Friday, March 30, 2007

Regrets - Joe

I’m a big believer in that old maxim you should only regret the things you haven’t done. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and every bad experience is a good story. Etc.

But Joe. I’d wipe that one from the slate in the blink of an eye if I could.

We met in Perth, WA. There was a lively community of backpackers in Northville – lots of people working for a bit as well as the passing thorough.

Having recently split up with (wanker but very good-looking) Ex back home, then having had a fling with the (wanker but very good-looking) Ian – I was On Fire. So I thought.

Joe lived in a big house with about eight others which served as an informal party HQ for the assorted British backpackers in town.

The first time we almost copped off was at a Christmas party at his place. We were sitting on the floor, and I guess he must have either tried to kiss me or ask me out, because I remember him having a go at me for blowing him out.

‘You say you’re not interested because I’m younger than you,’ he said, but you haven’t even had the chance to get to know me at all’. I was 23 to his 19. Nothing happened that night, but my interest was piqued.

He was a Londoner, and I knew he was a bit of a bad boy. He’d told me that a couple of his older brothers were in jail and he was pretty relieved to have escaped. He had several tattoos as well. A couple of hideous ones on his biceps, including a British bulldog (which, obviously I gave him a hard time about) and two quite sexy big black ones on his back. He was tall, dark, charismatic and good-looking – I liked him

Shortly afterwards we pulled one another at the backpackers’ nightclub du jour and he came back to my place for some mediocre but not awful sex.

A week later again we met at the same nightclub and went back to his, but were so drunk that we both just fell asleep on his sofa.

But what was actually going on? Was this going somewhere? I don’t mean actually going anywhere, but in backpacker terms, were we, like, seeing one another until one of us left town?

I’d finished my waitressing shift one night and was boring the arse off my (male, Aussie) flatmate about the above. Does he like me? Should I just go round? Yes, he said, probably to shut me up.

I’d been round their house loads of times. His flatmates were all nutcases and it was non-stop party so I thought even if he’s not in I’ll have a bit of a laugh.

But I’d never visited on a weekday evening. I knocked and pushed the door open to the most excruciating moment of my life. Eight people (all residents, no interlopers) looked up at me from the film they were watching. They all stared at me for what seemed like forever.

Except Joe, who avoided my eye. It had taken a millisecond for me to realise that it had been an appalling idea. I suddenly understood the expression I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.

Then one of the guys eventually said, ‘Hey, come in, we’re just watching a film,’ and made room for me on the sofa between himself and Joe. He made some conversation, Joe didn’t bother. All the while I was thinking ‘Oh holy fucking fucking fuck. I am just some girl, one amongst many, that Joe has fucked. And I’ve just landed round here like a stalker. I am an idiot.’

After about five minutes I decided to make my exit. Joe came with me. For form’s sake I was relieved – it was blatantly obvious that I’d come round to see him, not to, like, hang out. He walked me home and we had a snog. And that was that.

I’ve done many much more embarrassing things in my time, but that is the one moment that still fills me with skin-crawling horror.

That was that. Until…

A few months later I was in Melbourne and met up with a girl I’d worked with in Perth. We’d known a lot of the same people and Joe’s name came up.

‘The one with the tattoos,’ she said. ‘He’d had those flaming crosses on his back covered up though, hadn’t he?’



  • it probably wouldn't make you feel any better to point out that he's long since forgotton about the whole thing...

    By Blogger First Nations, at 6:49 PM  

  • Flaming crosses?

    Was he a klansman?

    By Blogger Geoff, at 7:29 PM  

  • I only leave one comment in a blue moon and then I make a tit of myself.

    Just pretend I wasn't here.

    By Blogger Geoff, at 9:19 PM  

  • Oh oh OH! That's horrible! Eeeeuw! Thank goodness the sex was mediocre, eh?

    By Blogger Mangonel, at 3:11 AM  

  • Geoff, combined with the bulldog - I think he probably wasn't too far away.

    I'm still cringing now.

    By Blogger Spinsterella, at 4:47 PM  

  • Oh dear I share your pain. Had a spectacular blow out last night almost on a par with yours. Men + Drink = Trouble

    By Blogger Flirty Something, at 6:25 PM  

  • I bet Spinny's got "Healyman" tattoed *somewhere* about her person....

    (And why not - the man's a friggin' goal machine, already....)

    I reckon you'd be in there Spunster - if you could tear him away from all that roasting...

    L.U.V. on ya,


    By Blogger Robert Swipe, at 7:09 PM  

  • Healyman? Dennis Healy? Eh?

    Ah, a footballer, apparently. Plays for a non-existent 'country' with supporters that make the BNP look like the WI. Genuinely terrifying.

    By Blogger Spinsterella, at 4:57 PM  

  • At least you have the social awareness to know what "that look" meant when everyone looked at you. I would have had no clue what they were thinking, have stood there confused for about 10 minutes, and thus been the object of additional ridicule. i think you did just fine.

    By Blogger Chaucer's Bitch, at 9:07 PM  

  • speaking of confusion, i'm with geoff on the flmaing crosses. wtf? does that signify something? (other than the KKK?)

    By Blogger Chaucer's Bitch, at 9:08 PM  

  • Mmm. He sounds like a catch. But on the scale of things to regret, surely you can do better...?

    By Blogger frangelita, at 11:56 AM  

  • thats happened to me too

    By Blogger Kirses, at 1:21 PM  

  • not the flaming crosses - the turning up inappropriately

    By Blogger Kirses, at 1:22 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home