Bad Boyfriends, I wrote the book

Okay, before I regale you with bad boyfriend stories, I must tell you about a couple of bloggers I’m crushing on right now. Firstly, the divine Marcelle Manhattan. Now, when I say that this woman’s erotica is smokin’ hot, I really do mean that. You all need to get over to her blog right now and read about an FMF she experienced. And if you don’t find yourself throbbing all over after reading that, then check your pulse, for you may very well be dead.


Also, I think I may have found a kindred spirit in Captain Smack. I first ran into this bearded blogger at a protest rally. He was carrying a placard which said, ‘Vote for Bush.’ I was turned on by his beard and yet, offended by his politics, so I went up to the dude, who was wearing long flowing robes, and said, “Hey man, you serious? Haven’t we been shafted enough by Bush and Dick?”

To which he replied, “No sister, not that Bush. I’m a pro hair activist, who’s sick and tired of the oppression men and women suffer at the hands of the razor. I mean, since when did it become cool for women to wear Hitler moustaches down there? Back in the seventies you were no one unless you had a huge afro or bush.”

“Right. So you mean, bring back bush?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Wow, the man was deep.

“Tell me more.”

“Well, men should be able to wear their beards with pride and women should be able to wear their pubic beards with pride and no longer have to suffer the indignity of the Brazilian.”

Well, I was awed by this radical thinker and I know you will be too. Please check out his blog for ways to sexually stimulate yourself with toothpaste and other useful stuff.

And now, to get back to my post about bad boyfriends. People often ask me why I got married, to which the only really conclusive answer I can give is that I had amassed such a terribly high number of bad dates and boyfriends, that I just had to call it quits and get out of the game. For all of you still in the game, I wish you the best of British and hope you find your soul mate soon.

To give you an idea of what I was dealing with, I have written a few letters to some of the men in my past.

Dear Bengt,
You were a Swedish conceptual artist who invited me out on a date and forgot to mention you were gay. You played footsie with me over dinner, then snogged me in a dark alley behind the restaurant. I was a little tiddly or I would have thought that it was a little strange that when you felt me between the legs you said, “Wow, it’s so weird, feeling nothing jutting out there. Weird, but in a good way.”

Thank you for telling everyone the next day that you “just kissed me because I seemed to want it.” Thank you for teaching me that not having a penis is not a crime, unless you are a man. And that getting off with a girl is a little bit stupid if you identify as gay.


Dear Dave,
You were an Australian accountant living in London. We met at a German conversation class, where, you said, you were learning German so that you could converse with your German girlfriend. Did that girlfriend ever exist, Dave? I’ll never know. At the end of each evening class we would all go to the pub and have a bit of a laugh. You were very amusing, for an accountant, and although you wore glasses and your hair was kinky, you were geek-sexy. I realized you were fairly immature when, after everyone had gone home one night, you said you had missed your last train and could you stay at my flat? Okay I said, and put you in the spare room. I suppose I should have realized you were a dick when you came into my room twice during the night and said you were scared of sleeping on your own and could you get in with me? I told you to piss off and then, weeks after the German class ended, you kept phoning me up asking me out. So, in the end I thought, okay fine, and we went out on a date and got blind drunk and had some rather functional sex, like I was a prostitute you’d paid for the night and you’d better get your monies worth. Like, you’d wake me up every hour and just get on top. By the morning I was sober, not to mention a little sore.

When I saw you in the cold light of day, I made the mistake of laughing at your very hairy chest and started rubbing it for fun. And you said, “Can you please stop doing that, you’re creating static electricity.” I thought it was funny that I was generating static electricity, but you’d lost your sense of humor. You were dying to get out of there, even though I’d made it quite clear I thought of you as nothing but a (rather poor) one night stand. Thank you for teaching me, that while there may be twenty-three go rounds, for you, there is only one position in a one night stand. Your ‘girlfriend’ is welcome to you.


Dear James,
I dated you when I was eighteen. I thought you were very deep and meaningful because you listened to the Smiths. We went camping and watched the sunrise on the sea. I didn’t want to go all the way with you, I suppose, because I didn’t fancy you all that much, but it was all very romantic. You wrote me love poems. Then I started at university and started shagging someone else. You might have still had a chance if you hadn’t sent me some stuff copied from a German porn magazine with Emma and James inserted in the text as the protagonists, i.e.

“Oh, shove your great German sausage deep into me,” sighed Emma. “It is so huge and wide and red.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said James, “I am dying to perform the Geschlechtsverkehr with you (bit of info: did you know that sexual intercourse is translated in German, literally as ‘genital traffic?)

For some reason, this porn letter turned me off you, so I sent you the old dear John letter. Why then did you come up to the University and stick a note on my door asking to meet you at the Cathedral? When I didn’t meet you, why did you phone me a year later telling me you were “still a bit upset at the way things ended between us.”

I can only hope you’ve gotten over me now.



Dear Steve,

Thank you for replying to a personal ad I put up on the Internet. While I appreciated your offer to play naked squash with you (“The grounds are totally secluded, we will have total privacy. You have not know exhilaration until you have played squash naked,”) you must understand that I had a small voice in my head telling me you were a raving lunatic who enjoyed taking young women away to secluded houses and murdering them. You may have just wanted a game of squash. I’m sorry if I judged you unnecessarily, and if your intentions were honorable.



Dear Craig,
I was twenty six and old enough to know better when I met you, a man of about fifty. You said you would take care of me, that I was “a little seed that just needed careful nurturing to grow.” I never seemed to understand why, every time you took me to a restaurant or pub, you seemed to have forgotten your wallet, and I had to pay for everything. I cheered up considerably when you said you had purchased a little love nest for us both on Portobello Road. You told me the number of the flat and when I went to check it out, I found it didn’t exist. I began to realize you might have an ulterior motive for dating me, i.e. robbing my flat, when you asked me to have a key cut for you so that you could “surprise you in the morning with fresh croissants and orange juice and slip into bed beside you before you woke up.”

I got my own back one evening, when I invited you to dinner with my mum and dad, two people who loathe each other and hadn’t seen each other for years. When you turned up, your face went white. You probably thought I was getting serious and wanted to introduce you to my dear parents, when in fact I just wanted to get rid of you. My dad was drunk and was having a go at my mum. He is an upper class twit and was yelling, “My dear, you are just a fucking Austrian peasant!” And while they were having a screaming row, you looked like you were going to cry. You’d thought I was a bit of posh who you could get some money out of, but now you were having to deal with her awful dysfunctional family, and you didn’t like it one bit.

Well, I hope it taught you a lesson, you self-deluded old fool.


There are more, and I’ll tell you about them some day. But what about you? Do share. Please tell Auntie Emma about your worst dates.