In a world dominated by the internet, where everything from shopping to working to putting on makeup is done online, it seemed only logical that it was also the best place to find love.
I'd seen the all the reality shows on TV. If I could avoid making babies with a sibling, or inviting into my house a serial killer that liked covering himself in womens' skin, I had a real shot at romance.
I was waiting in the highest room of the tallest tower, for my true love, and true love's first kiss.
I was also sick of sweeping out the dust and cobwebs from my basement.
I was also sick of sweeping out the dust and cobwebs from my basement.
I wasn't green, per se. I'd been down this road many times before. The most recent had been the M2 to Melbourne Airport to fly back to NZ with a two cats, a suitcase, and an empty bank account trailing behind me.
I also didn't have long hair to throw out the window and wait to see who climbed up.
Not on my head, anyway. I was sporting a moonboot and on crutches, so quite possibly had let the shaving slip.
Not one to rest on my laurels, the first thing I did when I got back to NZ was contact an old friend. The type of friend that comes with benefits. I'd heard that when you fall off a horse you need to get right back on, so saddle and whip in hand, I put my feet in the stirrups and mounted the steed.
Satisfied that I hadn't lost any equestrian skills, although I did accidentally knock a pole or two, my next move was to act like an adult and get a job. Plenty of time for romance later.
After registering with WINZ, buying a wardrobe that didn't consist of jandals (or thongs, as I'd become accustomed to hearing them called), g-strings (or thongs, as I'd become accustomed to hearing them called) and singlets, I went off and got myself a job.
Working with helicopters. And as it turns out, loads of men that work with helicopters.
Working with helicopters. And as it turns out, loads of men that work with helicopters.
When I visited my WINZ Case Manager to advise I was no longer in need of the financial aide they'd offered me, I was told I needed to ring a bell.
"Uh, what?"
"Everyone on the Job Seekers that gets a job has to ring a bell to let everyone in the building know they've been successful!"
"I'm not ringing that bell."
"You are."
Looking at the 4,000 people currently in the office, I stood my ground.
"Um, nope, I'm not."
"Karo. You're ringing the bell."
Never being one to do as I'm told, or conform to social norms, I swore under my breath as I stood up and rang the bell.
4,000 people burst into applause and I burst into tears.
After successfully adulting for three weeks, and finding out the hard way that the concept of hooking up in a helicopter with a work colleague is not quite as romantic as the reality of hooking up in a helicopter with a work colleague, it was apparent I needed to Adult Version 2 and be a bit more responsible about meeting my future husband.
The helicopter HAD been equipped with red webbing and tie downs, somewhat similar to The Red Room Of Pain, but sadly that movie had at that point not been released, so I was unaware of the lost potential.
Being a new Tinderella, I wasn't really sure what parameters to set.
"Single" and "Looking for Male" seemed pretty clear-cut to me, but turns out "Single" is objective, as is the definition of "Male".
After fending off 136 men who all assured me their wives were very understanding of their higher needs, and another 13 who asked how I felt about sharing my underwear, I was confident I'd whittled it down and fine-tuned my list.
The first successful candidate had a helicopter as his profile picture. Nothing else. Going against my rules of swiping right without a photo of the actual stallion, I swiped right and simultaneously insulted his choice of helicopter.
Turns out, this particular stallion not only liked helicopters, but also had a failed marriage, teenage kids, swore a lot, had an absent mother much like mine, and had a broken foot.
Match made in heaven!
If you believe in heaven. Which I didn't, but wavered because I'm pretty sure I saw the pearly gates a few times.
After three weeks I started to believe that Lucifer might just exist. Which, had I known in two year's time would be a semi-naked Tom Ellis, I would have been a lot happier.
After posting approximately 1,076 memes about heartbreak and not being good enough for anyone but my cats, I dusted off my Tiara and downloaded the Meat Market app again.
After weeding out the weirdos, I struck gold. This piece of beef lived local, had experience with kids (raising them, not sexually), owned a car and was still in possession of all of his teeth. Didn't hurt that he looked like a bit like Rob Lowe.
A lunch date was promptly organised, along with insistence to my workmates that I really did not need them to sit at a nearby table and pretend to be my children if it all went south.
Ten minutes into the coffee date, he asked if I liked helicopters or just took the job because it was the only one I could get.
"Um, yeah. I'm kinda keen on aviation, have been for quite some time."
"You should go for a fly with a pilot one day. You'd be pretty impressed."
"Oh, yeah, maybe I might give it a go!"
*fake laughing as I wonder which direction this is going to take*
"Yeah. My cousin's friend's neighbour's dog walker is a pilot. You've gotta be pretty switched on. Need to multi task a lot of stuff."
Ten minutes into the coffee date, he asked if I liked helicopters or just took the job because it was the only one I could get.
"Um, yeah. I'm kinda keen on aviation, have been for quite some time."
"You should go for a fly with a pilot one day. You'd be pretty impressed."
"Oh, yeah, maybe I might give it a go!"
*fake laughing as I wonder which direction this is going to take*
"Yeah. My cousin's friend's neighbour's dog walker is a pilot. You've gotta be pretty switched on. Need to multi task a lot of stuff."
"Oh, right, really?"
*knowing now which direction this is going to take*
"Yeah. The most important thing is with planes is making sure the engine doesn't stall."
"The engine? Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not how it works? I know you can have an engine failure, but if the plane stalls, it's the wings that do that, not the engine."
"Nope, it's not. The engine can stall if you don't fly it properly, and that's a really dangerous situation."
*looks over at nearby tables hoping like hell my workmates ignored my advice*
*knowing now which direction this is going to take*
"Yeah. The most important thing is with planes is making sure the engine doesn't stall."
"The engine? Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not how it works? I know you can have an engine failure, but if the plane stalls, it's the wings that do that, not the engine."
"Nope, it's not. The engine can stall if you don't fly it properly, and that's a really dangerous situation."
*looks over at nearby tables hoping like hell my workmates ignored my advice*
I deftly changed the subject.
"So, ah, you have kids? How old are they?"
"Yeah, one of my kids has ADHD. She's a bit of a handful."
"Oh, wow, really? So does one of mine. So do I actually. Do you or her mother have it?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"Well, ADHD is inherently genetic. I was diagnosed as a child, my mother most definitely is, and my daughter was diagnosed at quite a young age."
"Oh, yeah nah. It's not real anyway. It's just an excuse to be lazy."
"Uh, what?"
"ADHD. It's just a load of doctor rubbish used by parents to excuse lazy parenting and naughty kids."
As I skull the remnants of my coffee, and stuff the last half of my cake in my mouth (I mean, it was $7.... I ain't gonna leave it) I stood up and grabbed my jacket.
"So, I have to get going now. Need to get back to work. This was..... nice. Thank you."
I rushed out to my car without glancing back. As I opened the door and threw my handbag on the passenger seat, I felt the presence of fuckwit behind me, and turned around.
Standing closer to my vagina than my baby was while crowning, I was face-to-face with Rob Lowe.
Which, I might add, was not at all like the actual Rob Lowe.
Not just face-to-face, vagina-to-beer-belly, but trapped with my back again my door and car frame.
"So, call me later. We can organise our next date."
*gags*
"Oh yeah, for sure, I really gotta get going, I'm late for work."
Horror ensued as it dawned on me that he wasn't moving - and I was stuck - until he got what he came for.
I was too close to knee him in the groin, so as he leaned his face in towards mine, I leaned in also, ducked under his arm and threw myself into the car.
My workmates, quite reasonably, were simultaneously amused and horrified at my recount of the coffee date. And were much more so when I got a text 15 minutes later asking if I wanted to go to the movies that night.
"So, ah, you have kids? How old are they?"
"Yeah, one of my kids has ADHD. She's a bit of a handful."
"Oh, wow, really? So does one of mine. So do I actually. Do you or her mother have it?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"Well, ADHD is inherently genetic. I was diagnosed as a child, my mother most definitely is, and my daughter was diagnosed at quite a young age."
"Oh, yeah nah. It's not real anyway. It's just an excuse to be lazy."
"Uh, what?"
"ADHD. It's just a load of doctor rubbish used by parents to excuse lazy parenting and naughty kids."
As I skull the remnants of my coffee, and stuff the last half of my cake in my mouth (I mean, it was $7.... I ain't gonna leave it) I stood up and grabbed my jacket.
"So, I have to get going now. Need to get back to work. This was..... nice. Thank you."
I rushed out to my car without glancing back. As I opened the door and threw my handbag on the passenger seat, I felt the presence of fuckwit behind me, and turned around.
Standing closer to my vagina than my baby was while crowning, I was face-to-face with Rob Lowe.
Which, I might add, was not at all like the actual Rob Lowe.
Not just face-to-face, vagina-to-beer-belly, but trapped with my back again my door and car frame.
"So, call me later. We can organise our next date."
*gags*
"Oh yeah, for sure, I really gotta get going, I'm late for work."
Horror ensued as it dawned on me that he wasn't moving - and I was stuck - until he got what he came for.
I was too close to knee him in the groin, so as he leaned his face in towards mine, I leaned in also, ducked under his arm and threw myself into the car.
My workmates, quite reasonably, were simultaneously amused and horrified at my recount of the coffee date. And were much more so when I got a text 15 minutes later asking if I wanted to go to the movies that night.
"Hey, thanks for the offer, but I have to be honest. I'm really not interested in taking this any further."
"OK, so you wanna just come to my house then? I've got no kids home for the afternoon so you don't have to be quiet."
"OK, so you wanna just come to my house then? I've got no kids home for the afternoon so you don't have to be quiet."
Next cab in the rank, a few days later, seemed like much more of a gentleman.
"If you'd like to come to mine - and I completely understand if you don't want to - I could cook us a nice meal and we could watch a movie?"
After using my Private Investigator skills [I may not have mentioned that I studied this in Melbourne and am qualified] to stalk him, he seemed to legitimately be a nice guy, so I bit the bullet.
And he was.
Except, he may not have had time to change after work as a labourer. Because when I turned up, he was wearing stained trackies and a ripped t-shirt.
Framing that was a massive ZZ Top beard that somehow did not make an appearance in any of his profile photos.
Putting aside my inbuilt first-impressions-bias, and my lifelong dislike of beards, I sat down and enjoyed a nice wine and entertaining conversation with him.
After about 30 minutes he asked if I'd like to watch a movie, so he chose something, I picked a single seat recliner chair, he parked in another, and put the movie on.
Five minutes later, he was fast asleep and snoring.
I had to plan my escape route carefully. The front door was right beside Santa, and I didn't want to risk waking him as I closed it behind me. So, back door it was.
As I quietly pulled the door closed behind me, I looked around the back yard only to discover it was surrounded by high fences.
Fences, and a high gate. That stood between me and my car.
Deliberating between having to knock on the door that I'd locked behind me and needing to explain what I was doing in his back yard, and risking another long-term intimate relationship with my moon boot, I chose the latter.
As I scaled over the gate, trying to make as little noise as possible, I briefly wondered if there were dogs in the back yard that had until this point gone unnoticed.
After the panic-induced leap that would hold me in good stead for a future Police Fitness Test, I leapt in my car and threw the keys in the ignition.
Then realised that my car was parked right beside the door that was right beside Santa.
So I did what any sane person would do in this situation.
I put my car in neutral and pushed it backwards down the driveway.
Next attempt at matrimony was a handsome younger guy called Jack.
Not ready or able to perform more parkour, I willingly agreed to meet him at a local cafe. Upon arrival, I discovered two things.
After using my Private Investigator skills [I may not have mentioned that I studied this in Melbourne and am qualified] to stalk him, he seemed to legitimately be a nice guy, so I bit the bullet.
And he was.
Except, he may not have had time to change after work as a labourer. Because when I turned up, he was wearing stained trackies and a ripped t-shirt.
Framing that was a massive ZZ Top beard that somehow did not make an appearance in any of his profile photos.
Putting aside my inbuilt first-impressions-bias, and my lifelong dislike of beards, I sat down and enjoyed a nice wine and entertaining conversation with him.
After about 30 minutes he asked if I'd like to watch a movie, so he chose something, I picked a single seat recliner chair, he parked in another, and put the movie on.
Five minutes later, he was fast asleep and snoring.
I had to plan my escape route carefully. The front door was right beside Santa, and I didn't want to risk waking him as I closed it behind me. So, back door it was.
As I quietly pulled the door closed behind me, I looked around the back yard only to discover it was surrounded by high fences.
Fences, and a high gate. That stood between me and my car.
Deliberating between having to knock on the door that I'd locked behind me and needing to explain what I was doing in his back yard, and risking another long-term intimate relationship with my moon boot, I chose the latter.
As I scaled over the gate, trying to make as little noise as possible, I briefly wondered if there were dogs in the back yard that had until this point gone unnoticed.
After the panic-induced leap that would hold me in good stead for a future Police Fitness Test, I leapt in my car and threw the keys in the ignition.
Then realised that my car was parked right beside the door that was right beside Santa.
So I did what any sane person would do in this situation.
I put my car in neutral and pushed it backwards down the driveway.
Next attempt at matrimony was a handsome younger guy called Jack.
Not ready or able to perform more parkour, I willingly agreed to meet him at a local cafe. Upon arrival, I discovered two things.
One, he hadn't arrived yet. Two, this was a super-flash part of Auckland and I was being judged the second I walked in alone.
After 30 minutes of playing with the salt shaker, pretending to read the menu six times, and warding off glances from potential customers that wanted my table, I realised I'd been stood up.
After 60 minutes, I walked out with my head held high - so that I didn't meet the eye of any seated diners - and drove home.
30 minutes later Jack called and after letting it ring twice, I begrudgingly answered and listened to his very apologetic story.
"My god, I'm so so sorry! I had an emergency with a flatmate and this is the first chance I've had to get to my phone. I'm so very sorry - can you give me another chance?"
We agreed to meet on the following Friday and all was right in the world.
After 30 minutes of playing with the salt shaker, pretending to read the menu six times, and warding off glances from potential customers that wanted my table, I realised I'd been stood up.
After 60 minutes, I walked out with my head held high - so that I didn't meet the eye of any seated diners - and drove home.
30 minutes later Jack called and after letting it ring twice, I begrudgingly answered and listened to his very apologetic story.
"My god, I'm so so sorry! I had an emergency with a flatmate and this is the first chance I've had to get to my phone. I'm so very sorry - can you give me another chance?"
We agreed to meet on the following Friday and all was right in the world.
Until he called on Thursday to tell me that his friends had invited him away for the weekend, and that he really felt that he needed to join them.
Deciding I clearly needed to be a bit more fussy, and most definitely needed to take things a little slower, I agreed to go to Raglan and camp for the night with someone after chatting for two days.
I arrived at his house in Hamilton, where I left my car, and we headed to Raglan in his.
Ten minutes into the trip I was feeling optimistic about this match. I furiously rehearsed my best moves in my head, while also trying to remember if I'd packed either my PJs or my dignity.
Ten minutes before arriving in Raglan, I was updated on the occupation status my date had listed on Tinder, which turned out was actually his occupation prior to being fired for turning up to work stoned.
As we started erecting the tent, I cracked a can of 7% Vodka Cruiser and thanked my economic prowess for buying a 24 pack instead of a 12 pack.
Deciding I clearly needed to be a bit more fussy, and most definitely needed to take things a little slower, I agreed to go to Raglan and camp for the night with someone after chatting for two days.
I arrived at his house in Hamilton, where I left my car, and we headed to Raglan in his.
Ten minutes into the trip I was feeling optimistic about this match. I furiously rehearsed my best moves in my head, while also trying to remember if I'd packed either my PJs or my dignity.
Ten minutes before arriving in Raglan, I was updated on the occupation status my date had listed on Tinder, which turned out was actually his occupation prior to being fired for turning up to work stoned.
As we started erecting the tent, I cracked a can of 7% Vodka Cruiser and thanked my economic prowess for buying a 24 pack instead of a 12 pack.
An hour, several cans of Cruisers, and a few disagreements about correct erection procedures later, we headed to the river to watch the sunset.
Three hours and several more cans of Cruisers later, I figured it was a shame to waste an opportunity to keep current so we headed back to the tent, where at some point I made a mental note that warm-up stretches were probably wise at my age.
The next morning, the horror of the situation slowly dawned on me as I realised that a) I was now sober and b) I didn't have my car.
I got up, retrieved my clothes from the BBQ table and chilli bin, and started pulling down the tent.
Not until the roof fell on him did he wake and and question my haste.
"Oh, yeah, I just got text from my landlord and we're interviewing a new flatmate at 12. I need to get back."
Driving back to Hamilton was somewhat more pleasant. For him because he thought he now had poon-tang on tap; for me because every minute we drove we got closer to my car, freedom, and a shower.
Three hours and several more cans of Cruisers later, I figured it was a shame to waste an opportunity to keep current so we headed back to the tent, where at some point I made a mental note that warm-up stretches were probably wise at my age.
The next morning, the horror of the situation slowly dawned on me as I realised that a) I was now sober and b) I didn't have my car.
I got up, retrieved my clothes from the BBQ table and chilli bin, and started pulling down the tent.
Not until the roof fell on him did he wake and and question my haste.
"Oh, yeah, I just got text from my landlord and we're interviewing a new flatmate at 12. I need to get back."
Driving back to Hamilton was somewhat more pleasant. For him because he thought he now had poon-tang on tap; for me because every minute we drove we got closer to my car, freedom, and a shower.
As we pulled into his driveway, I opened the door and rolled out like a stuntwoman on steroids.
"So, you wanna come inside for another session before you head back?"
"Uh, no sorry, I have to get back for my meeting."
"Oh well. I guess I'll just have to go and wank instead."
Next lottery winner was a nice South African man who also lived nearby, so we arranged to meet at the local for a wine after work.
Wanting so desperately to erase the tent-erection from my memory, I knew I had watch the alcohol intake so as not to do anything spontaneous or rash.
So when I walked in and he had flowers for me, the two wines that followed butted in and asked if he wanted to come back to mine for a movie night with the flatmates.
He looked shocked, then like the kid that got the Nintendo for Xmas, then I think might have said a little prayer before following me home.
Unfortunately there was more wine at home and I didn't need to drive anywhere.
After telling me that he'd found my Facebook page, then found my blog, then read all 17 of my blogs in one night, then told me that I was the funniest person he'd ever met, another three glasses had been consumed.
After sitting through a movie with him whispering - like a toddler whispers - in my ear how beautiful I was, and maybe once more, how funny I was, and thanking me profusely for meeting him, and me glaring at my flatmates who were stifling giggles - like a toddler stifles giggles - I had decided that this was definitely not the one.
There was no possibility that I would ever be attracted to his personality, and I knew I had to be honest with him. So after spending an hour in my bedroom once again discussing the finer merits of erection techniques, I farewelled him with promises of texting him the next day.
Which I did, right before his 17 responses and slightly more before blocking him.
Despairing ever finding someone who was funny, intelligent and not built like Mr Creosite, I'd all but given up until I got a message along the lines of "Well I had a pretty productive day, but my kids are being little shits. How about you?"
Sudden memory loss of all previous horror stories saw me driving an hour to his house for drinks on a school night, but I'd definitely retained enough presence of mind to be prepared.
I took my toothbrush and a change of undies.
Within 10 minutes, I was absolutely smitten. This guy was pretty damn good looking, fit, intelligent, and an incredibly funny story teller.
Well past the point of no return in the alcohol consumption <-> driving matrix, I needed to go to the bathroom. So far the evening had been spent outside on his deck and I'd not ventured inside. I'd heard about the building of his house which was a work in progress, and had been pretty impressed with all that he managed on his own.
What I'd not heard about was his cleanliness standards.
"So, I'm just warning you..... my bathroom is probably not quite as clean as you're used to. It's not military standards, that's for sure."
"All good, I'm sure it can't be that bad! You smell nice and seem clean.... and you have a daughter living here."
"Yeah, no..... it's pretty bad. In fact, it might be the first thing that makes you scream tonight."
Still laughing as I made my way through the house, I noticed the kitchen was a little messy, but nothing worse than a busy father-of-four might be expected to have.
Then I stepped into the bathroom.
Stifling a scream, I stared in terror at the squallor in front of me.
Not only was the shower nearly black and covered in hair, the towels laying all over the floor were damp and putrid, and the basin was covered in something my mind refused to recognise.
There was still a small amount of urine left inside my body, so I slowly turned with dread towards where the toilet should be.
If I'd had my own supply of pencillin to administer after the fact, I probably would have passed out on the floor amongst the razor blades and empty toilet rolls.
In what I can only describe as crack-house decor laced with landfill waste, there stood the piece of household equipment that I was supposed to hover my vagina over.
A partially full bladder married with incoordination bought on by a bottle of wine; and I gagged and cried simultaneously while resigning myself to the inevitable squat over the bowl.
Walking back outside, I was greeted with "I told you, right?!"
Realising he was the most honest date I'd found on Tinder so far, I sat back down and poured another drink. Peeing behind a bush in his back yard was a sacrifice I was willing to make in the name of love.
And by love, I mean the chance of having sex before gapping it the next morning.
After another couple of drinks, we maturely acknowledged that it was a school night and we really needed to get to bed.
Erection technique discussions were unnecessary at this point, although he did mention a few times, somewhat wonderingly, "wow, this is quite romantic sex isn't it?"
Cursing the fact that he was absolutely right, I briefly wondered if the Chernobyl in the bathroom was a small price to pay. After wondering a few more times, I got a in a couple of hours sleep before getting up for work.
"So, you wanna come inside for another session before you head back?"
"Uh, no sorry, I have to get back for my meeting."
"Oh well. I guess I'll just have to go and wank instead."
Next lottery winner was a nice South African man who also lived nearby, so we arranged to meet at the local for a wine after work.
Wanting so desperately to erase the tent-erection from my memory, I knew I had watch the alcohol intake so as not to do anything spontaneous or rash.
So when I walked in and he had flowers for me, the two wines that followed butted in and asked if he wanted to come back to mine for a movie night with the flatmates.
He looked shocked, then like the kid that got the Nintendo for Xmas, then I think might have said a little prayer before following me home.
Unfortunately there was more wine at home and I didn't need to drive anywhere.
After telling me that he'd found my Facebook page, then found my blog, then read all 17 of my blogs in one night, then told me that I was the funniest person he'd ever met, another three glasses had been consumed.
After sitting through a movie with him whispering - like a toddler whispers - in my ear how beautiful I was, and maybe once more, how funny I was, and thanking me profusely for meeting him, and me glaring at my flatmates who were stifling giggles - like a toddler stifles giggles - I had decided that this was definitely not the one.
There was no possibility that I would ever be attracted to his personality, and I knew I had to be honest with him. So after spending an hour in my bedroom once again discussing the finer merits of erection techniques, I farewelled him with promises of texting him the next day.
Which I did, right before his 17 responses and slightly more before blocking him.
Despairing ever finding someone who was funny, intelligent and not built like Mr Creosite, I'd all but given up until I got a message along the lines of "Well I had a pretty productive day, but my kids are being little shits. How about you?"
Sudden memory loss of all previous horror stories saw me driving an hour to his house for drinks on a school night, but I'd definitely retained enough presence of mind to be prepared.
I took my toothbrush and a change of undies.
Within 10 minutes, I was absolutely smitten. This guy was pretty damn good looking, fit, intelligent, and an incredibly funny story teller.
Well past the point of no return in the alcohol consumption <-> driving matrix, I needed to go to the bathroom. So far the evening had been spent outside on his deck and I'd not ventured inside. I'd heard about the building of his house which was a work in progress, and had been pretty impressed with all that he managed on his own.
What I'd not heard about was his cleanliness standards.
"So, I'm just warning you..... my bathroom is probably not quite as clean as you're used to. It's not military standards, that's for sure."
"All good, I'm sure it can't be that bad! You smell nice and seem clean.... and you have a daughter living here."
"Yeah, no..... it's pretty bad. In fact, it might be the first thing that makes you scream tonight."
Still laughing as I made my way through the house, I noticed the kitchen was a little messy, but nothing worse than a busy father-of-four might be expected to have.
Then I stepped into the bathroom.
Stifling a scream, I stared in terror at the squallor in front of me.
Not only was the shower nearly black and covered in hair, the towels laying all over the floor were damp and putrid, and the basin was covered in something my mind refused to recognise.
There was still a small amount of urine left inside my body, so I slowly turned with dread towards where the toilet should be.
If I'd had my own supply of pencillin to administer after the fact, I probably would have passed out on the floor amongst the razor blades and empty toilet rolls.
In what I can only describe as crack-house decor laced with landfill waste, there stood the piece of household equipment that I was supposed to hover my vagina over.
A partially full bladder married with incoordination bought on by a bottle of wine; and I gagged and cried simultaneously while resigning myself to the inevitable squat over the bowl.
Walking back outside, I was greeted with "I told you, right?!"
Realising he was the most honest date I'd found on Tinder so far, I sat back down and poured another drink. Peeing behind a bush in his back yard was a sacrifice I was willing to make in the name of love.
And by love, I mean the chance of having sex before gapping it the next morning.
After another couple of drinks, we maturely acknowledged that it was a school night and we really needed to get to bed.
Erection technique discussions were unnecessary at this point, although he did mention a few times, somewhat wonderingly, "wow, this is quite romantic sex isn't it?"
Cursing the fact that he was absolutely right, I briefly wondered if the Chernobyl in the bathroom was a small price to pay. After wondering a few more times, I got a in a couple of hours sleep before getting up for work.
In the light of day, while getting dressed without putting any pressure on my bladder, I noticed that his bedroom had been used by a cat as a litter tray. More than once.
As I drove away at the speed of sound, searching for a suitable bush to duck behind, I cursed the untraversable abyss separating my hygiene standards from my libido.
I decided to give it one last shot. One. That's it.
Last Shot lived in a very affluent area of Auckland. A quick look at Google Street View affirmed his Tinder status as "financially secure" and a quick look at Facebook affirmed his Tinder status as "fit and healthy".
Again utilising my intelligence and intuition to their limits, I agreed to meet him at his house for a wine.
Upon arrival, it took me ten minutes to work out how to fit my wee Mitsi Mirage between the Audis and Mercs parked on the street and another ten minutes to work out how to get inside his gate.
Once inside, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he wasn't a balding 60 year old going through a mid-life crisis.
Over a glass of very expensive and very delicious read wine, we swapped life stories. And by "swapped" I mean, he talked and I listened.
Mainly because after three minutes I found out he was friends with Simon Dallow.
Shockingly, the same Simon Dallow that I'd had a girl-crush on since he first appeared on our screens as a newsreader quite some years ago. Not some other Simon Dallow that also happened to live in Auckland.
He shared stories about their travels and adventures together and it cemented my opinion that he was most definitely not just the straight-laced newsman that the majority of the population saw.
I made a quick trip to the bathroom, for a dual purpose: to see if it had rats running around, and to splash my face with cold water after all the talk about Simon.
When I returned having satisfied both agendas, he talked about one of his hobbies, which was flying. I joined the conversation at this point, and it was pleasant and entertaining.
Then he mentioned that he wanted to buy his flying instructor a penis.
Thinking that I'd misinterpreted his talk about flaps and drag, I asked him to elaborate.
Turns out his flying instructor was trans-gender but couldn't afford the final surgery - so he wanted to pay for it. That cemented my initial conceptions that this was a decent honest guy.
In the next sentence, he asked me if I could still have children.
Downing my expensive wine, I looked around for the hiding place that Neil was going to jump out from yelling "Surprise! Told you you were worthless without your uterus!"
When I looked back at Penis Purchaser, he said he needed to elaborate.
"I'm a successful man. I have money and security. Now what I want is children. So, I'm looking for a woman that can have children for me and stay home to raise them."
I topped up my wine before I gave him the status update of my reproductive system. I needed to get my petrol money's worth.
"Well, the thing is.... I can't have any more children. I don't own the necessary equipment unfortunately."
"Well, that is a shame. You seem like you'd be fun."
I top up my wine again.
"So, would you like to stay the night anyway?"
I looked around at the wine rack and the view, and did a quick mental check of my morals. I mean, it was a lot warmer than a tent..... and he wasn't yelling platitudes in my ear about my beauty.
"You know what? As tempting as it is - and I'm sure it would be a lot of fun..... I think I'm going to go home."
"Are you sure? I'm going into the bedroom now. You can choose to join me or not. I can promise you it will be worth it and you won't have any regrets."
As appealing as the modest talk was, I stood my ground. I finished my wine, checked if I could fit the bottle in my pocket while he was looking the other way, and got up to leave.
"Well, this was nice. Really. And I wish you well with your breeding prospects."
As I arrived at my car, I thought back to all I'd been through in the last few months.
Was this it? Was I destined to a life alone because my standards were too high? Had I been so hurt that I thought I wasn't worthy and I was therefore ignoring opportunities that were right in front of me? Was I debasing myself and giving away too much too soon? Was I misinformed about how clean a toilet should be?
The answer came to me in a flash.
He was right.
As I drove away at the speed of sound, searching for a suitable bush to duck behind, I cursed the untraversable abyss separating my hygiene standards from my libido.
I decided to give it one last shot. One. That's it.
Last Shot lived in a very affluent area of Auckland. A quick look at Google Street View affirmed his Tinder status as "financially secure" and a quick look at Facebook affirmed his Tinder status as "fit and healthy".
Again utilising my intelligence and intuition to their limits, I agreed to meet him at his house for a wine.
Upon arrival, it took me ten minutes to work out how to fit my wee Mitsi Mirage between the Audis and Mercs parked on the street and another ten minutes to work out how to get inside his gate.
Once inside, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he wasn't a balding 60 year old going through a mid-life crisis.
Over a glass of very expensive and very delicious read wine, we swapped life stories. And by "swapped" I mean, he talked and I listened.
Mainly because after three minutes I found out he was friends with Simon Dallow.
Shockingly, the same Simon Dallow that I'd had a girl-crush on since he first appeared on our screens as a newsreader quite some years ago. Not some other Simon Dallow that also happened to live in Auckland.
He shared stories about their travels and adventures together and it cemented my opinion that he was most definitely not just the straight-laced newsman that the majority of the population saw.
I made a quick trip to the bathroom, for a dual purpose: to see if it had rats running around, and to splash my face with cold water after all the talk about Simon.
When I returned having satisfied both agendas, he talked about one of his hobbies, which was flying. I joined the conversation at this point, and it was pleasant and entertaining.
Then he mentioned that he wanted to buy his flying instructor a penis.
Thinking that I'd misinterpreted his talk about flaps and drag, I asked him to elaborate.
Turns out his flying instructor was trans-gender but couldn't afford the final surgery - so he wanted to pay for it. That cemented my initial conceptions that this was a decent honest guy.
In the next sentence, he asked me if I could still have children.
Downing my expensive wine, I looked around for the hiding place that Neil was going to jump out from yelling "Surprise! Told you you were worthless without your uterus!"
When I looked back at Penis Purchaser, he said he needed to elaborate.
"I'm a successful man. I have money and security. Now what I want is children. So, I'm looking for a woman that can have children for me and stay home to raise them."
I topped up my wine before I gave him the status update of my reproductive system. I needed to get my petrol money's worth.
"Well, the thing is.... I can't have any more children. I don't own the necessary equipment unfortunately."
"Well, that is a shame. You seem like you'd be fun."
I top up my wine again.
"So, would you like to stay the night anyway?"
I looked around at the wine rack and the view, and did a quick mental check of my morals. I mean, it was a lot warmer than a tent..... and he wasn't yelling platitudes in my ear about my beauty.
"You know what? As tempting as it is - and I'm sure it would be a lot of fun..... I think I'm going to go home."
"Are you sure? I'm going into the bedroom now. You can choose to join me or not. I can promise you it will be worth it and you won't have any regrets."
As appealing as the modest talk was, I stood my ground. I finished my wine, checked if I could fit the bottle in my pocket while he was looking the other way, and got up to leave.
"Well, this was nice. Really. And I wish you well with your breeding prospects."
As I arrived at my car, I thought back to all I'd been through in the last few months.
Was this it? Was I destined to a life alone because my standards were too high? Had I been so hurt that I thought I wasn't worthy and I was therefore ignoring opportunities that were right in front of me? Was I debasing myself and giving away too much too soon? Was I misinformed about how clean a toilet should be?
The answer came to me in a flash.
He was right.
I walked back to his door and rehearsed my speech nervously.
"You were right. I regret leaving as hastily as I did and I don't know what I was thinking."
*big breath, you got this*
"Can I please have Simon's number before I go?"
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