Johnny Savage Ichi

He smiles at me as we walk back to my hotel in Shinjuku and asks if he'll make my blog now. I say that it's usually reserved for people that i haye but maybe the fact that he's packing heat in the penis department might earn him an honourable mention.

We giggle and he says that if i stay here and get myself a japanese boyfriend that i'd definitely need something on the side. I said i wondered if the whole Asian penis stereotype thing was true and he says "I've seen 'em, 'orrible little things" in his broad irish accent.

He said that only in Japan was he called John, at home all his friends called him "jonatan". The Japanese pronounced it like "Joh". One short sharp syllable.
Blindee and Joh.
"Or me ma calls me Johnny"
His last name was Savage.
I said Johnny Savage was a great name and that guy would make my blog for sure. Except Johnny Savage was probably a bit of a cunt, i reckon he'd let you wear his "Strangers" jacket then fuck you and never call. I imagined he smoked camel cigarettes rolled into his sleeve. He was one of those rockabilly dancers at Yoyogi park on a Sunday, drinking beers and scowling.
He drove a motorbike, carried a flip knife and  knew all about Japanese rope porn. I'd say he exclusively dated white blonde girls which would be why we got together.

But John wasn't Johnny Savage, he was a good Irish boy who liked football and his ma. He had a celtic cross tattoo on his left wrist that he got on a holiday to Greece when he was 17 and another one that was something written in latin down his ribs. It was a quote from his family crest, something about being brave and honest. It was really dodgy but that added to the charm.
I wondered if he liked "dags" or knew much about bare knuckle boxing.

I met him on tinder. I was sitting in a starbucks in Shibuya using the free wifi. The connection was really slow so i couldn't see anyones pictures. I just liked the first 50 people and waited to see what came back. We bonded over the fact that we'd both come to Tokyo to stay with people that we had fallen out with pretty quickly. I told him about the single bed Danny and i had to share and how we were like magnetic poles repelling each other. We slept top to tail and i tried my hardest not to annoy him in his sleep.

We spent the next few days getting drunk on Suntory whisky and giggling on trains, swapping our observations on Japan. I took him to a bar we nicknamed "cheers" because we'd go in and our japanese buddies would chant out names and we'd all do tequila shots. We missed the last train and slept on a bed of cardboard boxes in the street, we snuggled and it was a better sleep than i'd had the whole time in Danny's bed. Next time we were in the area i replied to it as "our house" and he said "welcome home".

We fell into a little rhythm, romance paced like a Sophia Coppola film. I started getting hotel rooms, half to escape the wrath of Danny and half so that he'd spend the nights with me. We watched japanese t.v and picked out words we knew "sugoi, majica, daijoubu" picking up on them was like linguistic Where's Wally.

At night we'd come home and have sex then snuggle. I'd roll over and he'd say "come 'ere to me woman" and i'd think to myself that i could happily spend the rest of my time in Tokyo getting drunk and watching sumo in bed with him.

Two days later he kissed me goodbye and said "i've really enjoyed me time wit ya, ya've been a ray of sunshine". I entertain the thought of following him back to Ireland but I don't like the cold much and i'm well aware that a holiday romance is only ever just that.

J.S Ni

Paloma messages me "I went home with a man last night who had a micro penis, it was like rubbing a nipple".
I reply that "i think i've met my favourite dick ever, the best i've come across and that i'm leaving Tokyo tomorrow and said dick. Could she offer her condolences as i'm 25 and i've peaked. I've reached peak dick and it's all down here from here".

J.S San

I bit his ear and whispered "Fuck you're big"
"ye ccc"
"ye cca"
He came instantly.
"Ye can't be whispering things like that"
He says in his thick Irish accent.
I kiss him on the forehead and say "we'll need to have sex again before we go to sleep"

Sarah

I'm an independant sista!
A feminist,
I love to get drunk at parties and talk about how misogyny is not dead.
Women earn 77 cents to every dollar that a man makes.
Women are socialised to make ourself meek, have you seen how much fucking space men take up on the train?
When we play with girls we encourage passive activity while boys are given things to build.
Women are constantly looking at themselves, self monitoring, judged on the slightest sign of imperfection.
Men like you are the reason misogyny isn't dead, saying that you're not like that.
Shut the fuck up!

So i know that i shouldn't be trying to bring other women down.

But Sarah does my head in. I meet her at a party for the launch of a brand that makes sunglasses out of skateboards, if that wasn't Bondi enough i'm there because i'm sleeping with an Irish guy who is somehow affiliated and loves cocaine.
I've just finished worked so by the time i get there they are already chain smoking and continuously hugging each other, incoherently screaming something about how they're all going to go to Miami, which i'm guessing is a plan that was hatched earlier (no mention of it in the few days after though). I say that i'm small enough to fit in a suitcase, trying to squeeze my way into the conversation but they're all so loose that they just scream over each other and repeat MIAMMMMMMMMMMMI.

I'm already pretty unsure about this Irish dude, Patrick, but i'm there, i'm dressed and he's feeding me cocktails.
Sarah is his housemate. She's 35, does something in media and her head keeps moving back and forth as if shes casting a fishing rod. I say nice to meet you and go to give her a kiss on the cheek, she physically recoils from my touch, takes a drag from her menthol cigarette and says "Sorry who are you". She's got an accent that half Kiwi half Bondi bitch and i hate her instantly. She's also wearing so really fucking ugly boots and her lipstick is bleeding a bit. Every time i get stuck talking to her she asks me nothing about myself.

As the night goes i'm trying to get drunk in an effort to take the edge off Sarah's presence. We all go back to Patrick's house and they start talking about how we need more coke. This is the second time i've been out with Patrick and i remember telling him on our first date that i was pretty over drugs, i'd done my dash with them and i couldn't really handle the self loathing. On top of that my ex boyfriend is a Jewish Bondi coke dealer so i'm really trying to distance myself from that scene, i do yoga a lot these days.
He makes a bit of a show about saying sorry for getting another bag then proceeds to order 3.
Sarah says "you're so young, are we corrupting her?".
Not even really addressing me.
It's patronising and i want to make a comment about the fact that i think it's vile that she's 35 and is already 2 bags deep on a Sunday night  but i tell her to pass me the note instead.

She's been harping on about how he has a brilliant idea for an app all night. I mention that my degree in in media/communications so i'd love to hear about it.
Her head nods back and forth again, she might have hooked something.
She says she wants to make porn for the oculus rift.
I say "wow, great idea"
Not a great idea though, oculus rift are really expensive and you can't exactly just download that to your iphone, plus i'm pretty sure something like that has already been done Sarah you stupid haggard bitch.
Anyway, i saw "great idea" and she looks at me, one eye slightly drooping and says "I don't mean to be rude but you probably don't know what that is".

Nevermind i've obviously just acknowledged that i know what it is, or if she was polite she might have said "do you know about oculus". I can tell she thinks she's a bit smart by mentioning it, like when old people finally discover smart phones and try to show you Siri like they're the first person to discover her.
"SIRI, dial home"
"dialing gnome"
"Home, siri, HOME"
"anyway, it's got all these apps on it and you can get Google and Facebook"

yeah great....


So, I turn Sarah, who is now wearing sequined ugg boots while fanging a dart and tell her that I just wrote a motherfucking essay on the way augmented reality is effecting our media landscape and the fact that in combination with that and web 2.0 the way in which we experience the internet has drastically changed.
She kind of burps, says "yep" and asked if i've ever been to New Zealand.

She's literally so wrapped up in herself that nothing i say matters.

But I can tell that she cares about her appearance a lot (sequined Ugg boots aside)
. She was probably pretty insecure in high school and i'd put money on the fact that she's a mental ex girlfriend who drinks too much and starts crying about how her boyfriend broke up with her, leave 13 messages and checking his Facebook page every 5 minutes.  So again i know i shouldn't be trying to neg someone that probably does it to themselves enough already but i've got some cocaine confidence going on.

I interrupt her and say that her skin looks angelic.
Like really tight.
You're pretty much a decade older than i am but your skin looks better.
Have you had botox?
Patrick, look how good Sarah's skin in.
He agrees and because he's so razzled up it becomes all he can talk about.
"Your face is liek a baby but the rest of you isn't" he says.
The skin on her forehead is so taught that if you flicked it it would make on of those twang sounds like Gladwrap over a salad bowl.
she says "nooooo haha noooo i have't had anything done" in her fucked up Bondi/Kiwi accent.
I imagine if she hadn't had botox she would have a pulsating vein in the middle of her forehead right about now but instead her face is frozen in time.
I keep pushing it and i can tell she is slightly uncomfortable. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom but i'm pretty sure she's gone to look at her face for about half an hour and send a message to her ex.

Sarah has tainted my evening so I proceed to get very drunk.
Patrick and i go to bed and i realise i need to throw up, i'm thankful that i have the foresight to take myself off to the bathroom and vomit strategically. His bathroom comes off his room though so i'm sure that he hears everything.
When i wake up in the morning there are condom packets next to the bed, i don't remember having sex and i don't remember if i've thrown up before, during or after.
I am however thankful that at least it was protected.

I decide that i probably shouldn't come back here.

Jordan

I met Jordan on Tinder. After a few casual boyfriends and a job that means i always work nights and exclusively date bearded bartenders i decide to broaden my horizons. He is 28, 7 kilometers away and we both like Flight of The Conchords, Johnny Cash and Mini Cooper Australia. Jordan has a slick blonde haircut and what looks to be like a great collection of cardigans and winter coats. In his photos he looks fun and social but not intimidatingly so. Like those people that have really strong friend groups, always attending bbq’s and house parties together, Or guys that are photographers and have very "bondi" fashion sense with their shaggy hair, mini bowler hats and shirts done up with one button. I nope them straight away, i don't like cocaine and to be honest i don't want to go to Splendour in the Grass. "Jordan, you're a massive babe and you look like you have the capacity to read books..." "Bindi, from one massive babe to another. It's a pleasure. And i enjoy your appreciation for emoji.." My tinder tagline is: The little fingers doing the "belissimo" thumb and forefinger together A palm tree The red balloon The radio A Gun A cocktail The prawn The watermelon The airplane (apparently a thirst for travel is statistically highly attractive) The anchor The wave The sun The cactus A bento box A book And the camping scenery. I feel this says "I'm fun, but i'm not a fuckwit" Jordan obviously agrees. We banter a bit but really it feels like i'm just being funny and he interjects comments every now and then or repeats my compliments just slightly reversed. He's in advertising, lives in Melbourne but is in Sydney a lot for work. A few times throughout the conversation i think if he wasn't so hot i probably would have shut it down by now. I ask him a question about which aspect of advertising he's involved with? He says "plz, creative, haha" plz. It reminds me of the poorly drawn Dolan Duck and Gooby cartoons on brown cardigan. I imagine his little blonde face squashed down and drawn in prime colours holding a crayon and drawing a crude picture while saying "Gooby plz, creatives". I keep this thought to myself and say something about how this explains the nice frames on his glasses and his extensive collection of winter wear, followed by three snowflake emoticons and a yellow love heart. We reciprocate mutual adoration for a while and then settle on drinks a Thursday from now. In my head i decide i will definitely sleep with this man, he's got a home run and doesn't know it. Literally all he has to do is turn up STI free and not be too much of a cunt. I turn up to Baxter inn with red lipstick and 6 inch heels on. I’ve spent the last half hour sending picture messages to my housemate of possible outfits I could wear. Fumbling for my i.d i feel a hand on my shoulder. "Binnddddddddi" (slightly high pitched, addressing the fact that we met on the internet and this fat Tongan security guard is probably pretty aware of it). He is short. Not much taller than i would be normally, which is fine, except i dressed according to his perceived height and now my heels make me feel a bit awkward as I physically and mentally look down on him, I make a note to go back through his profile pictures later and see how i missed this. I’m pretty sure he’s used some kind of buzz light-year angle and positioned himself next to other shorter men. He is wearing a three piece suit, which I like and amorous from the get go, which I guess is kind of fun. Something about him is extremely excitable. He is a mix of j'amie (private school girl) and every fabulous gay teen character in every movie ever. We go to the bar and i ask the bartender for a rye whiskey sour and a.....? "Sure, i'll have a whiskey shower too!!" The moustached man behind the bar looks at me and i say "You heard the lady, two whiskey showers!" We sit opposite each other with our legs already interlocked. I start telling a story but i keep noticing that his gaze is falling just past my shoulder. I stop mid point and ask him what he's looking at. He says "Sorrrrrrry" and very effeminately brings both of his slender hands to cover his mouth and then pats down his navy blue suit and looks at me. "Ugggggggh, Don't look now, that girl behind you is wearing a sheer top and she obviously meant to wear a strapless bra but she mustn't have one because she's just tucked her bra straps in but they're hanging out, how awkward". I realise that i'm on a date with a gay man, a gay short man and if we're going to sleep together then i better get pretty drunk. I say that I have just handed in my last assessment for the semester and should we have shots to celebrate. “Naughtttttttty” he say. He asks me to tell him "Something fabulous” about myself that he wouldn’t be able to guess by looking at me. I hate date conversation like this, but I oblige and say that i'm great at swing dancing. He tells me that he's a weapon on the dance floor and starts to do this groove in his seat, i think it's meant to be sensual. He tilts his head back and with his elbows in tight he brings both hands up and does this sort of clicking thing with his fingers while gazing very intently into my eyes, lips slightly parted. Holding eye contact feels like that bit in lord of the rings where the fiery vagina looking thing flashes up on screen and Frodo knows it’s both his destiny and his demise. A few drinks later and he says something about espresso martini’s. I think he’s offering to get me one from the bar but it’s loud and I’m tipsy and what he’s really said is that there is a kit for making them at his hotel, conveniently 7 minutes walk from here. Would i like one? I say sure, even though I think espresso martinis are a drink reserved for wankers and people who don’t know how to order at a bar. I’m slightly confused but we get up and leave. On the elevator ride up to his room "Just the two of us" from the Austin Powers movies starts playing. He says that the elevator can sense how many people are in it and will play songs accordingly. His hotel room is like his personality, there's an air of ersatz sophistication. Above the mini bar in an "emergency bow tie", which he grabs and trys to put on me. I look at him in his suit, complete with silk kerchief perfectly folded in the corner of his pocket and he reminds me of Macaulay Culkin in Richie Rich. He puts on a deephouse remix of "Crave You" by the Flight Facilities and starts doing that dance again. We lock eye, surrounding his pupils I see the Lord of the Rings fire vagina burning before me. I am drunk, and I probably shouldn’t close my eyes again. I notice his crisp white bed sheets and feel this is an appropriate time to mention that i have my period. He’s undeterred. If I’m Frodo then is Gollum, eyes locked on me, he knows what he wants. He crawls over the bed to me on all fours then takes off my shirt and starts biting down my neck. My precioussssss He bites my nipples. Really hard actually, "Fuck” “shhh” He kind of purrs at me and makes a paw movement in my direction then starts to undo his pants. I go down on him and the first thing i notice is that his ball are ridiculously smooth. Like a newborn baby's bottom. I've never been a fan of man scaping but I’m also intrigued as to how he got them so smooth, I’m pretty drunk so in a weird sense the texture is comforting. Not sexual though. He’s moaning like a Japanese girl in a porn film. We get a condom and I feel grateful that at least there is half a millimetre of latex separating us. Recalling this i only really have flashed of moments but it reminds me of the scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall where both couples are having really loud sex in an effort to outdo each other. Except there aren't two couples it's just the two of us, me hoping that if we go hard and fast it’ll be over soon and him sweating away on top of me. At one stage I’m face down on the bed and he slips out of me, he's slurring in my ear "where are you". Like i could be hiding my vagina from him. I don't know how it finishes but afterwards he’s keen for a snuggle. He asks me to stay and be the little spoon, trying to nuzzle into my neck. “We can get room service in the morning” The thought of waking up with a hangover next to Richie rich/Gollum is too much for me. I search desperately for my pants and disappear pretty quickly. On the way back down the elevator sings to me "One is the loneliest number".

Danny

There is something innately sensible about Danny.

His jogger jeans combo, motivational sayings posted on his wall, and framed registration of business name sitting proudly by his bed.

Danny writes lists, ticks them off and listens to business podcasts whilst vacuuming.

It's sexy though, a positive change from the drug dealers, tattoo'd writers and pseudo-Newtown-cowboys of my dating history.

I feel like i can exhale into his presence.
His chamomile tea with the bag left in and going to sleep wearing ear plugs and a sleeping mask.
I think through the people i know and conclude that he's probably the most likely to succeed at getting what he wants out of life.

He listens to spotify with the adds.

When I was younger my mum had a whacky friend called Jan Ford.
Jan Ford of Jan Ford real estate. She was thin and attractive and people loved to gossip about her, I liked her though she was always really encouraging and always hinted at the fact that maybe i wasn't meant for the small town i grew up in.

Once she got drunk at a party and licked my dad's face.
That same night she leaned into my 14 year old ear and slurred to me "the seeecret to marriage isss to marrry the nerd".

She said her husband was such a nerd that when g-strings first became fashionable he was worried about the hygiene of them, like there might be poo particles imprinted on them because because they would go so far into the behind of Jan Jord's tiny bum that he forbade her wearing them.

And While he's not what i'd call "the nerd", I feel like Jan Ford, of Jan Ford real estate would approve of my spending time with Danny.

Tonight I dropped him off to the opening night of Sydney Film Festival. He'd bought himself a ticket, not to enjoy the show but to network.
I'd never seen him in a suit before, Usually he wore track.
He looked Hot.
I told him that he was making me wet and he said not to be cheeky, his suit pants were tight enough as it was.

I go home, make a milo, leave it exactly 45 minutes and then send him a text.

"I want you to tell me to get on my knees and fuck my mouth"

“Fuck Bindi, Stop it”

My degree in gender studies nags at me that i shouldn't feel turned on by acting submissive.

Maybe I channel Marie Calloway, her cum covered face and and recent book deal.

But there's something in handing yourself over to someone.

"I want you to tell me to get on my knees and then fuck my mouth"

"And then I want you to tell me to take my clothes off while you watch me with your cock in my hand. Then you'll tell me to sit on the edge of the bed and spread my legs. You'll put your fingers in my mouth and start to tease my pussy. But I don't want you to give it to me yet because I don't think that you should make it that easy for me. I think you should make me beg you to fuck me, any where you like".

Some time passes with no reply.

I read these back and wish I hadn't sent the last one.

I wish I had said “tell me you want me to stop it”. 

It's seems to fit the part more.

But such is the beauty of hindsight...

A Lebanese Lesbian

A man that looks like Moby performs a lyrical lapdance.
Possibly the whitest gangsta rap i have ever seen.
Between that and rhymes spat at the iranian war i wonder if i should be here.
Their voices perfectly syncopated, coopers pale in hand and looking very much newtown shabby sheik.
I wonder if someone will politely tap me on the shoulder, followed by a curt but quiet "ahem" before i am escorted out of the room.
I write stories about dicks and men that push their poo down the drains at backpackers hostels because that's all i really know.
I ask my ex boyfriend if i'm like those fat female comedians that can only make jokes about their periods and he says "yeah!" like it's a good thing.
I contemplate getting drunk and booty calling him later, but my room is really messy.
He's so organized that he's colour coded his books and i'm pretty sure he's measured the space between them all exactly.
Among other things i have a half eaten packet of Jatz and an empty packet of salami on my desk that i ate for dinner last night.
I decide to leave it.  
There's a free zine that i pick up.
I open the page.
"Even toy dogs get put down".
It resonates with me and i assure myself that i will go home and write more.
Like a whore for the laughs and those odd little clicks dispersed at poignant moments.
There are two cool young lesbians sitting in the corner, biracial couple too.
Fuck.
I'd love to be a cool young lesbian.
Instead i just keep dating men that are in my proximity.
Proximal bias i call it, like a dating cabin fever.
Extra points if you live within a 5 minute drive of my house.
We have sex and then i go home and watch lesbian porn.
I'm not into the short haircut though, i think it might make me look chubby.
I watch so much lesbian porn that it comes up when my housemate asks to borrow my phone to google something.
www.pornmd.com
search
"tribbing"
What's tribbing?
Fuck, can't you use your own phone?
I go to "Heaps Gay" one night and make out with a lebanese girl.
A lebanese lesbian, with her side boob, hand rolled cigarettes and trendy tattoos.
I'd never really pictured myself with tattoos though, and i'm not much of a smoker.
So there goes that i guess.

2006

When I open my cupboard there's a section to the right exclusively for jumpers of ex boyfriends, they're my ghosts of relationships past but for some reason I am can't throw them out.Their styles and branding are really representative of the men, or boys who've left them there.

They're a timeline of the horrible and questionable choices i've made though out my life. Like Blake Murdoch, who took my virginity using a glow in the dark condom, out doors at a football match and then lent me his “echo red” hoodie, complete with reflective rhinoceros to walk home in.

Or Richard Ayode who wore a Fubu jersey with the F and B embossed on the front like some kind of ghetto chest plate. Ramie Ayat who wouldn't kiss me after I gave him head, somehow his dick was fine for my mouth but any kind of dick remnants that might be transferred from my mouth to his were completely un acceptable.

Or Mark Candler and his old worn out Fremantle dockers fleecy jumper with a zip at the front.

I wasn't really sure if it's appropriate to use his whole name but he's not on facebook and I googled the shit out of him and couldn't find anything so I thought if he's not real online then he kind of ceases to be a person. Plus he lives in Perth, which once you've lived on the east cost for a while seems like this made up place. But really it's somewhere that people's prized possession is their really big tv and they say the word “youse” a lot. What are youse doing? Are youse goin' to the dockers game this weekend?

So, that's where this story takes place.

I met Mark when I was 18. I'd very recently moved away from a small mining town, to the big lights of Perth. To me, someone who'd gone to primary school in sydney but then been suddenly and very rudely uprooted into the heart of darkness that is the Pilbara desert when I was about 12. The idea of stacking on the kilos, becoming an admin assistant and moving in with my high school boyfriend Mike Swinbourne seemed pretty bleak. Early marriage and decent into rural oblivion was for someone else!

Not me.

I used to drink cappuccinos with my precocious friend Jemima Saw at a cafe in Milsons Point while we talked about the fact that celery was a negative calorie food and Anna Hankins denim turn up skirt was the epitome of perfection.

So no.

Not me.

I was going places!

The thing was, I didn't really have much focus or any idea what to do with my life but I was pretty susceptible to advertising and relatively fit. So, $5000 and 8 weeks later I became a qualified personal trainer. I wore Lorna Jane shirts that said “dream, believe, achieve” and had those runners with the little shock absorbers at the back.

What a wanker.

But there I was!

Living in a share house in sunny Cottesloe beach with a girl called Hannah and her Boyfriend Pig, teaching boxercise classes to single white women of varied age and weight ranges contemplating how lucky I was to be out of Port Hedland.

So when Mark came around he was right up my ally, He was a trainer too, I met him at a gym we both worked at.

Mark was confident, tall, lean and played AFL every Sunday.

When he was on the field his socks were always pulled up all the way, and he'd go around slapping the bums of all the other players in an encouraging but slightly homo erotic way. He had lived in England for two years, working in bars and travelling. My family never took trips over seas so the fact that Mark had travelled made him seem kind of exotic, or maybe just grown up. I was 18 and he was 25, at the time I thought that was kind of cool, like I was mature for having an older boyfriend, but looking back I think that maybe it was more that he hadn't grown up and dating someone his own age would force him to acknowledge it.

Before our first date I went to a uni pub with some friends of mine, it was their last day of semester and we got really drunk on $10 jugs of cider. So by the time he came to pick me up I was pretty sloshed, he was polite though and even drove me back to the campus when I realised that i'd left my handbag there.

We went to a vietnamese restaurant, I don't think i'd ever really eaten much vietnamese, as i'd spent my formidable years in a small, slightly racist town that specialised in fast food joints called Chicken Treat. My days of cappuccinos and negative calorie celery seemed like a distant memory. I'd take anything I could get.

One beef pho please.

As the night went on I tried my hardest to sober up and make intelligent, mature chit chat, and after dinner we went to a cocktail bar.

I liked Mark because knew how to order drinks.

He drank Talisker.

Neat.

“I like my whiskey neat and my women neater”.

He ordered my drink for me.

The move didn't seem cocky but more self assured. He got me a cocktail, not a gross fruity one with lychees in it but a whisky sour.

I was in awe because my drinking knowledge was how to get someones older brother to buy me a 4 pack of Smirnoff double blacks which i'd scull then throw up 45 minutes later out the front of Michelle Williams house while she yelled at her mum for being a stupid bitch who probably gave me food poisoning.

So I drank my whisky and held my breathe slightly when our hands would brush.

This guy was babe, and how great are cocktails!

We went to the car park and made out in his white Camry for a while.

He suggested we go back to his house. He drove, probably over the limit.

We smoked a joint, had sex while my head was spinning and from that moment on my life pretty much assimilated into his. I watched his football games every sunday, had dinner with his dad every tuesday and took green mitsubishi pills and listened to the Hold Your Colour album by Pendulum every other weekend. We settled into a rhythm.

Bindi and Mark,

Mark and Bindi,

Mindy.

It was great.

But he was the kind of guy that continually talked in catch phrases, a real quick talker too. He'd say things like “no point in complaining, no one will listen” and “quitting is easy, I do it all the time”.

This really frustrated me, it was like he was always performing. The was no down time.

He was really hyperactive and to combat it he'd smoke bongs and night to calm himself down. Which meant that I now smoked bongs at night to calm my self down.

He showed me that if you put an ice cube in the bong water the smoke would be really smooth.
There he was, Mark Candler my new boyfriend, using an out of shape coat hanger to clean out his cone piece.

My beacon of knowledge and sophistication. Orderer of Whisky!

He'd spent a heap of time working in sales and used to do things like give me two options of things he wanted to so that'd I'd always choose something he liked. Or we'd both get ice creams and he'd take bites of mine when he hadn't even finished his. Another time he took me to a really beautiful restaurant for my birthday but then insisted that we do the runner. I always felt so uncomfortable in these situations but didn't have the self assurance yet to challenge them.

Once we were having a barbecue with some friends at his place. He walked inside and put a porn dvd on but muted the volume so that when people walked past they'd double take and see it. I think he thought it was really funny but I just kind of gave me the creeps.

We had sex all the time.
He bought a vibrator home one day, it was the first time i'd ever seen one and he tried to sexily tell me that it was bendable so it would hit my g-spot.

I didn't actually have a clue where that was so I just let him plug away at it for a while and pretended (probably fairly grotesquely) to orgasm.

As time went on his collection of sex toys grew, he had plastic anal beads that he insisted on forcing inside me and pulling out just as he was about to come, fluffy handcuffs, and even this weird egg I was supposed to wear inside me when we went to dinner with his dad.

To house them all he bought a small red bucket, it was made of metal, like something you'd see in a quaint garden. Except that he kept it by his bed, somewhere that his gross housemate Meechy would be able to see whenever he and Mark were chatting about the issue of Ben Cousins' ice addiction.

One day he sent me a text message about how he was at work printing out a sign he wanted to laminate and stick on the bucket that said “bucket of love”.

I was absolutely mortified,

but here I was, 18 in a new city not many friends and my life revolving around that of being Mark Candlers girlfriend.

I felt like if I broke up with him i'd be kind of lost and at that stage It wasn't that bad. Plus, he knew where to get drugs.

One time we got really drunk and he told me that when he'd been backpacking he used to do a poo in the drains of the showers at hostels he was staying at and squash it down with his foot.

This is true.

He said once that he'd overheard the cleaner talking about how disgusting it was that she'd noticed the drain was clogged up and when she inspected closer it was just full of , unbeknownst to her, Mark Candlers disgusting, post pubcrawl faeces .

The worst bit was that he said didn't even feel that bad, he felt kind of cheeky.

I think he said something gimicky and catch phrasey after he told me to justify it.

I didn't really know what to do with that information and to be honest I can't remember how I reacted at all.

Judging from my former self I probably would have made out like it was ok, because I was in love, out of my depth, slightly malleable and it seemed polite to make out like poo'ing in the shower of a public space for someone else getting paid minimum wage to clean up was socially acceptable.

But I remember storing that information away in an ever growing bank of things I had started to silently hate about Mark Candler. Right next to his “bucked of love”, anal beads and these disgusting satin boxer shorts that he wore to bed every night that we were together without washing once.

They had a dick on the front, like the statue of David and no doubt he bought them in Florence just after doing a relaxing poo in a hot shower at the Italiano YHA.

When we woke up the next morning he acted like nothing had happened and never spoke of it again.

It all started to come to a head around my birthday.

Again, I should have broken up with him but I was too young to know how to do it just yet.

Instead I would just silently direct vitriol towards him and make up excuses as to why we shouldn't have sex. He'd then fall asleep and mouth breathe next to me all night while I listed off the reasons in my head why I hated him, the same way Arya Stark recounts the people she wants to kill.

• Anal beads
• Boxer shorts
• unwarranted bites of my ice cream.
• King Joffrey
• The Hound

His touch started to feel incredibly lecherous.

My birthday was coming up though and I was excited!

It was a good little distraction for us.

A few days before he started giving me these little cards that were actually pretty cute. They were rhymes that were clues to the presents I would get, one was a hair cut, one was nice dinner and so on and so forth.

Before I got my last present we went and had lunch with two of my brothers at a pub in Freemantle. Mike was obviously really excited about what my “big” present was and his excitement made me excited, I decided that as long as things went well i'd probably sleep with him that night.

Mark said he'd tell my brother Chris what the present was, we were all a few beers in so he made a big show of going over to whisper in his ear. Chris looked at me, maybe a flash of confusion crossing his face and laughed, leaned over to my brother Daniel to tell him and they all erupted in laughter.

Ho Ho Ho

Mark laughed too and I thought, great! This is going to be something really fun! I can't wait!

The next day I was in the car with Mark driving to my last present!

I feel like I should make a short aside and mention that as Mark and I were both personal trainers we were into all that gimmicky shit they love. Wheatgrass shots, detox and protein bars were a regular fixture in our relationship so in a round about way this present wasn't totally unwarranted.

But also, I was a 19 year old girl with some sort of expectations of my boyfriend doing something fun and exciting for my birthday.

So we're in the car and he hands me the last little envelope with birthday riddle inside.

I wish I still had it, or knew exactly what is said but this was the gist “Sarah's her name and cleaning's her game, from inside to out she'll clean out your grout”...

It didn't really make sense.

For a few seconds I was bit confused,

and then we pulled out the front of a medical centre.

I don't know how it clicked, but without having to ask I realised that Mark Candler, my boyfriend, had purchased for my 19^th birthday, a colon cleanse.

He was going to try and re kindle our dying relationship by having another woman insert plastic tubing into my anus and slowly pump warm water inside of me, which would hopefully flush the toxins out.

Suddenly the laughing faces of my brothers being to make sense.

I felt sick, and honestly like I was in some kind of weird shock.

I wondered to myself if I could go through with it?

Neither of us had yet to say anything,

Mike looked at me expectantly like ta-dah!

I began to cry,

I tried to hide it by looking out of the window but the more I thought about the intrusive procedure and how I was going to have to politely endure it the worse I felt.

It was like a metaphor for our whole relationship.

I turned to him and told him I couldn't go through with it,

I was really sorry but it wasn't what I expected and I didn't really feel prepared for this and the vibe and Mabo, it just wasn't going to work out.

He was really offended,

it was $230 that he wouldn't be able to get back and he thought I was into wheatgrass so this would be good and I was being a bit ungrateful.

We drove home silently.

I broke up with him shortly after.