⚠️ Warning: This blog post discusses themes of domestic abuse & violence ⚠️
Oh, friends, I did a bad thing. A bad, bad, bad thing. I got drunk and punched him. Jock. I got drunk and punched the guy that I wanted to make my boyfriend. Why did I do that? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Do you remember a few blog posts ago, when I said: “There’s still plenty of time for things to go wrong, for us to find things that we despise about each other, for one or both of us to fuck things up spectacularly. It’s not like I don’t have a habit of doing that.”
Well, I fucked it up… spectacularly. And to be honest with you, I still can’t explain why I did it.
Maybe we should start at the beginning.
(Maybe I should throw myself out of a third-storey window.)
Soundtrack for this post: Too Close by Alex Clare.
Cowboy Boots
“I’m picking you up after work,” Jock text me. “Wear a dress with those cowboy boots.”
I was thrilled that he’d taken control like that, and especially that he’d told me what to wear. Deep down that’s a little kink of mine, I think: someone telling me exactly what they want me to wear, taking control a little bit, making the fluffy decision in my life.
I went home after work and got myself ready, primping and preening until there wasn’t a single hair on my body from the neck down, then putting on the exact outfit that he’d requested. I briefly debated on popping one of my love egg toys in, then handing him the remote… but something told me, it was a little too soon for me to start playing games like that. We’d have plenty of time for all that, I’m sure.
It was a good job that I didn’t do that. Not long after we’d started drinking, we bumped into a few of his female friends… who he invited along. My nose was a little out of joint as it was meant to be a date, but I didn’t make a big deal of it – and I actually ended up getting along with the ginger female friend so, so much more than I thought. She was hilarious, Irish, and even more foul-mouthed than me.
It was a beautiful night – warm and balmy, and just perfect for sitting outside, chatting shit, and drinking glass after glass of wine. Or bottle after bottle, I should say. We were all bungalowed in no time. (IYKYK.)
Suicide Babe
A while later, a leggy, tattooed babe sashayed past us, and she caught everyone’s attention. She was beautiful. A very Suicide-Girl kinda babe, with fake boobs that looked so good that I would never have known they were fake if she hadn’t brazenly told us.
She caught Jock’s attention, too… and it, of course, made me jealous. And as I’d been drinking that jealousy soon turned into the worst kind of quiet anger.
And then it got worse.
“That’s my ex-girlfriend,” Jock said. “I didn’t know she’d be out tonight. Sorry.”
She was… his ex-fucking-girlfriend?! Fuck my actual life. I’d never felt like more of a blob. I couldn’t compete with that. Even I wanted her.
Sigh.
I let it go… well, as best as I could. It wasn’t Jock’s fault. He didn’t know that she would be there. It couldn’t be helped. Blah blah blah. But then, she walked past a second time, then a third, then a fourth time.
Alright, lady, what are you doing?
Jock and I continued to drink wine and chit-chat outside, and he told me a little more about the ex and their relationship. I learned that she was the mother of his stepchild. He made sure to let me know that the ex wasn’t in his life, but the child very much was. The ex had, apparently, kicked Jock out of her life as soon as she learned that she was in remission for cancer… but I only have one side of the story there, so I tried to take it with a pinch of salt.
I might’ve been jealous of that Suicide Babe, but cancer kinda gave her a pass for me, you know?
He seemed to feel better for telling me, so Jock and I carried on with our night, finishing our drinks in that bar, then moving on to another one, where the Suicide Babe wasn’t… until she was.
Alright, lady, what the fuck are you doing?!
This time, when she walked past him, she touched his arm and asked for a word. Hmmm. I tried to look everywhere but where they were, desperately trying to seem cool and nonchalant, but it seemed like my gaze was automatically drawn to them. I was struggling to keep my jealousy under control. I wanted to storm over there and introduce myself… but I didn’t. I stayed cool, guzzled down my wine and then Jock’s glass after that, and read the daytime menu intently.
Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.
“She’s probably going to be a real bitch to me now,” Jock said, as he came back to our table. “She’s seen me with you two stunners, so she’ll probably try and stop me from seeing my daughter.”
It was probably a flippant comment from him, but I lost the plot. The rage inside me boiled over, and it was ugly. Jock had a beautiful, Suicide Babe-esque ex-girlfriend, and he thought that me and the ginger female friend were “stunners.” So, I drank some more. And the more I drank, the more I got angry. I was so annoyed that my previously perfect man had baggage and flaws, and I was also now convinced that said Suicide Babe was going out of her way to try and ruin my night.
And then… Jock tried to buy me a bottle of champagne.
I Punched Him
Now, he’d already told me that he wasn’t exactly flush with cash that night, so I’d paid for more than my fair share of the drinks – which I didn’t mind in the slightest. But champagne? Why was he doing that? To seem flash in front of me… or her?
“Fuck this,” I said, swaying a bit. “I want to go home.”
Jock looked perplexed. “But I’ve bought champagne.”
“Exactly,” I hissed, before heading for the exit and not caring if he was behind me.
Somehow, Jock had managed to smuggle that entire, freshly opened bottle of champers out of the club without spilling too much down the front of his trousers. He offered it to me as we stumbled towards the taxi rank.
It was the final straw.
I decked him. No rhyme or reason behind it; I was annoyed, jealous, and drunk… so I fully self-sabotaged and punched him in the face. (He didn’t drop the bottle in case you were wondering.)
Listen, I’m a survivor of domestic abuse, including violence, so as soon as I did it, I felt nothing but shame. Why did I do that? What the fuck was wrong with me? Even pissed I knew that I had gone far, far, far too far.
We stood there for a few minutes, saying nothing, just staring at each other. I wondered if he was going to deck me right back. He didn’t, though. He didn’t react, or move.
Instead, he said: “I’m fucking falling for you.”
Huh?
He’s clearly fucking insane.
To be fair, so am I.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Will You Be My Girlfriend?
Thank you so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Would you like to read all about Jock’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here:
The club scene reminded me of my friend Marie and her ex……..it always seemed when they were around alcohol drama always ensued. She would end up slapping him for some reason or another or create some scene and then spend a day or two being miserable because he ended it……………well I think they are on break up #23 hahahaha……..but I tell her that when they both drink they end up making a spectacle of themselves and end up regretting it later. she agreed ….but unfortunately didn’t listen.
Well I’m kinda hoping it was a one off lol!