Skunk wee…

Women’s libber. Aspiring chick lit author. Chick with dick. Miu Miu-wearing Feminista. Ball breaker. Cock tease.

We all have our day jobs. 


Well, how do you suppose a womangirl of my stature should go about re-entering the single and searching sphere, after emerging markedly cynical around the edges after a failed relationship?


So. There I was. Rabidly searching for my Lessons (because you always, always have to learn The Lesson in order to move on ‘properly’, right?). Trying desperately to mask the glaringly apparent: I fear I may in fact be completely, horrifically terrified of men, for the first time in my life.

Hey, I always get what I want. I luxuriate through life, blessed and entitled. I am comfortable in my own skin. I rock this……………………………………(don’t I?)

No. I’m lying through my clenched teeth. There’s nothing like suspecting you were just the unwitting Starter Wife (yet again) to make you lose your mojo.

Somewhat predictably, I throw caution to the wind, craving the long since departed adrenalin rush of flirtatious, unabashed, dangerous banter. Give me a door, Universe, and I shall fling it wide open. Yes. Because I am She-Ra and, truth be told, I miss dancing on the sharp side of an edge.

Unflinchingly, I scream an order to the Universe; give me a possible Candidate, I roar, and hold the fries.

I don’t think twice, and that’s what makes it so damn good for a Control Freak like me. Not for one second do I consider the follow-through, the head-scratching questions that may ensue.

It was serendipitous. He landed in my lap through very auspicious, hilarious means, connivingly hatched up by something Bigger Than Both Of Us. Surely, I protest, that makes it a red, hot, flashing neon sign? (Ah, see, no matter what, the romance gene is slow to die in our species).

I must emphasise that I am very very selective in whom makes the Candidate list. Many have said too much so. First and foremost, Candidate must have an air of the unattainable and impossible to reach, create an environment of mystery and old-world courting, and within me create a new solar system where I need to improve myself and maintain walking on tippy toes. Candidate ticked all those boxes.

Let the fun and games begin. Candidate makes a grand entrance into my life. Still gagging from the very fresh and untied-up 2 year encounter with a man, I am understandably prickly. It’s no deterrent for him in the slightest. I am bitchy, evasive, anti-social and fierce. This only serves to lure him further. He knows heartbreak well. He is all the things my ex-Heartbreaker is very NOT. He uses Strivectin, wears Hedi Slimane, watches arthouse alone, devours the newspaper, stays at Hotel Costes on his Paris visits, knows my favourite haunts in Melbourne well, is an author-celebrity-Top 100 Eligible Bachelor Big Swinging Dick About Town. He picks me up in his gleaming 2-seater and whisks me into a world that usually made me gag… but find myself strangely allured by. He is undoubtedly the most unfailingly honest, wise, self-assured man I have ever met. His intelligence daunts the crap out of me. I have been in his presence for all of 10 minutes, and I think he can hear the pterodactyls in my tummy. Hmm, this could be interesting.

He is unrelenting in his quest to peel the layers of the acrid, caustic onion that I was at that point. He sits and listens to me talk. And I can talk. It’s been so, so long since a guy has actually heard me. In his well-manicured hands, he passes me advice brutally sharp in its truth. This man sees me.

We then embark on a very surreal, intense chess game of daily contact that blows my unprepared mind. This wasn’t at all foreseen- “But I am still grieving, for heaven’s sakes!” I splatter. We see, talk and instant message each other enough to distract me from brushing my hair and doing laundry.

I then feel swamped by the enormity of what seems to be going on in the scorched wasteland of my heart. I am confused, I protest; can I put you on hold, I plead; this is getting ever so too much; I balk. Ever the refined, sophisticated gentleman, Candidate says yes. By doing so, he frees me from the cynicism and bitterness I clung to. And here starts what I shall now refer to as “Perverse Psychology”: gazing into the nothingness, processing the attachment I have made to someone new, and the shock I have at feeling understood/fascinating/magnificent for the first time in what feels like eons, I realise: I could actually like this man.

So, without further ado, and with a new surge in long-awaited self-esteem, I tell him so.

And, my, what a metaphorical screeching record halt that was.

Friends, don’t believe the hype. The truth shall _not_ set ye free. In my case, it bundled me up kicking and screaming and extradited me into Loserville.

Let me explain: men are the hunters; their inherent need to be the pursuers shall henceforth never, ever be doubted. The minute I turned to face Candidate with an open mind instead of running coquettishly into the open plains, he grinded to a halt and ran screaming.

So here is a note to self: Candidate read my sudden change in climate as what I affectionately refer to as “Skunk wee”. i.e.: the repulsingly abhorrent ‘Stench of Desperation’. If I ever find myself being rampaged by a barrage of suitors, I shall douse myself in the Stench of Desperation and enjoy the entertaining view of a hundred feet flying in the opposite direction.

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