It all started on a warm summer’s night in Australia. It was Hottest 100 day – a national treasure over the ditch. It was the last big effort before uni started up again, and celebration was well and truly in session. To the pub we went! With a solid foundation of day drinking laid, my four hometown friends and I mustered up the courage to face not only the local pub, but pretty much our entire high school class.
Everything was going great, until Homelander came over and started dancing with us. Homelander had been in the year above me in high-school, was a tradie (of course), and had spent the day at the beach (vibes). As we chatted, he told me that I’d “glowed up” since high school (red flag), and offered me a cig (green flag), so we trekked outside with our mates in tow.
After a few chats and a sneaky kiss, the plan was set: kick-ons at his mate’s house. Pool, drinks, Aussie summer vibes. Perfect. There was just one issue: Homelander had biked to the pub, so he couldn’t take the courtesy shuttle home with the rest of us.
We had to walk.
Sending our friends ahead on the shuttle while we committed to an hour and a half expedition. In 32-degree heat, Doc Martens, and about 17 drinks down, I thought this was a great idea.
It was not.
When we finally got there, no one was in sight. No friends. No party. Just me, him, and six missed calls from my friends. Turns out no one else knew about our plan – we’d just disappeared for 2 hours without a word. Shit happens after a big shift on the bevvies.
Conveniently, Homelander’s place was just around the corner. Inconveniently, his whole extended family was there. In their living room, blocking any path to the bedroom with awkward eye contact, grilling and small talk.
“Guess we’ll take the campervan,” he muttered. Now, this was where I should’ve turned around and walked the two hours to my friend’s. But again, seventeen drinks down – the campervan was the lesser evil.
Nope.
Inside, it’s the usual one-night-stand hook up kind of story. Clothes off, making out – nothing out of the norm. Until… he started sucking my toes. I accidentally kicked him in the face out of shock, and he goes “Sorry, it’s not like I need it, it’s not a fetish or anything… I just really like it.” Meanwhile, all I could think about was how sweaty my feet had become while trapped in their docs, subjected to a true Aussie summer scorcher.
That was enough of that.
We switched things up. Surely, missionary was safe territory. It was not. All things considered, it wasn’t going terribly – actually, pretty good. That was until he started sucking my boob and calling me “mummy,” saying he needs his milk. Fuck nah. And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, he started moaning “I love you” in my ear, as he was coming.
Keep in mind, we’d interacted probably three or four times in our lives.
All of that done, he went outside for a piss, came back freezing cold, climbed in beside me. He insisted on being the little spoon. At that point – exhausted, confused, and still very drunk, I just passed out. Part of my mind wishes this would just be a fucked-up dream. It was not.
The next morning I woke up to him saying, “we should probably get you home”. No chat. No debrief. Just silence.
We got dressed in silence, got in the car in silence, and pulled up to my friend's house in silence. I got out, said “see you never,” and sprinted inside to debrief the weirdest one-night-stand of my life.
For the next few weeks, I made it my civic duty to inform every girl that I knew that Homelander had a thing for feet before I jumped the ditch back to uni. Had to give one last contribution to the small-town gossip train.
You’re welcome girls xx
