Words By: Beth Commons
Here’s a man who’s twenty-seven, works in a surf shop, draws cartoon sharks and plasters them all over his Instagram. We met in Scarborough, which is apparently still a place, and also where I grew up. It seemed weird to be meeting up with one of the surfer dudes that I probably saw at one point when I was twelve and quietly lusted after. Sort of gross, actually.
He and I had troubles conversing. We definitely didn’t ‘click’ but we still sat at some bar and tried our damnedest to make conversation. Which sometimes involved him sniggering at other girls’ clothing choices. Oh, you think I like that, guy? you think I revel in you putting down other women? Cool man, great stuff.
Actually, little side note for you- this tinder story is probably the only time I’ve felt shameful for not pulling the plug at the first sign of shit, and in retrospect I’m filled with shame. Buckle up. Enjoy this ride because I fucking didn’t.
After several more uncomfortable drinks we walked back to his house. On the way he put his arm around me and told me I had big boobs. I thanked him and told him that I grew them myself. He found this too funny.
We arrived at his unit and I poured myself a wine. We sat next to each other on his couch. he pulled my top out and peered down my chest. There was a knock on the door.
“Oh shit.” He left for about ten minutes whilst I remained on the couch, occasionally hearing a “go away!” and enough cries to last me a lifetime. A welcomed intermission made itself apparent when HIS EX GIRLFRIEND (this person was HIS EX GIRLFRIEND) yelled at me through the fly-screen telling me that he’d cheated on her seven (7) times before and then she thought that it was crucial to include that one of the girls he cheated on her with was someone that he worked with.
The response I came up with was a pretty classic one. One that spans over many dialects and manages to mean the same in each, it’s not necessarily a negative nor a positive. It’s its own thing. Its simplicity is everything I needed at that moment.
She left. He came back in and apologised. He looked pretty shell-shocked, poor baby. I asked him if I should leave.
“No that’d be even worse, then i’d be on my own.” He snapped out of it and told me my boobs were big again. Then he grabbed them. This is when I should have left. But instead we fucked. After we’d finished he sat outside by himself and smoked a cigarette. Then he came inside and sat beside me on the couch. We sat in silence and listened to The National’s High Violet. A recurring soundtrack in my tinder life.
I waited for sam to come and rescue me. He came and rescued me.