Jock My Dating Life 

I’ve Got the Right Hump

5-minute read

Angry boyfriend-related rant.

I would probably warn you before I start ranting: I’m about to start ranting. My fingers are angry typing, all twitchy and stabbing at the keys. There’s probably going to be some swearing, I’m definitely going to talk about sex, and I’m more than likely going to overreact about something.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So, firstly, I didn’t get laid. I didn’t get anything. No orgasms for this gal. No nothing at all.

Secondly, he [Jock] did have an orgasm. He got himself a nice little blowjob, came, rejoiced, blahdy-blah.

Thirdly — and I hope you’re ready for this — I fucking prepared myself for our date to be met with absolutely fuck all. I woke up at 7 am on my fucking day off, I shaved my entire body, moisturised everywhere, exfoliated everything, painted all nails, plucked eyebrows, washed and conditioned and actually blow-dried my hair, masked-up my face, painted it with so many layers of makeup in the pursuit of the natural look that I no longer recognised myself … and a whole other bunch of get-ready-for-sex shit.

Like, I was R-E-A-D-Y to get laid.

The plan was: he was working a night shift, finishing at 7 am, and then heading off to get a cheeky MOT done on the car. After that, he’d drive to mine, we’d go for food, and then we’d fuck and nap at his … or something like that.

“Won’t you be tired after your night shift, babe?” I kept asking him. Because, you know, I’m not unreasonable. I didn’t EXPECT him to come and spend the day with me after his whole night shift. “Maybe you should sleep. I have got work I could be getting on with, anyway.”

“Nope, I reckon I’ll fit in a couple of hours of nap time during the night shift anyway, I’ll be absolutely fine, I promise,” he kept replying.

And, like a fucking tit, I believed him. Despite my best instincts, I agreed to the plan.

He drove to mine for about 10 am, and then we drive for about 45 minutes until we get to this little cafe that he really likes. It’s all going well, we have a lovely breakfast, and then we go to the local shopping mall and have a little wander around. About an hour later, he suggests getting a couple of iced coffees and heading off onto the next part of our travels. (The fucking and napping part.)

As we get in the car, he says to me: “I need to go home, babe. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open and I don’t think I can drive anymore.”

“Oh, babe! No worries at all. I’ll get the train back to mine and you can go home to sleep, how about that?” And I tried to keep the pissed-off tone from my voice even though I knew the day would end up going that way.

He was adamant that he’d need just an hour’s sleep before he could entertain me again, so, despite my protests, we ended up driving back to his for a power nap.

One hour passes.

Then two.

Then two and a half.

Then almost three.

And you can probably imagine just how fucking furious I was by that point. Still, being the good, understanding, patient girlfriend that I am (trying to be), I let it slide, didn’t make a fuss, and rather than bite his head off, I gave him a blowjob once he’d woken up. I waited for him to suggest repaying the favour, and then I waited some more. It didn’t happen. Not once. There I was in my perfectly groomed, baby-smooth, smelling-lust, half-naked state on his bed, and he went downstairs to start trouble with his housemates. (Girlfriend makes half-snarky remark, boyfriend protests innocence, Jock pipes up with a witty line that drops boyfriend right in the shit before then walking off and leaving the room on fire behind him.)


That’s when I snapped a bit.

“Right, I’ve been asking you for an hour and a half what you want to do with the rest of your night, why don’t you take me home so I can work on my deadline and you can catch up on your clearly much-needed sleep?” I said, hands on my hips.

I wasn’t expecting his answer.


He stormed upstairs and changed his shirt, grunted goodbye at the still-fighting housemates, and then silently got in the car. I followed him, waiting for him to turn the music on or start talking or something. There was nothing. Just complete silence for the entire 45-minute journey home.

I did try to strike up a conversation with him once or twice, but he snapped at me each time. I was getting more and more pissed off too, especially as I’d known this was going to happen from the moment he first suggested the plans to me. That’s why I recommended not meeting up at all. But no, he had to have it his way, didn’t he? And he really did have it his way. He got his dick sucked, had a nap, started a couple of arguments, and then went about his merry fucking way.

And then, things got worse.

“Yeah, so, I can’t make tomorrow night, babe. I’m going out with the boyfriend I dropped in the shit earlier. I forgot to tell you.”

He didn’t forget to tell me at all! He just conveniently left it right until the last minute so that I wouldn’t fight with him about it, which was fucking pointless because we ended up fighting anyway. And the absolute cheek of the guy — he still wants to pick me up on Friday so I can help him with the move to his new crib.

Mmhmm, sure, buttercup. I didn’t get laid, you blew me out, and you fell asleep on me JUST LIKE I SAID YOU WOULD, but sure, you carry on thinking that I’m going to be available on Friday when you snap your fingers and are ready for me.

I've Got The Right Hump

* Yeah, so, I probably will be available, but we won’t tell him that, okay?

He apologised for his snappiness in a text to me a few hours after he’d dropped me off, but I ignored/barely responded to the first few messages. It didn’t take long for him to grind me down, though. That’s what irritates me about him — and also how I know I like him (slash-love-him): I can’t stay angry at him for long. Every time I think there’s something I don’t like about him, he finds a way to redeem himself in another area.

“Not seeing you frustrates me. Think I rawr you,” he text.

Did he just fucking almost say it again? The rawr thingAGAIN? Aren’t we over this bullshit by now? Like, if you’re going to say you love me, JUST SAY YOU FUCKING LOVE ME. What’s the point in all this L-word, rawr, L-you bullshit?

Love me, or don’t love me. Don’t just straddle the middle line somewhere and waste my time.

I didn’t say it back. In fact, I ignored the message entirely. If he’s frustrated now with the lack of time we’re spending together, it’s only going to get worse. I have a busy life. That’s basically why One Ball and I broke up …

Is history going to repeat itself all over again?

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