So. I’ve been meaning to write about Chicken Boy ever since I started this blog. And it feels like 7am on a Saturday morning while sober with a sleeping man next to me is the perfect time.
I found Chicken Boy on tinder. I wasn’t floored by his photos, but they didn’t make me want to scratch my eyes out and take a vow of celibacy either so after the requisite amount of banter (whatever that is) I agreed to meet him.
We would go for a bike ride along the river, and get coffee at my favourite cafe afters. This is pretty much the cutest first date plan ever by the way, what could possibly go wrong?
Well firstly, because she is a total dingus, Hebony lost the key to her bike lock. After hastily rummaging through all her handbags and jeans pockets I pronounced it lost forever and tentatively suggested to Chicken Boy that we postpone until I crack the shits good and proper and call a locksmith or my ex to free my bike.
I needn’t have fretted. Chicken Boy is a sparky by trade and offered to pop on over and cut my bike lock, which sounds like a euphemism but isn’t.
Because I want to bring feminism to a grinding halt singlehandedly I found this prospect quite hot. So. He came over, cut my lock, and we rode off into the…midday sun together.
The riding bit was nice. Along the river with all that nature jazz, and people walking their cute puppies. We stopped for a break and he led the conversation to deeper waters. Why was I on tinder? What was I looking for? How long was my longest relationship and why did it end? You know, the usual first-date-bike-ride-interrogation routine.
I told him I was considering having children on my own. A look of deeply condescending sympathy masked his face and he said something along the lines of “oh you’re a good looking girl, don’t worry, some man will want you”.
I followed that up with “well I might just have kids first and work out the whole relationship thing after” to which he replied with some line that implied that if I already had kids no man would want me because I’d be…you know. I think ‘ruined’ is the word his puny little brain was panting for.
We went to my favourite cafe where Chicken Boy asked me my star sign and proceeded to read me my horoscope from not one but three different apps on his phone, including present and future predictions. It was only fair that we then hear his present and future predictions from the same three apps. Funny, not one of them predicted what would happen on our second date…
Yes. That’s right kids, she went out with him again. To his house, no less. Why? You might understandably ask? Because dating is a fucking minefield, and if you’re scared off too easily you’ll stand still forever so you tread gingerly through this war zone and hope you don’t step on too many assholes.
The following weekend Chicken Boy offered to cook me dinner at his place. Yep – you guessed it – chicken. What a nice offer. I’ll schlep my arse all the way out to sticksville on a public transport mission that takes long enough for my smooth leg hair to spike for a guy who uses frozen vegies on a first date.
Meanwhile, I’m going to deviate briefly from my narrative to tell you about The Dan Murphy’s Guy from earlier that day. As I was going on such a promising courting adventure I thought a quick trip to the bottle shop was in order.
As I was loading my six pack of Asahi onto my push bike a guy came up to me and said “a cute girl on a push bike who buys my favourite beer? You’re not single are you?”
To which I said “yep, are you?”
“No, actually.” He replied.
“Well why did you ask me then?”
“I didn’t think.”
I laughed. “Bye cute Dan Murphy’s Guy.”
At Melbourne Central Station a couple of hours later he got on my train. Yep, that’s right. This actually happened.
“Um, it seems the universe wants us to meet again.” He says.
“So it does.”
“Can I have your number if I promise to only use it if I come home to find my girlfriend in bed with my best friend?”
I laughed and gave him my phone number minus the last digit. Said if he wanted to call me he’d have to mean it.
So. Back to Chicken Boy. I arrived at his boring house and within the first hour he not only bench pressed to demonstrate his epic toughness, but also made me do it to show the juxtaposition of my weakness.
To his credit he had asked what kind of music I liked (my response had been very long and apparently overwhelming) so he’d downloaded a trip hop album, which was actually pretty good.
The conversation was boring, the chicken was ok, the rice was weirdly amazing – I have no idea what he put in it that made it so good – and at one point he said this…
“So I’ve shown your photos to some friends of mine, both male and female, and while I think you’re gorgeous they all said they didn’t think you were very attractive and couldn’t see what the fuss was about.”
To which I replied “why the fuck would you tell me that?”
“Don’t be offended, I don’t agree with them, it just goes to show everyone had different tastes that’s all.”
Asshole. So obviously I drank lots of beer and made out with him to stop him from talking. Or because a girl has no idea what’s going on until she’s kissed a boy or…actually I honestly have no idea why I kissed him, which is weird for me.
So we were making out on the couch and he was being a bit handsy. I told him, in no uncertain terms “hey, dress stays on”.
“Because I said so.”
“Are you ashamed of your body?”
“If you weren’t ashamed of it you wouldn’t mind me seeing it.”
Solid logic, if you’re a date rapist.
Like any self respecting girl worth her salt is chewed him out.
“Actually I’m not ashamed of my body. If I were I might seek validation from creeps like you.”
“I’m annoying you. I can tell.”
“How fucking perceptive of you.”
“I’ll get dessert.”
He then told me about all the women after him on tinder and how disgusting it was that a middle aged single mum thought she had a shot with him.
We ate this fucking delicious hot
lemon tart thing with ice cream and he showed my the world’s ugliest pair of emo platformed shoes and told me he paid over $500 for them. Are there any women this shit works on?
He finally drove me to the train station. Note, he did not even park his car, just pulled up at the station and let me out. In a dodgy-arse neighborhood at about midnight on a Friday night.
No Chicken Boy, I most certainly did not want to go out with you again. FFS.