Meet Number 33: The Asshole
I don’t think I ever told you the story of The Asshole. I should come up with a decent name for him, really. Maybe one will come up? To be fair, ‘The Asshole” is probably about right. But yeah, this guy, Number 33, what a dick he was. To be fair, I didn’t make smart choices as far as he was concerned.
Where do I even begin?
The beginning seems a good place.
I was 18 years old, living with Bestie, single. Newly single, too. I’d dated The Fireman for a couple of years and we’d broken up. Then we got back together. Then we broke up. Then we slept together. Then we fought. Then we got back together. Then we broke up … but for good this time.
I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I hadn’t ever really been single up until that point and, I won’t lie, I turned on the promiscuity switch. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I acted like a right slut. If we’re being totally honest, this slutty phase probably lasted about ten years on and off.
Later edit: I hate that I used the words slut, slutty, etc.
But, I was drunk in a bar and I’d bumped into a guy who was the spitting image of The Fireman. Both blonde with beautiful baby-blues that would have me doing whatever they wanted, stocky and rugby player-esque, everything I missed about my ex-boyfriend. He told me his name was Nick and I tried to take him home. He wanted me to take him home; it was his idea. In our drunken stupor, we smooched the night away and I was adamant he was the one for me. Until daybreak, anyway.
Bestie, on the other hand, was considerably less inebriated and making much better choices for all of us. Or, at least, trying to. He refused to let me take this random guy home, and we ended up having a huge fight. I hit him. My 18-year-old self, all jacked up on Stella, Hulk-like angry because I’ve been well and truly vagina-blocked, hit him. Punched him square in the face. In all the time I’ve known him, I’m pretty sure that’s the only time I’ve ever done. Not that I make a habit of hitting people in general, but, you know, that’s how annoyed I was about the vagina-blocking.
I was obsessed with the idea of that ex-lookalike for weeks. I went back to the club a few times, desperate to bump into him, but I never saw Nick again.
Until three or four years later…
Married to a soldier and living in a different country, I bumped into a different soldier boy in the local hang-out — and he looked remarkably recognisable. At first, it didn’t click who he was, but then around seven drinks into the night it all just clicked. I remembered EXACTLY how he was.
It was Nick.
I didn’t say anything because I was in the club with my husband, a man who had a nasty habit of getting violent with almost anyone when he’d had a drink or two. I was convinced that punches would be thrown if he were to learn about this guy that I’d wanted to fuck so much one day that I punched my best friend in the face.
Non-discreetly, in that way that only men manage, The Asshole slid over, told me his name (and it wasn’t Nick), asked if he could buy me a drink. Then, he started to flirt with me. Obviously. I pointed out who I was married to, ignored his request for a drink, and went back to my husband, who I partied the night away with.
A few weeks later, there was a big shindig in the soldier’s bar, and I got myself all pretty to head down there with the girls and meet our already-drunken significant others. Once again I found myself next to The Asshole, and once again he tried to buy me a drink. Except this time, I accepted. First one, then another. And then another. And then another.
We talked for ages, me telling him of that night in that club all those years ago and him telling me he didn’t remember a single thing about it. He admitted to being in my hometown, and even in the club, but he didn’t remember me.
Drunker and drunker we got, my husband left to party the night away in town. (Because it’s harder to cheat on your wife when she’s right there next to you.) I found myself being led back to The Asshole’s room when the bar closed, the promise of more wine too good to turn down. It wasn’t just wine on the menu either and although I think I was aware of that, I’m not sure that fucking him was an idea I really took seriously.
Despite that, clothes were torn off as quickly as the clumsy, port-induced state would let us, and it wasn’t the greatest night in sexual history. He was far too drunk to give me his all and I was just using him to fuck the memories of my ex-boyfriend away, alongside getting revenge on my cheated spouse. I’d learned of another of his infidelities just a couple of weeks beforehand.
My sex with The Asshole wasn’t exactly the worst I’ve ever had, but it really wasn’t the best, either. It was hurried and drunk, just scratching an itch. It shouldn’t have happened. When he’d finished (and it took a while because he was that drunk), I couldn’t grab my clothes and throw them on quickly enough. There were two reasons for that. Firstly, he shared a room with three other men and it wouldn’t be long before they returned. Secondly, I really, really didn’t want to be there any longer. I begged him to help me get my stuff together, but he just stayed in bed, not bothered to even look at me, barely even responding.
It wasn’t until I headed towards the door that he made an effort to get out of bed and even then, it was only to stop me from leaving. I don’t really know why he did that because he couldn’t have performed sexually for me again even if I’d wanted him to, but he still tried to stop me. At one point, I actually remember feeling really concerned, that perhaps I’d gotten myself into a super-serious situation that I couldn’t get out of, but luckily, he gave up and eventually let me leave. And I really do mean eventually; he stopped me from leaving for a good ten or fifteen minutes.
It was daylight by the time I did the embarrassing walk of shame – I-just-got-laid-parade – watched by every pair of beady little eyes inside the guard room. They all knew what I’d been doing, they just didn’t know with whom. I’d turned myself into as much of a laughing stock as my husband. Now we were both cheats … and everyone would know it.
The Asshole tried to get me into his bed a couple of times after that night, so clearly I’d made a lasting impression. Every time I said no, knowing it would be a dangerously bad move, he threatened to tell everyone about us, even going as far as to post cryptic messages with the initials of my name on Facebook. Luckily, there were a few women out there with the same initials, and there were rumours about most of us. I got away with it. But only just…
People told my husband about my night of infidelity with The Asshole but the stories differed every time. Different nights, different men, different rooms, different places… I don’t know whether or not they came to a showdown because of it. I don’t even know if he believed the rumours. I think he thought I was too ugly for anyone else to fuck; that’s what he kept saying to me.
The reason I’m telling you this? The reason he’s my #ThrowbackThursday, The Asshole? He added me as a friend on Facebook a couple of days ago and I’m wondering why. I don’t really know why I accepted the friend request, either; although, there was a part of me hoping for a miracle: an apology. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time an old flame has tried to pop up and penetrate my future (literally) whilst apologising for the fuck-ups of our past. It happens quite frequently these days. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: losing a few stone in weight and learning how to contour really is good for your dating life.
It’ll certainly dredge up all the bullshit exes to keep you entertained if nothing else. Eye roll.
I haven’t heard a peep from him yet. Not a ‘like’, a comment, a message… zilch. Maybe, for once, there’s no ulterior motive. But, just in case there is and something happens down the line, I’m warning myself now.
This guy was, and probably still is an asshole. And now he has a post dedicated to him. The soldier guy who helped me cheat on my abusive husband, turned into a creepy drunk, and couldn’t handle rejection well.
From the girl who cheated on her abusive husband, slept with the creepy drunk, and shouldn’t have put herself in that situation in the first place.
Seven years on, hindsight is a real bitch.
Featured photo by Specna Arms on Unsplash
