Romantically Challenged

by Sami Lukis

  This guy was no different. Right on schedule, the cracks started to appear.

  Our arguments became more frequent. And more intense. I suspected that he wasn’t always entirely honest with me. He seemed to be irrationally jealous of my male friends. I felt like he was angry at me and frustrated by me a lot of the time. And he tried to convince me that he only got angry with me because he loved me so much.

  The verbal insults were the worst. He’d somehow worked out how to target my insecurities where it hurt me the most, and his putdowns cut through me like a machete. But I just told myself I was being overly sensitive. I was strong enough to withstand some nasty name-calling, wasn’t I? Sticks and stones and all that. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see that my self-esteem and self-confidence were both steadily being eroded away.

  Besides, I had already convinced myself that we were deeply in love.

  Love is such a powerful, complicated emotion. And when you find yourself in a lousy relationship, ‘love’ also becomes a convenient justification. You’ll tell yourself that ‘love’ is the reason you forgive his dreadful behaviour. You’ll use ‘love’ as your excuse for overlooking the flaws in his character. You’ll blame ‘love’ for all of the pain and sadness and confusion you’re feeling. When you’ve convinced yourself that you’re in love with someone, you can just go ahead and blame ‘love’ for all your bad choices.

  So, instead of breaking up with him, I went into ‘rescue mode’. I thought that if I showed him more support and understanding, I could somehow earn his respect. I desperately tried to give him the best of my love, but I felt like I was walking on eggshells around him most of the time. And our fights only become increasingly volatile.

  He wasn’t physically abusive, but when his temper reached a scary level, I’d lock myself in the bathroom while he stood on the other side of the door, screaming obscenities at me. I would sit on the floor, sobbing. And hating myself. For turning into someone who locks herself in the bathroom to hide from her lover. And because I was too weak to walk away.

  It’s fairly common for anyone who hasn’t been in an abusive relationship to think, ‘Why didn’t she just leave him?’ And I hear ya, sister. I used to think the exact same thing myself. Until I became the girl who couldn’t ‘just leave him’. I was a capable, educated, financially independent woman who still couldn’t find the courage to walk away from a toxic relationship. I knew in my gut that this type of ‘love’ wasn’t healthy, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave him.

  I never spoke to friends or family about my situation, because I didn’t want to play the victim. I also didn’t want them to find out that my perfect life wasn’t quite so perfect.

  What shocked me the most about this guy was how he presented a completely sanitised version of himself to others. He was disturbingly good at putting on a saccharine-sweet display to the outside world, so everyone else would think he was a ‘top bloke’. He just saved the worst of himself for me.

  I knew I’d reached breaking point when I started to question whether I might actually be responsible for all of our relationship problems. So I took myself off to see a counsellor. And I asked her how my partner could keep telling me he loved me, but treating me like the enemy. Was I just too insecure? Was I delusional? Was I somehow to blame for his bad behaviour? What could I do to make it better? At the end of the session, she simply said to me, ‘Sam, what on earth are you doing with this man?’

  And that’s all I needed to hear. I cried tears of relief.

  One session with a professional had given me the clarity to see sense and the strength to take control of my situation.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the mature, private break-up I had hoped for. It happened after yet another especially heated disagreement over something ridiculously petty, which played out at a gathering in full view of some of my closest girlfriends. I was mortified to see the looks of pity in their eyes as they watched the argument unfold and saw me cringe with humiliation. Their independent, successful, outgoing friend had turned into someone they didn’t recognise anymore.

  Right then, I knew I couldn’t do it any more. And with the help and support of my family and my beautiful, caring friends, I left him.

  That was the most damaging relationship I’ve ever been in, but it taught me some valuable lessons about love.

  It showed me that there’s no place for control or fear in a relationship. Love should make you feel safe and protected and respected, not weak and afraid and insecure.

  I now know that when a man treats me badly in a relationship, it’s because there’s something wrong with him, not with me. A man who tries to manipulate your emotions or push you to a point where you question your own sanity is not in love with you.

  It also cemented my view that I would prefer to be alone for the rest of my life than be in another relationship that strips me of my self-esteem or my dignity.

  But most importantly, that relationship made me realise: it’s impossible to be in love with someone who makes me hate myself.

  My gay husband Tim is one of my favourite people in the world. We have ridiculous amounts of fun whenever we’re together. Aside from the time I almost got him shot.

  That wasn’t much fun.

  I guess a little background is required before we put the bullet in the chamber. Tim worked with me at a Sydney radio station back in the early noughties and he’s been my best gay ever since. It’s a bit of an odd match because he’s thirteen years younger than me but, I swear, we’re twins separated at birth (albeit more than a decade apart). He knows all my deepest darkest secrets and I would trust him with my life. His parents treat me like a daughter-in-law and my family treat him like a son. We have the same wicked sense of humour. Except when I ask him to hand me the penis butter or the vagina mite. He thinks it’s way childish and stupid. I think it’s the funniest thing ever. Anyway, he makes me laugh harder than anyone I know.

  Luckily, we also (usually) have very different taste in men. He’s a sucker for big muscles and a cheeky smile. I’d just be happy to meet a guy who has most of his teeth, no criminal record and doesn’t’ say ‘youse’ or ‘anyfink’.

  Gusband Tim and I especially love to go out dancing. Well, I guess it’s more appropriate to say I love to go out and watch Tim dance. When he gets on the dancefloor after a few drinks, he reminds me of Elaine from Seinfeld, with arms and legs flapping around in every direction and pelvic thrusts that would make Elvis blush. And Gusband couldn’t care less. He hits that dancefloor with insane levels of enthusiasm and gusto and I fucking adore him for it.

  One of our favourite late-night venues in Sydney was the Piano Room in the heart of notorious Kings Cross. We conveniently ignored its slightly shady reputation as the rumoured hangout for drug dealers, hookers, gang members and the like, because on weekends they had a live band playing great covers of all our favourite hits and the music was ah-may-zing. We would drink and dance and sing along into the wee hours.

  One night, at the slightly shady Piano Room, a guy sidled up beside me and started flirting pretty aggressively. He owned a takeaway café I’d been frequenting for years because they sell the best hot chips in Sydney. His opening line was ‘So, I understand you’re a regular salt, not a chicken salt, kind of girl’. Which would have been the most bizarre pick-up line ever, coming from anyone other than the guy who sells the best hot chips in town.

  We chatted for a while, but I wasn’t interested and eventually reached the point when I needed him to leave me alone. There was zero chance of meeting anyone else while Mr Potato Head was hanging around so I casually dropped into conversation that I was there with my ‘boyfriend’. And I pointed to my gorgeous Gusband, who was dancing around like an aroused meerkat on the other side of the dancefloor.

  ‘That’s your boyfriend?’ he said. ‘Gee, he’s a bit young!’

  ‘I know! He’s my toy boy,’ I shouted over the music.

  I think it’s totally feasible that Tim could be my boyfriend.
He’s probably the straightest gay guy you’ll ever meet.

  But Mr Potato Head didn’t believe me, so he stormed over to Tim and demanded to know if he was my lover and how long we’d been dating. Unfortunately, Tim was blissfully unaware that I was trying to ditch the guy, so he laughed in his face and said we had never done, and would never do, any horizontal dancing of any kind.

  Shit! Bad Gusband.

  Well, instead of just licking his wounds and letting it go, Mr Potato Head came back to me and said, ‘That guy says he’s not your boyfriend. So what’s the deal?’ (I mean, seriously, buddy? Take a hint!)

  At that stage, I realised Mr Pomme Frite might have been a little unstable. So I lied (again) and told him I wasn’t lying. I insisted that Tim was my pretty young boy toy. And that we were very, very happy together. Mr Potato Head promptly disappeared and I assumed he finally got the memo.

  But thirty seconds later, Tim appeared by my side and said in a panic, ‘We’re leaving! Now. Let’s go!’ And he grabbed my hand and led me out the back door through the fire escape and onto the street. We didn’t stop running until we’d flagged down a taxi and jumped in.

  When he was finally able to speak, Gusband told me that Mr Pomme Frite had gone back to him and said, ‘Sami says you are her boyfriend. And I don’t like being lied to, you smartarse. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going out to my car, right now, and I’m going to get my gun. And then I’m going to come back here and shoot you in the head.’

  And Tim was quite sure Mr Pomme Frite wasn’t talking about his spud gun. Oops. My bad (and a timely reminder for us all that lying is never a good idea).

  I couldn’t believe that my silly plan to shake off Mr Potato Head had backfired so spectacularly. I’d clearly been a little too blasé about the whole episode and now my beautiful Gusband was scared for his life. We managed to make it home without further incident, but I was genuinely horrified. (Almost as horrified as when I realised I would never be able to taste the mouth watering magnificence of my favourite hot chips ever again.) We never went back to the Piano Room and, luckily, we never ran into the Pomme Frite again.

  We also decided the ‘boyfriend’ angle wasn’t a good idea. Because, well, who wants to be shot in the head?

  Aggressive flirts are the worst. Some men just don’t understand that flirting comes with certain boundaries. Case in point: Drunky McDrunkface.

  I should have known the night wasn’t going to go well when I rocked up to the bar and the door bitch looked me up and down and said, ‘Oh, are you here for the body building convention?’

  I immediately regretted my decision to wear the dress with the horizontal stripes. We all know they’re a danger zone on anyone bigger than a size zero. But I was on holiday in Hawaii at the time, feeling tanned and fabulous and not really giving a fuck, so I threw caution to the wind and took a chance on the stripes. Turns out I looked like a weightlifter in drag.

  I think it’s fair to say my confidence had taken a pretty big hit before I even entered the bar. And then, to make matters worse, the only guy who hit on me all night was the drunkest guy in the room. You know the one: clearly can’t handle his alcohol; swaying around, bumping into people, with no sense of personal space or dignity; slurring his words; eyes half closed (or half open, whichever way you look at it).

  Yep. That guy. Ol’ Drunky McDrunkface.

  Sometimes drunk guys can be mildly entertaining for a while. But on that particular night, I wasn’t in the mood. I apparently looked like a man in a dress and the only guy who seemed the least bit interested was the moron who could quite possibly fall over and/or puke on me at any moment. So when he stumbled his way over and tried to flirt with me, I said, ‘No, thank you, I’m not interested.’ This didn’t deter him. He persisted with his heavily inebriated advances. So, again, I said, ‘Thank you. But I’m really not interested. I’m just here with my girlfriends tonight.’

  But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So when his manterruptions reached the point of being downright annoying, I physically turned my body away from him in an attempt to block the guy completely. He clearly wasn’t picking up on my verbal cues, so I thought a non-verbal message might get through. My body language was practically screaming, ‘You are not included in this conversation, buddy. I have no interest in engaging with you. This is your opportunity to leave.’

  Sadly, non-verbal cues no comprende. So when he tried yet again to forcibly gain my attention, I said, ‘Look, I’ve already told you I’m not interested. Several times. And you’re annoying me now. So please go away and leave us alone.’

  Which is when he looked across at my girlfriends. And then he looked back at me. And then, very loudly, shouted, ‘LESBIAN CUNTS!’

  The guy clearly didn’t handle rejection well.

  I was stunned for a moment, and then I looked him straight in his half-open eyes and said, ‘Wouldn’t your mother be proud?’ (Usually I don’t think of a suitable retort until hours after the incident!)

  As Drunky McDrunkface stood there, swaying, squinting at me and trying to remember if he had a mother, I leaned across the bar and told the bartender what had just happened. And, to their credit, I’ve never seen a security team act so fast. Two enormous security guards appeared from nowhere, grabbed the pest and escorted him out of the establishment. As he stumbled past me, I couldn’t resist. ‘Oh no, leaving so soon? But you had me at “lesbian cunt”.’

  The bartender very kindly offered us a complimentary round for our troubles and we were left to ponder what makes a guy act that way. What gives him the right to demand a woman’s attention, even after she’s told him she’s not interested? Is it alcohol? Pride? Ego? An inherent obnoxiousness? It certainly takes all the fun out of flirting.

  When a guy has no respect for a woman’s space or her right to say no, it’s nothing short of bullying and harassment. Parents, please teach your sons that this behaviour is not acceptable.

  I encountered another especially disgruntled Romeo while I was out with some friends at the cosy little Lord Dudley pub, in Sydney. It was one of those extremely rare occasions when a man simply walked up to me and said, ‘Hi, can I buy you a drink?’

  I know it was brave of the guy to just infiltrate my group of friends like that and have a crack. And sober guys don’t offer to buy me drinks, like, ever! But I’ll be really honest, I wasn’t attracted to him. Plus, I didn’t have the energy that night to flirt with, or even talk to, a stranger. I was enjoying the relaxed company and conversation of some friends I didn’t get to see very often. So I said, ‘Thanks so much, but not tonight. Sorry. I’m just here with some friends. Have a good night.’

  He looked a little miffed but he gave me an awkward smile and disappeared somewhere behind me. I felt like a bitch for about four seconds but I didn’t think about it again until he appeared out of nowhere, about half an hour later, and said to me, in a really immature, almost childish tone, ‘Well, I just want to say, you’ve missed the colour. In your crown.’ And then he walked away.

  I said to my friends, ‘Umm what the actual fuck was that about?’

  I had no idea what he was talking about, until one of my friends suggested that he might have been referring to a slightly dodgy colour application on my hair. On the crown of my head, to be exact.

  I need to point out that his was not a helpful gesture, like the one you might offer a girlfriend: ‘Hey, darls, you’ve got some lippy on your teeth.’ His tone suggested that what he really wanted to say to me was, ‘That’ll teach you for turning me down, you disgusting, colourless, fucked-up hair freak!’ The comment was intended to be his big comeback after I rejected him. I can only guess he’d spent thirty minutes standing behind me, seething and staring at the back of my head, trying desperately to think up the worst possible insult he could throw at me. And the best sledge he could manage was ‘you’ve missed the colour in your crown’.

  Not quite as punchy as ‘lesbian cunts’, but certainly more original.

&nbs
p; As soon as I got home, I did the double-mirror juggling act to inspect the back of my head and I was shocked to discover that, yes, there was indeed a small dark patch on my crown that was not quite as blonde as the rest of my hair. The disgruntled romeo was spot on. My hairdresser had missed the colour in my crown.

  I guess I should have thanked the guy for pointing that out.

  Note to self: find new colourist. Book appointment ASAP.

  I once met a notorious Sydney bachelor at a friend’s wedding. We had some flirty chat throughout the night but as the wedding party ended and people started to leave, I told him I probably wouldn’t make it to the afterparty. It had been a long day and I was working in breakfast radio at the time, so I was permanently exhausted thanks to my daily 4 a.m. wakeup calls.

  ‘You should come,’ he said to me. ‘If you do, I’ll give you masses of cocaine!’

  I’d never been hit on quite like that before. The promise of masses of cocaine was certainly a novel approach although, sadly, it probably wasn’t a unique one for this Casanova, who obviously believed the surest way to a girl’s heart was straight up her nostrils.

  What really repulsed me wasn’t just the use of the word ‘masses’ (as if he was some kind of Colombian kingpin), but the realisation that the kind of girls he usually hit on were probably turned on by his generous offer. More than anything, I was offended that El Chapo thought I might be one of those girls. ‘I’ll give you masses of cocaine’ does not turn me on. If you’re looking for six words to impress me, try ‘Would you prefer red or white?’ instead.

  *

  It’s alarmingly common for men to use nose candy to woo the ladies these days. In some circles, offering a gal a line is the equivalent of offering to buy her a vodka and tonic (top shelf, of course). I’ve met a few of these Cocaine Cowboys on the dating circuit over the years.