was probably one of his kids’ favourites. I added some chilli. Actually lots of chili. So I could taste something.
I let him stay the night. Dinner was a letdown, but I was determined to enjoy my ‘dessert’.
The morning after, he disappeared into my bathroom for a very long shower before leaving for work. But when he gave me a goodbye kiss, he asked if my stomach was okay. ‘I think you added a little too much chilli to the pasta last night. My tummy doesn’t feel great.’ He laughed awkwardly, as he rubbed his belly.
‘Oh god, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I feel fine. Hope you feel better.’
And off he went to work and I went back to sleep. But later, when I got up and entered the bathroom, I was appalled to discover a scene of absolute carnage in my commode. The guy didn’t just have an upset belly. He had a complete diarrhoeic explosion, the remnants of which were splashed all over my toilet bowl. I’m not talking about a cheeky little skid mark on the bottom of the ceramic here. There was shit everywhere! It must have been some kind of upward projectile diarrhoea, because it had sprayed up under the rim and the seat and there was poop in remote corners of my toilet I didn’t even know existed.
Mr Spray and Go had flushed (thank god!) but he’d made no effort whatsoever to clean up the aftermath of the horrific crime scene. A guy with that kind of monumental bum burst had to know he’d made an apocalyptic mess. So why on earth would he just leave it there, on full display, in my loo? There was a friggin’ toilet brush sitting right there next to the toilet. Why didn’t he use it?
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was fucking foul.
After more than thirty years of dating, no man had ever done this to me before. I had a male flatmate for six years who never left this kind of destruction in our bathroom. It was, to quote my all-time favourite line from Samantha in Sex and the City, ‘a real shit-motherfucker-fuck-shit situation’.
To make matters worse (and I do realise it’s difficult to think of anything that could make this situation worse), the poo had solidified on the bowl, because it had been sitting there for a while. So I did what any other independent woman would do in this shit-motherfucker-fuck-shit situation. I grabbed the toilet brush, the bleach and a pair of industrial-strength rubber gloves and I got down on my hands and knees and got to work.
As I sat there on the cold tiles, scraping his solidified shit off my toilet bowl, I knew that I would never see him again. I was disgusted. Then I was angry. Then I was sad. That a man could show me so little respect. Then I laughed out loud when I realised I had actually spent more time cleaning his shit off my bowl than I had enjoying my ‘dessert’ the night before. So not worth it.
I was done making excuses for this guy. It was rude, inconsiderate, thoughtless, downright shitty behaviour. Plus, I couldn’t help thinking, if that’s how he treated a woman he’d only known for a few months, imagine how he treated his poor wife of ten years!
I once heard Priscilla Presley in an interview talking about how to keep the magic alive in a relationship. She said there are certain things you should keep to yourself. Like a bare face. Elvis never saw her without makeup. He even told her he didn’t want to watch her getting dressed because it might ruin the mystery and romance of the relationship.
Well, kids, here’s something else you should keep to yourself: your shit stains. Especially the ones on my toilet. You can definitely keep those to yourself. Particularly if you want to have sex with me, ever again.
I never told the Shithead the real reason I stopped seeing him. I thought about taking a photo of the bowl and sending it to him with a note saying, ‘It’s not me, it’s you’. But I knew there was no point. The guy really couldn’t give a shit. Or, maybe he could. Just not where it mattered.
Okay, so, my Mr Big story. Please forgive the Sex and the City reference, but he literally was my Mr Big. He was six foot five, which is about as tall as a fella can get before it’s weird.
He also happened to be loaded. Seriously loaded. In a ‘let me fly you to Fiji for our first date’ kind of way. While the offer to whisk me off to the South Pacific after knowing me for less than thirty minutes was certainly the most glamorous first-date invitation I’d ever received, it was also the most ridiculous. I told him he was dreamin’.
He promptly suggested Hayman Island instead. And I could tell he wasn’t joking. Now, I love a tropical island getaway as much as the next gal, but my wanker radar was peaking in the red zone with this guy, so I graciously declined his unnecessarily generous (i.e. ridiculous) offers and wished him all the best. And then I watched the tall handsome stranger speed off in his brand-new Maserati.
Fast forward seven years (no itch!), to when I ran into Mr Money Bags again. He was way more relaxed this time and much less desperate to impress. He also seemed more mature and, um, how should I put this, less of a dick. His life had changed considerably since we’d last met. He’d been married, had a couple of kids, got divorced. So perhaps that experience had given him a more grounded perspective on life.
When he asked me out again (no bells and whistles or private jets this time, just a simple dinner at a restaurant of my choice), I decided to give it a go. I hadn’t been on a date in six months so I figured I had nothing to lose.
Dinner was wonderful. He was great company and we laughed heaps. He was pleasantly self-deprecating about the whole ‘let’s fly to Fiji’ fiasco and there was no hint of the flashy, brash personality that had turned me off seven years earlier. So I agreed to a second dinner. And then another. And another. And the whirlwind romance took off.
I’ve dated a few men who were a little more cashed up than the average bloke but no one came close to this guy. He spoiled me in a way I still can’t quite believe. There was all the lovely stuff a man with a healthy bank account can easily afford to woo a lady. A gigantic bunch of flowers delivered to my home every week. A driver to chauffeur me to every lunch and dinner date at all the finest restaurants. He upped the fab factor on our fourth date, when he took me by seaplane to Sydney’s exclusive Jonah’s restaurant for lunch. That, by the way, is about as perfect as a lunch date could possibly be.
I realised I might be drifting into Pretty Woman territory when he gave me a Chanel purse on our fifth date. It was exquisite soft leather with delicate white stitching embroidered in the familiar Chanel crisscross pattern. I adored every impeccable millimetre of it but I knew I couldn’t possibly accept it.
You know how you say ‘it’s the thought that counts’ when someone gives you a crappy present? Well, I’m not sure it works the same in reverse. Because I’m a gal who knows her Chanel accessories and I was well aware that sublime little purse had set him back around 2000 bucks. Which was way too much to be splashing out on me. On our fifth date.
Maybe I should have just said thank you and accepted the wildly expensive gift with grace, but instead my guard went up. I went all proud, independent woman on his arse, launching into a full-blown lecture about how I was not a gold digger and he would never be able to buy my affection. When I finished berating the poor bloke, he looked genuinely offended. He wasn’t trying to buy my affection, he calmly explained. He gave me the purse simply because he saw it and it was beautiful and he thought I would like it. That’s it. He said I was making a big deal out of nothing. And if I didn’t know how much the purse had cost him, would it have been an issue? The value of the gift really shouldn’t matter.
He had a point. So then I just felt like an ungrateful bitch.
I did accept the gift but for some strange reason, I couldn’t bring myself to actually use it. I left that divine leather pouch wrapped perfectly in its crisp embossed white tissue paper in its elegant black gift box in my top drawer. And I made a pact with myself that I would only take it out of the box and start
using it if things between us became serious. If it didn’t work out, I would just return the wallet to him, untouched.
Well that’s how I rationalised it, anyway.
The next outrageous display of excess came when he organised a car for me to drive while mine was being serviced for a few days. It was a kind gesture. Except, after calling in a favour from one of his car dealer mates, he sent me over a $450 000 Bentley. Which is the car of choice for Saudi billionaires, American rappers and Lisa Vanderpump from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
I was too scared to drive the beast so she mostly just sat in my parking spot at home – what on earth did the neighbours think? Plus, the four-door Bentley Flying Spur is roughly the size of a small country, so she’s a bitch to reverse park.
Gusband Tim begged me to take her out for a spin one night. So I drove us down to the local shops. In a half-million-dollar vehicle. In our activewear. To buy hot chips. (Tim still counts this as one of his life’s greatest achievements.)
I managed to return the Bentley without a scratch. But Gusband had guzzled the hot chips in the car on the drive back to my place so I was paranoid that the stench of those greasy French fries had permeated the bespoke leather upholstery and lush wood-grain interior (#firstworldproblems). We still laugh about it today, like naughty schoolkids.
Mr Money Bags’ most extravagant gift was an all-expenses paid trip to Mexico, after we’d been dating for just two months. I was excited about the idea of a romantic holiday with my new boyfriend but I felt really uncomfortable about letting him foot the bill. I told him I’d only join him if I could pay for my own flights. He said that wasn’t an option.
My girlfriends eventually convinced me to stop stressing about it and just give in to the reality of having a boyfriend who could afford to spoil me.