There’s something I don’t get. We’ve just been through this huge #Metoo campaign and unless you live on Mars, you have to know about it. And I want to believe that men are starting to take note. They’re finding their way and rethinking what is … Continue reading Maybe they’ll never get it
I’m on a kind of detox.
Apart from all the wild drugs that I’ve stopped injecting and the copious magnums of champagne I am not drinking, I’m also not dating.
I am spending time alone, looking within, meditating, breathing slowly and drinking fruit juice.
I’ve deleted the dating app off my phone and blocked numbers of any men who may tempt me.
Instead of dabbling in online extra murals I spend my days in a healthy manner.
I wake up, take out my gym clothes, squeeze oranges, wander around the house, open my computer, close my computer, check the fridge, stare aimlessly into space, moisturise, open and close again, check my neck for wrinkles, read, nap and yawn.
It’s very fucking boring.
I was doing quite well until the phone rang. I answered, mostly because I had nothing else to do. It was an old gay friend; I figured I was safe.
He sounded super excited.
Hi. I did not sound as excited.
I have someone here who wants to talk to you . You’re never going to believe who it is, jeez!
He handed the phone over. I didn’t know who it could be and didn’t care that much, suffering from severe men phone computer withdrawal stuff.
Violet. Is that really you? You won’t believe it, this is X.
Twenty years, I thought. Twenty years, at least. Sweet Goddesses.
I’d had this huge crush on X when I was younger. He was older than me and I was never even sure he knew I existed. Except for the day that I left Zimbabwe. I had a book for all my friends to write messages in. Goodbye messages. X took over a whole page and I remember feeling so excited.
ButI went to live in a foreign country and that was the end of my crush on X.
On the phone.
While I was on a man detox.
What is a girl supposed to do?
Can we meet, he asked. I would so love to see you, would be amazing to catch up.
I thought about him. It would be cool, sure, to see someone from another life.
I thought about my skin that didn’t really need more moisturising. The opening and closing couldn’t be good for my Mac. And I never wanted to squeeze another bloody orange.
But I also looked at the gym clothes that were lying on my bed .The ones that I never got to put on.
I did not need X in my life. At that moment. But I did need to get to the gym.
Hey, it’s good to hear from you, I said. But I’m kinda busy now. Leave me your number though, maybe I’ll call you back.
And I headed off to gym.
The start of my real detox.
Which I gotta say, feels pretty damn good.
I know that I’m a little late to the Ashley Madison dating site scandal but I’ve been somewhat consumed by my own dating site scandal.
I subscribed to The Perfect Partner about a year ago. It didn’t go very well, mainly because I don’t think there is a perfect partner out there, also because I kept losing my perfect password.
Anyway. After one too many shirtless pics, LookingForFun69 messages and a little sexual harrasment from NaughtyBoy, I decided it was time to unsubscribe.
You try unsubscribe from a dating site. It’s seriously near damn impossible, and I give up every single time. It goes like this.
- Find the teeny writing in the bottom left-hand corner that says Cancel Subscription. It will be well hidden by a young couple holding hands on the beach.
- Click on the link where you spend the next ten minutes looking for another link. More happy people will appear.
- Are you sure you want to unsubscribe? Y/N.
- Why do you want to unsubscribe? None of your business.
- Can you tell us anything else? No.
- Right, soon you’ll be alone forever.
At which point I give up and continue getting messages from men looking for adventure and anal sex.
I realise I have more chance of meeting a man in the two-minute noodle section at the grocery store than online.
Which brings me back to Ashley Madison.
There was outrage that the site encouraged adultery. But at least it was an honest cheating site with clear instructions. And there was outrage that subscribers had to pay to delete their profiles. Personally, I would pay hundreds of thousands right now to get away from the Perfect Fucking Partner.
Maybe I’m going to start my own dating site. Go ahead readers, please subscribe. It’s going to at least be honest.
I haven’t had sex in my own bed for a long time, but the other night, that changed.
I invited my friend, the one with benefits, for dinner. We’re always at his place, which is perfect, but I decided I was ready to have him over.
I was nervous. I scrubbed every surface in my house, wiped down the cupboard doors, cleaned the windows and re-arranged my underwear. I changed the linen, plumped up the cushions, lit candles and made sure no vibrators were under my pillow.
I pretended I cooked but picked up food from the local Indian take way.
Showered, perfumed, made double sure the kids had no plans to come home, and then let him in.
The house sparkled, and so did I.
He opened the wine and poured two glasses. I served my Mirchi Murgh Massala and we had a fantastic night, eventually making our way to my bedroom.
Let me quickly add that I have not had sex with anyone in my bed ever since the divorce. It was quite a big step.
I may have had sex on my dining room table, in the kitchen and in the bathroom, but that is a different story.
Anyway, it was going really well. We were both in ‘the zone’.
Until, that moment just before, you know, before he was about to go inside me, when he whispered:-
‘Violet, the condoms…’
‘Where are they?’ I whispered back.
Usually, the condoms are at his house, in the bedside table, easy to reach – ribbed or flavoured or extra thin or ultra large, a somewhat amazing variety that are always accessible.
‘It’s your house, Violet.’ He stopped whispering. ‘You should have condoms.’
He’s very difficult this lover of mine.
I jumped out of bed, told him not to go anywhere and started searching. My bedside tables, the bathroom shelves, my handbags, the kitchen, cupboards, everywhere.
Not a condom in sight.
I did however, find the credit card I lost over a year ago, my passport, my Ster Kinekor card and a bonus one thousand rand.
I was more turned on than ever.
But no condoms.
I went back to the bedroom, with my fantastic stash of goodies, but a little sheepish. I did not know how to explain this.
It was okay. He was asleep. Cosy and comfortable.
I hesitate to use the word satisfied.
I smiled, climbed in next to him and went to sleep too.
Which means I still haven’t used my own bed for sex. But I am getting closer.
My dating profile very clearly says two things.
Please do not contact me if you do not have a photograph.
Please do not contact me if you cannot spell.
The photograph bit is clear. If you don’t have a photograph, it means one of two things:
1. You are an ugly fucker.
2. You have something to hide.
Generally, there is something to hide. Men on dating sites, without photographs, are most often married and looking for a bit of ‘please don’t tell my wife’ sex on the side. I have no time for these men, they are cowards and they should get their cheap thrills elsewhere.
But the bad spelling thing drives me completely nuts. I understand dyslexia and all that, but if you’re online, it means you have a computer. And there is something called spell check. My name is Violet. It’s quite easy to spell.
Yet I receive mails every day:
And even… Dear Violent!
The message is often followed by “I am convinced your the one for me, the luv of my…”
YOUR? Come on, Dear Dater, you surely mean ‘you’re’. Whatever happened to apostrophes? And LUV? What are we, twelve?
I recently decided to play along with one of the guys who called me Violent. His name was John but I chose to call him James. Violet – Violent. John – James. Same difference.
“Violent”, he typed. “I know your the girl for me. Are you wearing panties?”
Again, the apostrophe thing. And so much for foreplay.
“James honey”, I replied, “I was wearing panties. But what you’ve just said there, oh my, it is SUCH a turn on, I’m slipping them off immediately, I can’t wait, oh oh….”
“Good stuff Violent, I’m sending you a photograph of myself now, look how huge I am…”
I did became Violent.
“For gods sake John-James you schmuck; I’m really wearing flannel pajamas and sitting with a bowl of ice cream in front of the television watching Game of Thrones. What do you think, moron? I am not sitting here waiting for a picture of your dick!”
“Your such a bitch!” he typed.
APOSTROPHE, you idiot, apostrophe. I couldn’t help correcting his grammar before I deleted him. That’s why I changed my dating profile: Dear Dater I couldn’t help but crack my computer in half over my knee and throw it out the window. Please understand why my email responses are slow. Please contact me, but only if you can spell. And please, don’t forget the photo.
`Love, Violet V.I.OL.E.T.