I think I’m talking to a fuckboy, but I’m not sure. I think I have Post Traumatic Fuckboy Disorder (PTFD). It’s a real thing. A sectionable mental illness, I learnt about it from a meme and I think I have it. Every man I meet ends up being a Fuckboy. I ponder to myself sometimes whether they are really ALL Fuckboys or whether I’m just so desperate not to get lured into any bullshit again that I have become suspicious of all men. The reason that I think that the guy I’m talking to is a Fuckboy is because he’s hot, he’s got money, he’s covered from neck to ankle in some of the sexiest tattoos I’ve seen in my life, he has a perfect fade and trim at all times, he’s got a well- conditioned beard, a brand new Mercedes, he parties in Essex, he snapchats his gym sessions, he’s not very good at spelling, and he’s got 800 followers on Instagram, yet he tells me that he’s ‘literally not talking to anyone else sweetheart’.

We’ve only had one date so to be honest if he was talking to other people I wouldn’t even care (that much), he really has no reason to lie, but I just think he’s lying. Just like I think he’s lying when he says all the nice things he says to me, when he tells me I’m ‘a weapon’ and calls me beautiful. In fact the only thing I believe is when he says he wants me to sit on his face (which considering we’ve only had one date is quite a big indicator of his Fuckboy intentions, but I’m not complaining). Perhaps he’s telling the truth, maybe I shouldn’t make assumptions based on the package he comes in but my inner Fuckboy radar is going off loudly. You might think that I’m lucky to be blessed with an inner Fuckboy radar but I’m not, I think my radar also acts as a homing beacon and they all flock with glee towards it; which wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t entertain them, but I’m really having trouble not getting involved with the extremely sexy ones, and if they’re sexy and rich, boy…..If that sounds shallow then so be it. If my soulmate wasn’t well off I wouldn’t give a fuck, if I have a mad connection with someone then their bank balance is irrelevant but I’m not going to lie and say that a man with money is not attractive.

His name is Kieron, he’s 30, an ex-footballer who invested his money wisely before retiring with an injury. I don’t even really like him that much but I’m entertaining it because I’m bored and I like receiving wats apps about how much he wants to taste me. His spelling is fucking atrocious though and sometimes that kills the mood (‘Your so georgeus I bet you look amazeing naked’) because instead of giving him a sexy response I’m like ‘*You’re *Gorgeous *Amazing’. I can’t help it. He’s not my soulmate, my soulmate knows the difference between your and you’re – trust me. If I’m being honest, his clichéd gym snap chats do give me a few fanny flutters, and although I think he’s a basic Fuckboy I do feel that it’s a shame to waste such a horny, handsome man who has expressed such a deep fondness for vagina licking. But I can see where this goes, I’ve been here before. I can’t just do the booty call thing. If I sleep with a man more than once I start to develop feelings and it all goes tits up from there because that wasn’t supposed to happen. We should reserve our precious fannies for people who that IS supposed to happen with, but when it’s been while and there is an absence of decent men around it’s so hard.

And it really has been a while now. I’m beginning to suffer. I need sex and everything that comes with it, male attention, compliments, feeling sexy, an orgasm (unlikely though). I was scrolling through my wats app contacts contemplating stooping to an all time low and sending a ‘Hey stranger’ text to an ex when I came across a guy who I briefly dated YEARS ago, I had tried to wipe him from my memory because it all ended horrifically, but I had liked him and I was upset about how it had turned out. Oh god, just thinking about how it turned out makes my stomach churn but as I always say, a bad date makes a good story so I might as well get it out (this is like therapy for me). This was years ago, before I became a Mum. I met Jake at Lovebox. He was fit. His red trousers were questionable but I was buzzing and had fallen in love with absolutely everything and everyone I came into contact with and so I thought they were cool as fuck. I thought he was cool as fuck. My type, pretty face, strong jawline, just fit. He could dance too and he had a bit of swag about him. I was on it. We spent the whole day and night together holding hands, dancing and talking about everything and anything. It was perfect. We met a couple of days later and went for a picnic. I love picnics with men, I feel like it’s a nice thing to do. We clicked just as much when we were sober as we did when we were wrecked and I thought he had major boyfriend potential.

The next time we met was at his house, he invited me round to watch a film and I obliged. This was before Netflix and Chill was a thing, it was Blockbusters and Chill back then. When I got there he poured me a massive rum and coke and he put some music on. We were chilling, smoking, and relaxing until I suddenly felt myself coming up. I hadn’t consumed any drugs, my drink was strong but this wasn’t drunkenness, I was buzzing. Back then, in my student days, I was partial to the consumption of recreational drugs at festivals and raves, but I was not partial to being spiked without my consent. I began to rant at him and he tried to tell me that the drinks must have accidentally got mixed up and I must have ended up drinking his, but that is bullshit, why are you taking MDMA on your own? Why would you not offer it to me so we could have a night buzzing together? Anyway, a tune came on and I got lost in a happy place and I forgot that I was unhappy about being spiked.

Jake and I had the best night, dancing, singing, cuddling, deep talking, there was nowhere in the world that I would have rather been than with him that night. As I sat there gurning next to him I thought that we were really going to go places, I was sure. We eventually retired to his bedroom, it was pitch black and warm. We got naked together and started to explore each other’s bodies. Some men suffer from Dizzle Dick (drug induced impotence) but not Jake. He seemed to be suffering from a Layla induced boner that I felt obliged to introduce myself to. It was all going well. You know when it just flows, we weren’t having sex, just touching intimately and it felt good. We lay together, our bodies intertwined and I started to touch his dick, it felt so nice, smooth and hard and he seemed to be really enjoy what I was doing. I was fucked and I was fucking feeling myself and my new found hand job skills, in my head I was thinking ‘Rahhh, you’re actually smashing this’. He was making some interesting noises and I rated myself pretty highly at that moment.

All of a sudden he screamed and I felt wetness on my thigh, I did that quickly I thought, while giving myself an imaginary pat on the back. I was confused though because he kept on screaming, he didn’t just scream once at the point of climax, he carried on, and on. He was trying to speak but he couldn’t, I could feel wetness all over my leg and I started thinking that I should possibly contact the Guiness Book of World Records to let them know about my new found talent. I got up and turned the light on and I was traumatised. There was blood everywhere. I was so incredibly embarrassed, not only had I obviously come on, but it was the heaviest period known to man (should probably let the Guiness Book of World Records know about that too I thought). His dick was absolutely dripping with blood, but his dick hadn’t been inside me so I was confused. He continued to lay on the bed in a pool of blood, writhing around, gurning and trying to speak. And that was when I realised, the blood wasn’t mine, it was his and it was pouring from his dick.

I helped him up and took him to the bathroom, his dick was like a water pistol with blood literally spurting out everywhere, the blood was draining from his body and he was white as a sheet. I’d cut him with my acrylic nail. My wanking had been so over enthusiastic that I had managed to shove my acrylic nail down his helmet and slice it completely open. He took one last look at it and collapsed clean out on the bathroom floor. Now, I might have had some small chance of being able to deal with this situation if I was sober, but at that moment I was off my fucking tits. I had no idea what his address was so I couldn’t call an ambulance, he lived in a block of flats in Hackney and that was all I knew, doesn’t really narrow it down. I was trying to rouse him to ask him where the hell we were but he was just mumbling. I was shitting myself.

I decided that the solution here was definitely a banana. I got it into my head that he had fainted because his blood sugar was low and that the sugar and potassium from a banana would resolve this whole situation. Luckily he had bananas so I peeled one and tried to make him eat it, he could barely open his mouth but I tried to force it in, the poor guy must have been going through hell, knocked out, penis massacred and the faint sounds of me, through his unconscious mind, repeatedly saying ‘Babe, you really need a fucking banana, please eat this banana, it could save your life’ while trying to force it in his mouth.

He wouldn’t eat it and I was convinced that he was going to die. I eventually found a letter with his address on it and hurriedly dialled 999:

‘Hello I need an ambulance, my friend has fainted because he has a massive cut on his penis. I’ve begged him to eat a banana but he just won’t.’

I thought that the operator was going to praise me for my advanced medical knowledge and tell me that yes, a banana is the best solution for this kind of emergency, but clearly she just thought that I was mental. They told me an ambulance was on it’s way and I suddenly panicked. The place stank of weed, his drugs were laying around everywhere, and this whole scenario now looked really fucking suspicious, he’s out cold, bleeding profusely from the penis with mashed banana round his mouth and chin, and I’m there wide eyed, gurning, and covered in his blood. In my mind I was certain that I was going to end up going to jail for this. I thought of how ashamed my Nan would be visiting me in Holloway prison while I served time on a Manhoodslaughter charge. I managed to do a good tidy up job before the paramedics arrived. The sound of them coming in must have given Jake a boost of adrenaline because he suddenly awoke and sat up when he heard their voices. I cannot find the words for the relief that I felt at that moment. I hadn’t killed him with my Vietnamese nail shop French mani, thank you God.

Jake asked me to come to the hospital with him and so we went off together in an ambulance looking like we’d had a bloody brawl in a rave. It was dawn when we got there and the daylight was beginning to make the whole situation ten times worse. We sat there in complete silence, with our sunglasses on, coming down from our high and from the traumatic events. We had to wait for 3 hours for him to get his stitches. I just wanted to go home and have a bath and an HIV test (I did, 3 months later – all good) but since I had caused the injury I thought it would be polite to stay. I tried to crack a few jokes, make light of the situation, but he wasn’t appreciating my efforts which made it awkward as fuck. Needless to say we did not see each other again after that. I text him the next day with a profuse apology but he just text back ‘No problem’. I don’t blame him. Reminiscing about that night in such great detail has actually killed my sex drive completely. I need to remember to think about that night every time I consider getting involved with someone purely for sexual reasons, because sex doesn’t always end with an orgasm and a smile, sometimes it ends up with a bloodbath, a banana and a trip to A&E.