There’s only one thing worse than a Fuckboy, and that’s a Fuckboy masquerading as a nice boy. Or as I like to call them; a Fuckboy in sheep’s clothing. These particular men are the worst. At least Brandon and Chad owned their player identities. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than the Fuckboys that they were. With them, I knew to a certain extent what I was getting myself into, even if I tried to convince myself otherwise. But I didn’t see Aaron coming.
Late November 2018. It had been a week since Chad had ghosted me and I took myself home to my dad’s near the Cotswolds. I needed a weekend to get away from London and the men in it. Having had enough of the type of guys I kept meeting on dating apps, I flicked opened Hinge with every intention of deleting it, when I saw a message pop up at the top of the screen. Aaron. Curiosity getting the better of me, my thumb moved from the ‘deactivate account’ button to scrolling through his profile. Tall, athletic with attractive, sharp features, I was like a moth to dick sand, I mean a flame.
I replied to Aaron and very quickly we exchanged numbers. He was very charming, and after a weekend of intense messaging, he asked me out on a date. We arranged to meet on the Friday evening. In the week leading up to our first date, Aaron would message me constantly throughout the day. By the Tuesday afternoon he asked if he could call me that evening. I was a little taken back as I rarely even chatted on the phone to Dennis, my last boyfriend; never mind a guy I hadn’t even met yet. “Um…sure, why not?” I replied. Did people do this…talk on the phone before a first date? Surely, that’s what WhatsApp was invented for? What if he asks for my landline? I don’t have a landline! It’s 2018, no one does, Jess.
“Great, I’ll give you a call around 9pm,” he messaged.
By 8.30pm that evening I was a nervous wreck. I paced anxiously around the flat, constantly checking the time. More than once I checked to see if I’d accidentally put my phone on silent. Should I be ready and waiting in my bedroom for the call? Should I be busy cooking dinner or watching TV? What would we talk about? What if his voice sounded funny…oh God, what if my voice sounded funny?!
“Yeah it’s a little unorthodox,” said my flatmate, Jasmine, watching me go from sitting on the sofa staring at my phone on the coffee table, to abruptly standing and picking it up for no reason. “But, it’s quite nice if you think about it. He obviously just wants to get to know you,” she continued. I nodded in agreement.
9.02pm. I was laying on my bed when my phone rang. “Hello?” I nervously answered.
“Hey, Jess,” Aaron replied with a strong North London accent. “Wow, you sound posher than what I was expecting…I thought you were born in Essex?” he continued. I laughed, feeling instantly at ease. We spent the next two hours chatting and laughing. That night, I laid in my bed smiling to myself, replaying the phone conservation in my head, catching myself giggling out loud when I thought of something cheeky Aaron had said. Throughout the entire phone call he had made comments about introducing me to his friends and talking about places we could go together. Oh, so he’s looking for something with longevity. He said how much he disliked social media and didn’t have a Facebook or Instagram account. Great, I don’t have to stalk you or the girls whose pictures you like. Even though we hadn’t yet met, I lapped it all up, wanting to believe that there were men out there that weren’t just after one thing only. So fucking naive, Jess.
Over the following few days, Aaron continued to message me around the clock and when he wasn’t texting me, he’d call me. He called me when he was in the car on the way to work. He called when he got home from a dinner with friends. He even called me as he was walking out of a stadium after a football match. He’d make jokes and tell me things he obviously thought I wanted to hear. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from a guy, but it felt refreshing to have someone take such an interest in me.
Friday came and I’d never felt such a high expectation for a first date. The plan was to meet in a bar in Holborn for a couple drinks before going bowling. My nerves at finally meeting Aaron were off the scale. I sat at a table in the bar and watched as Aaron swaggered in. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I couldn’t find anywhere to park,” he said. I found it weird that he drove when we’d clearly be drinking, but quickly dismissed the thought. “No problem, I haven’t been here long myself,” I smiled. Aaron grinned back and pulled out a small vape pen, cursed an eye round the bar, and then shiftily took a puff. I blinked. I don’t smoke or vape myself but I’m pretty sure you didn’t do it inside? “Um, shall we order some drinks then?” I asked. Aaron nodded, tucked his vape pen in his jacket and beckoned a waiter over.
After we’d ordered our drinks, the waiter asked if we’d like to see the food menu. Aaron said nothing and just flicked his wrist slightly, dismissing the waiter. I flushed red, embarrassed at his rude gesture. I thanked the waiter as he walked away, turning back to see Aaron puffing on his vape pen again. Seriously, dude?
Despite his arrogant first impression, I was determined to give Aaron a chance. We had got on so well by phone after all. As we flirted over a couple of drinks, I began to warm to Aaron (trying to ignore his completely indiscreet puffs on his stupid vape pen.) He was also coughing quite a lot, claiming he was suffering from the beginnings of a cold. I asked if he was ok, and Aaron waved away my concern, claiming he was fine and had dosed up on paracetamol before coming. After we left the bar we headed to the bowling alley.
By the time we’d finished bowling it had gone 10pm. “What would you like to do now? We could find a bar and go for a couple more drinks?” I asked, although thinking that he’d definitely have to have soft drinks because he was driving.
“Sure, but let’s just pop to my car first, cos I’ve got some pic n mix for you,” Aaron said. Oh, I thought, this was because I’d made a reference to liking sweets in one of our phone conversations; that was nice of him. I nodded in agreement and Aaron swung his arm around my shoulders and led me down a residential street to where he’d parked.
Once in the parked car, we chatted some more whilst we ate the sweets. Aaron kept rubbing my knee and after about 10 minutes lent across his seat and kissed me. The kissing became quite heated and Aaron began running his hands through my hair and then down to my blouse, unbuttoning the top few buttons. I could see people walking past out of the corner of my eye, peering into the car. Nope, no, I’m a 30-year-old woman; I’m not about to have sex in a car parked down a street in central London! I pulled away from Aaron, saying just as much. His breathing still heavy, he suggested we go back to mine. I bit my lip. I hadn’t planned for my first date with Aaron ending up like this… I wasn’t sure if I was ready to do anything more than kiss him. Sensing my hesitation, Aaron said, “Look, we don’t have to do anything. I can just drop you home, maybe come in for a cup of tea and then I’ll just drive back to mine.”
40 minutes later we arrived at my flat in South-West London. I made Aaron a peppermint tea and gave him some more paracetamol. No sooner had he finished his drink then he stood up and walked across the kitchen to me and started kissing my neck. He pulled my blouse down over my shoulders and unhooked my bra. I sighed, feeling myself give in. We headed upstairs to my bedroom and closed the door…
Afterwards, something had changed, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but Aaron’s demeanour was different. The sex had been good so I just put it down to him feeling under the weather. He got up from the bed straight away and started scrolling through his phone. “Everything OK?” I asked, leaning up on the bed.
“Yeah. Do you have any cough medicine?” he replied, rubbing his chest.
“No, sorry, I don’t think I do,” I said, as I walked into the bathroom next door. I went to the toilet and checked the cupboards for any medicine. Three minutes later I walked back into the bedroom to find Aaron fully dressed, pulling his trainers on. “I’m going to drive to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy. Text me your postcode and I’ll come back afterwards,” he said, picking up his car keys. He felt that ill?
“Oh, OK…” I replied, taken back. We were literally having sex five minutes ago. I was still naked. Aaron grabbed his wallet and ran down the stairs before I could even lean in to kiss him.
1am. I sat on the sofa in my dressing gown waiting for Aaron. Another half an hour passed and I still hadn’t heard anything from him, my postcode remaining as two unread, grey ticks. I messaged asking if everything was OK.
“Yep, all good. Got some medicine and just going to head back to mine to sleep it off. Didn’t want to keep you up all night with this cough,” he replied.
“Oh, OK. Well text me when you get home,” I messaged back. But I knew he wouldn’t. I took myself upstairs and curled up in the bed, feeling the shame wash over me.
I didn’t hear from Aaron again after that. Albeit there was no love lost; he was arrogant and rude, but I had never felt so manipulated and used. Had he planned for this all along? A week of buttering me up with messages and calls; telling me things he thought I wanted to hear, all with the intention of sleeping with me on the first date and doing a runner five minutes afterwards? That night as I lay in bed waiting for a message that would never come, I made a promise to myself. Never again would I sleep with a guy on a first date.
Now, I don’t have anything against sleeping with someone on a first date. There are all these stupid rules (no doubt made up by men) that if you do then you’re ‘too easy’ or you’re a ‘slut’ or they won’t want to date you after that. Which is a load of bullshit. I know loads of long standing couples that slept with each other on their first date. It’s also an individual’s prerogative whether male/female or otherwise when they first choose to sleep with someone. And if you’re both two (or three, if that’s your thing) consenting adults, then what’s the issue? ‘Slut-shaming’ is some of the worst kind of misogyny; it’s an out-dated, double-standards notion. Whether you’ve slept with two or 52 people, it does not define you or your worth.
Now, whilst I’m all for female sexual empowerment, I also realised that I was starting to get emotionally bruised by these Fuckboys who were only after one thing from me. So, with the exception of my one night of weakness with Brandon in the New Year, I didn’t have sex for five months. Oh sure, I dated. I dated a lot. After my two-month Hinge hiatus over Christmas and New Year, I re-downloaded it in February and dated a variety of different men; learning as much about myself as I did them. What I liked, what I didn’t like, what pushed my buttons and what I wasn’t willing to put up with.
But I decided the next guy I’d sleep with would be someone who had gained my trust and showed me the respect I deserved. So, I dated, I blogged and my knickers remained firmly on. It’s amazing how much writing you can do when you’re not shagging.