At the end of the academic year, one must take stock. Papers passed: 7. Extra-curriculars: doing them. Friends made: heaps. Huzz: 0. A big, fat, embarrassing zero. After the last few students trickled out of Dunners for the summer, I sat through my first few sexless weeks doing the maths. If I didn’t get on the apps soon, my chances of a Dunner Summer love story were next to none.
Tinder at that time in the year was a game of sifting through the dregs. Exes, opps, highschool acquaintances, Polytech students. How do you break free from the onslaught of identical bogans? Easy. Hook up with an out-of-town bogan.
I matched with a profile that showed no dead animals, which was already a massive win. Conventionally attractive, jacked, slightly freaky Christchurch man. He’s my age, and drives his truck through Ōtepoti weekly. Gainfully employed – we love to see it. After a couple weeks of talking, we made a plan for me to stay over while he’s in town.
Picture this: I’m in a 10pm Uber direct to the train station. Usually I love a chatty Uber driver, but when you are wearing your most scandalous underwear and your pockets are full of OUSA condoms, it really dampens the story about his granddaughter’s nativity play. The station is devoid of people, cars and light. A lone transport truck sits in the parking lot. My driver asks who I’m meeting. “Just a friend,” I lied, as alarm bells started going off in my head.
I step out of the Uber and my phone lights up: I see you. The truck's headlights flash. My chatty Uber driver is still watching, probably noting details for the police report. I open the door of the truck, and hoist myself into the passenger's seat. He says “hey” before pulling back a curtain to reveal a built-in padded leather bed with a sleeping bag on it. The alarm bells have turned into sirens. This is how I die.
We try to get it on. Kissing, touching – the leather's moaning more than I am – but something’s off. I look down. Nothing’s happening. I ask if he’s okay. “It just gets a bit shy, with new people,” he says. After putting in the hard yards, we manage to get the shy little guy up. At this point I’m not even offended, just resigned to the absurdity of it all. We have the most anticlimactic, tepid, five minutes of sex anyone has ever had, before he asked, “Uhh – where can I cum?” The shame sets in and I realise what a loser this guy actually is. But just when I thought I’d hit rock-bottom, I hit the Earth’s core. “Umm… Kinda have an early morning tomorrow. Uh, so, yeah.”
You don’t have to tell me twice. I quickly get dressed and we exchange an awkward farewell. I watch him disappear back behind the curtain as I climb down from the truck. I decide the risk of getting the previous Uber driver is too high, and begin my walk home. An early morning walk of shame seems much more favourable than the Uber driver of suspicion.
A month later, I’m sitting in Student Health, staring at a text. Please make an appointment for your results. Despite all precautions (slipped, slopped, slapped, wrapped), I like to think I got it from him. The chlamydia of the situation was so powerful that the condom didn’t stand a chance.
My power of attorney has officially been transferred to my flatmates. All future decisions will be made by committee. Please direct any sexual propositions accordingly. Cheers.
