I find myself ordering a drink at the bar, and my mind is trying to comprehend what I’m looking at on the other side of the bar. I have three faces looking back at me, smiling and laughing. It appears they were having a great time, but unfortunately, all their enjoyment and laughter is directed at me.
My eyes slit, I tilt my head to the side, and I stare back at one person. For the last year and a half, we’ve been sleeping together. A FIFO (fly in, fly out) worker who makes it a habit of late-night visits whenever he is in town.
It is a relationship that started with convenience. It is convenient for him, and I go along with it. I’m a ‘Booty Call’ and can’t call it anything else, no matter what spin I tried to put on it. I could probably call it a ‘Drunken Booty Call’ because he is often always drunk during these late-night rendezvous. What had I turned myself into?
This year and a half, ‘Booty call’ started when I was out drinking one night, and I spoke with this FIFO worker. He was ten years older than me, and we had friends in common. We had what I thought would be a one-night stand, which was starting to become a pattern for men and me.
That was until he turned up two nights later, and then after that, it was whenever he was back in town. I thought it might have been leading to something more serious, but after months and months of this happening, I knew I was wrong. We met after events, like after the races, after the pub, after a concert and so on. It was always the same. We were together but never together in public.
My FIFO visitor would fly home, go to the pub, get drunk, call me, and there I was, a stupid little obsessed twenty-two-year-old taking whatever titbits thrown at me. I thrived on the slightest bit of attention and the occasional nice word. I sat by the phone wondering if he would call, if he were coming to me or if he wanted me to go to him.
Not long in, I started questioning whether I would continue to be that girl on standby or be something more. Nothing had changed in months, so I decided I wouldn’t be exclusive with him. Who knew what else he was up to, and for that matter, who else was he up to it with? I still needed to have fun, and his FIFO roster was three weeks on and one week off, and I still had a social life for the other three weeks when he wasn’t there. He never questioned how many other people I was sleeping with. I’m unsure whether he knew or cared, but something tells me he would have had his sources telling him the ins and outs of my weekend adventures.
I liked him, but I knew when I was being used. Sex was always fun, but I was forever in my head, and even though it was pleasurable, I rarely came. I learned that I loved giving head and would worship a cock when it was in my hands and my mouth. I could explore the male body more, not that his body was anything special, but it was mine to do with as I pleased. We’d had sex in the rain one summer night and sex in the shower after because who knew it would be so fucking cold. I got my first-ever sex toy, which I was too shy to tell him about at first, but once I told him, we played with it a few times as a couple. I even had a pregnancy scare that I had a friend help me through. This accident happened between him and me, so I told him afterwards. He apologised, but there was no conversation about whether he would have supported me if the pregnancy had turned into reality.
Over time, I’d developed feelings for him but couldn’t get more than late-night drunken sex. Towards the end, a new dynamic in our relationship developed. We hung out with his housemates and stayed at his house more. He started to approach me in the middle of the night. He began to come up to me in public and make sure I’d wait for him, and he for me, as he let me have my dance time with my friends. He didn’t rush me to leave and would wait for me to be done dancing for the night. He didn’t show me any affection in public, but I knew a plan and had an idea about what was happening.
Then, one night, when we were lying in bed, he whispered that he loved me. I was in shock, and it was the moment when everything changed. I told my sister about him, stopped sleeping with other people and looked forward to him coming home from his three-week stints. I was at the point where I wanted to be and finally thought I’d made it to the next level of our relationship.
So, it’s here I find myself. Standing in a packed pub and looking into the smirking face across the bar. I honestly didn’t even realise that he was in town. I take note of his arms, which are wrapped around another woman. He smiles as if daring me to approach him and make a scene. For those that know me… I’m above that crap. There’s no way I will lower myself and crawl over there. I take my two drinks off the bar and head to where my friends sit. I feel I will need more than my drink and a spare, but I carry on with as much class as possible.
I take a large mouthful of my bourbon as hurt spreads through my guts, seeping up and strangling my heart. Hurt is weaving its way through the rest of my body, wrapping around every muscle and tendon, and my blood feels heavy as my heart pounds with hurt, thick in my veins. I stand to control where I can look and who I talk to. I force laughs out and try to listen to conversations as I drink and process what is happening at the bar.
I move my eyes to look at the face of the woman hanging onto what was never mine. This woman has a similar smug smile on her face. She looks older than me and looks to be FIFO’s age. She has a schoolteacher look about her and is nothing like me. She is short and blond, far thinner and more refined than I could ever be. She looks like she knows how to get what she wants and is already beating me. Case and point is standing next to her. Her smile says, ‘Yep, that’s right. I have your man.’ I don’t know this woman, and she is taunting me. Does she know our back story and everything we’ve been through? The emotions I went through over the last year and a half to finally feel like I was in a real relationship? What had he told her that she was treating me like chewing gum on the sole of her shoe?
The third face in the mix is his best friend. His friend is quiet and friendly in conversations. I rarely saw him when FIFO wasn’t around, but I thought he was funny, and I felt like we were starting to become friends. Tonight, as he threw his head back and laughed at me, there was no friendliness. The funny, charming friend was gone.
This night is turning into shit fast—my hurt morphs into sadness and from sorrow into frustration and embarrassment. I’m lucky I’m out drinking with my best friend because she notices something is wrong. I tell her, and she and her boyfriend keep me from doing anything stupid, and I’m grateful for their concerns and questions. Like any good friend, she gets me more alcohol. They try to make me feel better and tell me I can do much better than FIFO.
I look over; the women must have left for the toilet, and I see my chance. I approach him, and he looks at me, and I ask, “What the Fuck?” As always, a lady of few words.
He laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “I have a girlfriend now.” Wow. Not a new girlfriend, but a girlfriend. That shit hurts.
I nod and walk away, not wanting him to see me upset. I walk past her on my way to the toilet. She has the decency to put her head down and avoid eye contact with me. I realise now that I’d allowed myself to become this version of myself. I am nothing but a piece of trash, and he threw me away because I let him treat me like rubbish. I am weak, and all my insecurities have started to come back. Had I ever lost them? The voice I thought I had gained wasn’t strong at all. I was fooling myself into thinking that my little voice mattered.
I stick it out as long as possible and call it a night. My emotions have finally hit anger, and I don’t need to be here watching the ‘waste of my time’ and his ‘girlfriend’. As he sits publicly with her, doing what he has never done with me. To him, I will always be his person on the side, in the shadows. The darkness is too much, and I am drowning in it. It shallows me and keeps pulling me down, but I need light. I need someone to be proud to be with me and not hide me away.
It was official: I’d allowed someone to break me.
I walk home and stew in my bitterness. I’d already questioned the relationship’s worth but, towards the end, talked myself into believing there could be more. I’d even stopped looking elsewhere and thought maybe there could have been something. Why did I persist with a relationship that was so fucked up and twisted that he never took my feelings into account, and I realised that I didn’t know what ‘normal’ was. I had yet to experience normalcy, and this particular relationship was doomed from the start.
I pace around my house and try to process my life. I want to know what I did wrong or why I wasn’t good enough. I do the unthinkable: I ring him, but he doesn’t answer. I pace around, type out a text, and ask him where he is. He messages me back and tells me he is at home. I stupidly ring a taxi and go to his house. WTF am I doing? I get to his place and walk into the back patio area, where he is with his friends and girlfriend.
Awesome.
They all sit there and look at me, expecting me to entertain them and lose my shit. I calmly make a statement. My voice was small but determined. I say, “Thanks for wasting so much of my time”, and his response is….
“Shit happens, Mate!” He will forever be known as ‘The Fuckwit’!
I stutter at the word ‘Mate’ because I know that’s the highlighting factor in this whole shit show of a moment that is my life. If he called me ‘mate’, he considered me nothing more than a friend, but I was no friend because you don’t treat friends like this. I was far from a mate or a friend. I was an acquaintance—a body to use until he found someone better. I’m so glad I could come to this conclusion in person. In front of him and his friends. Yay me!
“Mate? ” I reply. “Yeah, Mate. Shit. Does. Fucking. Happen.”
I turn away and leave the house. I am determined never to return. I sit at the front gate of his house and squeeze my phone in my hand. I laugh at myself and shake my head at my stupidity. What did I expect from my visit? What did I think the outcome would be? Was I hoping he would see the error of his ways and that I was the one he was supposed to be with? I contemplate walking home, but it’s the opposite end of the town. I’m too lazy and drunk for that shit.
I lean on the gate and hold up my phone, wondering what to do next. I want to ring and make him come out by himself and explain what he is doing and why, but I know he won’t. His little posse has stayed on his side all night. I toss my phone in anger, and I look out into the darkness in front of me. I roll my eyes in annoyance because I need to use said phone to call a taxi. For fucks sake. I look for my phone in the grass and can’t find it anywhere in the dark. Of course.
I walk back inside, and everyone looks at me. “May I please borrow a phone? I’ve lost mine in the grass on the footpath when I threw it in frustration.” Why am I telling them all this?
The Fuckwit raises his eyebrows as he hands me his phone, and I walk away again. Looks like I have turned into the entertainment they were hoping for. I ring and find my phone and return the other one. His female housemate, the only nice one, walks out with me and tries to talk to me, but nothing she says could help me. I’m past the point of looking like a fool. I tell her that I’m okay or will be and that I’m just annoyed at the time that I’ve wasted caring about someone who didn’t feel the same way about me. She agrees and sympathises with me.
I call a taxi and wait out the front by myself. The cab pulls up, and of course. It’s the same fucking taxi driver that dropped me off twenty minutes earlier. He doesn’t question me, and I’m sure he’s seen people in worse states than my sorry, worthless ass. I get home and wallow in self-pity. I wonder if I should drive the three hours to my hometown and visit my family. My parents aren’t there, but my sisters are. Home sounds fantastic right about now. Home will always want me.
My phone rings, and it’s my best friend checking in. I tell her what happened, and she tells me to come to her boyfriend’s house and hang out with them. It’s only 1 a.m., and what can it hurt? She tells me she doesn’t want me to be alone, so I ring another taxi and what the fuck… Are there no other taxi drivers in this stupid fucked up town tonight?
I arrive at the house, and my best friend is there to greet me and hug me. There are three of them sitting on the back of a Ute parked on the footpath. My friend introduces me to her boyfriend’s best mate, and we all share drinks. I sit back and tell myself I can return from this shit moment. The Fuckwit is a minor setback in my life. He is a moment of darkness, and he can’t stop me from standing up and moving into the light. Someone takes my hand, and I look down to see my friend’s hand in mine. I look at her face, and she smiles at me. I squeeze her hand and bring her in for a hug.
“I love you, mate. You know that, right?” She whispers, “You’ll always be my best friend, and I’ll always be here for you.”
We head inside, and her boyfriend makes me a place to sleep on the lounge room floor. He notices that his friend is already passed out on the couch, and he grabs my hand and pulls me into his bedroom. My friend is sitting in the middle of the bed, and she holds out her hand. I take it and sit on the bed with them. I look into their faces and see a flicker of light. Oh…okay then.
To be continued…