Ripe For The Picking

So I recently redownloaded tinder against all of my better judgement, and I’m not enjoying it. Not only do I feel like a massive cow rejecting people based on their looks and poorly written bios, but I feel like a massive cow because all of these people are exponentially more attractive than me. It doesn’t sit right with me that I’m sat at home busting out of seven year old pajama pants (too cheap to buy a new set) having just eaten twelve chicken dippers and am contemplating cooking more, and rejecting people because they have a line razored into their eyebrow hair. These people could be brilliant. Funny, and charming in that devastating way that so many people are. And I’m still swiping left like a motherfucker. And I’ll admit it, I’m the first person to cry singledom. Moan to friends about other friends being in a relationship and how I’m the only single person left on planet earth. And I only have myself to blame.

I suppose when you grow up fat, queer and weird, you don’t get the same kind of attraction your straight and cisgender counter-parts get. Most of the people I knew from school are in a relationship now, whether it’s a positive one or not, they managed to achieve that goal before I did. A lot of them don’t deserve the love they have, but they have it and that’s what I tend to focus on. It feels like the entire globe is conspiring against me sometimes, like it’s trying to send me a message that nobody will ever feel affection for me the way I want and need them to. I know this is all bullshit. My dad gave me a very good piece of advice once, “David, it’s not a conspiracy. Most people don’t even think about you, that doesn’t mean they are against you.” True, bit harsh but absolutely true. This is true for those in a relationship too; I know it’s none of my business, but it pisses me off, and I will lie awake on my lonely nights asking the question, ‘why not me? My first kiss happened after my first hit of poppers. Imagine this: twenty-ish goth teenagers having a meeting (scouse for snogging) competition, sniffing cheap poppers (rush) and smoking fags. 13 year old me with a straightened fringe and Evanescence t-shirt. A boy aged 19 grabbed me by the back of the head, put his smooth lips on mine and snogged the life out of me. I tried to copy what he was doing by moving my head in a circular motion, opening and closing my mouth like I was trying to breathe underwater. It lasted for roughly ten seconds, and I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing. He didn’t seem to mind, and bragged about how fine he was to kiss another boy. I was ecstatic. He walked me to the bus stop later that day holding my hand, and then kissed me goodbye as the bus pulled in. That’s pretty much the extent of my sexual and romantic experience of school. No dates, no texts, no sex. Other teenagers were living like an episode of Skins, I was living like the Magdalene Sisters.

I lost my virginity at twenty in Sackville gardens with an un-named man after seventy eight Kronenbergs. He was stood leering in the doorway of a closed bar, I told him to fuck off and he laughed. The usual response. Then I saw him light a cigarette so I quickly ran over and said, “hey, uh…sorry about the fuck off. Can I have one?” He kept his hand up by his face and turned it slightly and beckoned for me to take a drag of the cigarette without letting me hold it. I took a drag and thanked him. He grabbed my left arm stopping me from moving away, took a long pull of the cigarette and blew the smoke straight into my face. He kept eye contact the whole time. The next thing I knew, my knickers were by my ankles and I was biting tree bark. After this followed a handful of bizarre but exciting sexual trysts with poorly matched suiters I latched onto for the new experience of being wanted. Most of the time I didn’t even enjoy the sex, I just wanted to feel desired, no matter how much they just wanted to cum and leave. I met a few men along the way I wanted more from, and sometimes I got it, but it quickly dissolved when we all realized I wasn’t ready. Ready for what, I’m not so sure. I hated sleeping with somebody in my bed, I hated sleeping with somebody in their bed. I wouldn’t let anybody touch me or my penis, and decided to instead offer up my services as the local neighborhood platonic cuddle partner. This worked about seventy percent of the time — you’d be surprised who just wants to be held.

The man who assaulted me was the first I’d told about how I really felt. I told him how I’d never felt comfortable being intimate, how I was always so ashamed of my body and my sexiness because of how I was taught to treat it. He told me I should practice sober sex with a regular partner. Pretty good advice for a guy who decided to rape me forty five minutes later in two rooms of his apartment. I’m aware this may be triggering for some people, and it’s triggering for me, I’m just trying to be honest about what happened. The reason I mention it is because I’ve figured it out. It wasn’t my fault, I don’t and never did blame myself for it. But it made me shrink fully into my already sizeable yet pearly pink shell. Every time I walked past a man on the street I would shudder. Every man I felt something for quickly became an enemy, a predator on my homeland I had to evade or fight with. I destroyed all traces of my former self a la Gone Girl and swore I would never flirt with my sexiness again. I slowly began to “date”, and even I cringe at how poor my attempt was. I quickly realized that I was essentially throwing myself back into my old cycles of repeated abuse and dissociation, just because it felt good to know that at least somebody, no matter how repulsive or uninteresting, was thinking about me. And then, one day, something miraculous happened. I was thinking about me, and what I wanted. And what I wanted was to be touched, licked, loved. I had broken my own curse, I was back out of my shell and ready to stroll the beach of opportunity showing off my beautiful pearly pink. And….nobody cared.

Every dating app ever commissioned was showing me the same result — Congratulations! You are an ugly fucker! Nothing on Grindr, nothing on Scruff, don’t tell anybody this but there was even nothing on match.com. How fucking embarrassing. I used pictures from years ago, back when I was thinner (thank you cocaine) and had fuller hair. I had that bruised beautiful look of somebody handsome but broken. It was all bullshit, I may be fatter than ever before and have about sixty percent less hair than ever, but my God am I ready to experience love. I get so frustrated when I see people happy together, I want so desperately to run up and shake their hands and congratulate them on being fucking perfect, but the reality is I’m the one who will be driving the car that runs the red light to run the cunts over. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be in love, and go on holiday with my boyfriend and fight about what direction the hotel is in. I want to come home and kick off on him when he hasn’t put the wash on and I have to do it because I do everything else. I want to ask him to drive and then have a fight about how I’m always driving, but then we buy a new cushion for the sofa and fuck passionately on it once we get home. I hate that I’m sat judging all of these beautiful and fine men (and non-binary beauties), and want so desperately to like them all so they feel wanted just like I did. But that wasn’t real, and doing that for them wouldn’t be either.

My body is finally ready to be explored, every single hairy nook and flabby cranny. I’m an expert kisser and although the lights will absolutely be off during, we can sleep naked under the covers. We can go anywhere on our weekends and we can fight on the tram about what the coolest animal emoji is (zebra). I can buy you a portion of chips on my way home and you can scratch my back while we watch the Real Housewives. I don’t want to be defined by my assault, and I don’t want to be defined by my loneliness. Let’s make love whoever and wherever you are, because I’m finally ready to let you.