Dealbreaker: Volume One.

I love to party. I flipping love it.

I don’t take drugs, but I do drink and dance and roam and talk and sing and laugh and do all of the things that happen in a city as amazing as Melbourne on a Saturday night. I don’t drink during the week or when I don’t have the money for drinking, but when I do consume alcohol I tend to go all out. On an average night, my friends and I will be out until 5am, hanging in a dive bar, clutching to the last hours of the night before the sun comes up.

On my first date with the sexter, he told me he doesn’t drink. And suddenly, I really knew the meaning of deal breaker.

When I daydream about the individual who I’d like to take my heart, he’s there with me, pushing the hair out of my tired face while we’re waiting for a cab to take us home. He’s doing a questionable shot with me as Black Sabbath plays loudly over the speaker. He’s there in the morning, crippled by a hangover, legs intwined in mine, playing ‘rock, paper scissors’ with me to decide who has to get up and get the water. He’s my partner in crime.

There’s part of me that does feel strange ad mitting that a love of board games and a willingness to be in bed by midnight is a deal breaker, but I don’t want my interests to become a burden to someone else. Not only that, but I adore the thrill of getting to know someone over a cocktail or two, with the buzz of the Long Island iced tea combining with the soft glow of bar lights to create the perfect storm of affection. In the world of Emily-Rose, alcohol plays an important role in the courting process: inhibitions are lowered, courage is raised, and you can figure out who’s a complete fuckwit when they drink. (Hint: if someone’s a fuckwit when they drink, they’re usually a fuckwit when they’re sober. You just haven’t seen it yet.)

Although on paper the sexter was (and is) lovely, I think I need someone who loves the things I love, and partying in my wonderful city is one of those things. There’ll undoubtedly be times when I want to lie in bed and snuggle and watch Parks and Rec, now isn’t one of those times.

Looks like it’s back to the drawing board for me. Cheers to that!

Let’s talk about sext, baby.

I have all the feels about sexting.

In Emily-Rose land, sexting is any kind of messaging where sex is implied/insinuated/outright referred to. If you’ve used more than one winky face emoticon in a span of five minutes, chances are you’re sexting. 
(There’s also the chance you don’t realise there’s a tonne of other emoticons on your phone. This happened to me last week.)

I googled 'All the feels.' I was not disappointed.

I googled ‘All the feels.’ I was not disappointed.

My feels on sexting are really polarised. If there is the clear and present danger of sex actually happening, I am ALL ABOUT IT. I’ll send dirty messages as long as my phone battery lasts, and even then I’ll probably steal your phone battery so I can keep going. (Yes, I have done this before. I feel for all you iPhone users and your trapped batteries). In my experience, it’s a super fun, relatively effortless way to get your significant other’s/consensual sex partner’s juices going. Use a little bit of imagination, and it’s also a really great way to suss out what your person likes, or to drop some clues about what you like without the pressure of being in the boudoir looming over you. 

If there is no chance that I’m actually going to sex you in the foreseeable future (I’m a girl, I’m complex, I have reasons), then sexting is just a waste of my time. I honestly don’t see the point in sexting or sending dirty photos (guilty again) and getting all worked up FOR NOTHING. In the interest of not being a shit bloke, I ALWAYS let a boy know if it’s just not going to happen, and I appreciate the ego boost that is someone messaging me saying they want my bod, but to date I’ve never changed my mind mid-sext because I’m so swept up with passion that I run to a boy’s house sans underwear.

Recently I’ve been messaging a boy I found online (I like saying ‘found’ online rather than ‘met’ online because, let’s face it, online romance has more in common with shopping than dating), and so far he is yet to disappoint. He seems cute, he’s funny, and he passed test number one – he’s moderately obsessed with Harry Potter. Our schedules mean that nothing official has been organised yet, but suggestions of meeting and sharing a beverage happen fairly often. The only thing that strikes me as weird is that he swings the conversation fairly quickly toward the sexting side of things.

It started with a hint towards a kiss, then a message about running fingertips down backs; nek minute he was outright talking about (my) orgasms. I usually replied to the messages with positive feedback (show me someone who doesn’t like back scratches and I’ll show you a filthy liar), but the orgasm thing took me by surprise. I mean, we haven’t even met yet, let alone actually had sex. Not only was the sexting a little premature, but it was the epitome of NOTHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY. Why would anyone want to sext with someone they hadn’t met yet? (Legitimate question. Please answer, I have no idea). 

For those playing at home, my response: 

…as tempting as some sexy time is, I’m more after, well, dates with the possibility of sexy time. It’s cool if you’re not, just let me know because it’s becoming kind of hard to tell haha. I think the scoundrel is taking over. 

I like to think I handled it well, and lo and behold he ticked another box by clarifying that he wants the same thing, and asking me to pull him in line if ever he crosses it. I must admit, I’m a little bit excited about this one (unless that means the universe is going to jinx me. In which case pffffft, boy? What boy?).

Best of luck in all your future sexting endeavours, and if you solve the mystery of sexting, for the love of cheeses let me know.

Stay cool and stay tuned, lovers. 
Emily-Rose. X

The Sunday-night curse.

At around 8pm every Sunday night, it hits. 

The curse. 

Call it an acute awareness of loneliness, or a strong desire for human contact, but every Sunday night I need attention. From anyone. (And by ‘anyone’ I usually mean anyone I want to have sexy time with). It’s not that I’m actively seeking out someone to bang (I’m not that brave – kudos to you if you are!) It’s more that I’m usually riding high (or hungover) from the fun of the weekend and I’m not ready for it to be over. I’m in denial that Monday is only hours away. There’s still a chance to have fun and be exciting and dang it someone is going to talk to me until it happens!

And, sometimes, Sunday nights are lonely.

I’d like to think that I did what I did because of the curse. In the grips of loneliness, I started questioning my entire romantic life; when I was inches away from both crippling boredom and mild panic about dying alone, I did a bad thing. I messaged Ritchie. 


Demon icon, you will be my downfall.

Reasonable, rational, Monday-morning Emily-Rose knows that Sunday-night Emily-Rose only messaged Ritchie for an ego boost. Come Monday morning, I knew that I probably wouldn’t die alone, and even if I did, so what? There’s more to life than dying with a dick by your side. But it doesn’t excuse the fact that Sunday-night me didn’t care that Ritchie seems to like me (a lot) more than I like him, and that a harmless message excusing my lack of communication was, essentially, a big ol’ fat invitation back to dating town. In a nutshell, Sunday-night me was a bit shit. 

Being a woman of my word, and figuring that I was the one who got myself into this mess, I agreed to date number three tomorrow night. I feel, at best, like a time waster, but I do genuinely want to want sweetheart Ritchie. Maybe I’ll find something that wasn’t there before. Maybe Cupid is running a bit late. Maybe nothing new will happen, but I’ll be brave enough to tell him that despite his obvious positive and redeeming qualities, I just don’t have that feeling. 

Dating is hard. All the in-between time is harder. I think that from now on, I’m disabling my social media every Sunday afternoon. 

To Ghost or not to Ghost?

The subject of Ghosting has always been close to my heart. Mostly because it’s happened to me before.

For those who are lucky enough to have never been ghosted, let’s let the internet’s wisest information centre – – break it down for you:

Disclaimer: Apparently there are heaps of different definitions of Ghosting. Some of them are gross. Search at your own peril.

Ghosting: The act of suddenly ceasing all communication with someone the subject is dating, but no longer wishes to date. This is done in hopes that the ghostee will just “get the hint” and leave the subject alone, as opposed to the subject simply telling them he/she is no longer interested.

So, yeah. You’ve probably heard of this before. Or know someone it’s happened to. Or (and I’m kind of judging you here), you’ve ghosted someone else.

Give me the nice kind of Willow ghost any day.

Give me the nice kind of Willow ghost any day.

I’ve been ghosted, and it sucks. The most recent time was Perth Boy. After texting daily for six months, and exchanging a plethora of x-rated messages (and a couple of x-rated nights), I was ghosted on the same weekend that he finally came back to Melbourne. The ghosting also came with a side order of deletion from the only social media he had – Snapchat (classy, I know). Perth Boy should have said something: of course, he’s entitled to change his mind, but after six months of something between dating and relationship land, and planning to go on another date that very weekend, he owed me more than silence.

But how much do I owe someone else? Enter Richie*

*Richie’s not his real name, obvs. I feel like such a grown up, using aliases and all.
Richie and I met on Tinder (yes, you can laugh). He is lovely, and complimentary, and has no issue showing that he’s keen. Our interests are similar, he’s not unattractive, and he appears to have his shit together. All that’s missing is the spark. My spark.

We had two nice dates. He’s a nice kisser. We talked about nice things. He held my hand, which was nice. But I didn’t feel any passion, any spark. My brain (above or below the belt) never said YOU WANT THAT.

I just want someone that makes me feel the way Jeff Goldblum makes me feel.

I just want someone that makes me feel the way Jeff Goldblum makes me feel.

That’s when the temptation to ghost crept in. He asked if I wanted to go on date #3, and I knew that I didn’t. I also knew that I didn’t want to tell him that, because that also sucks a whole bunch. Call it rejectors remorse. I’ve been on the receiving end enough to know that I never want to make someone else feel that way.

But where do I go from here? Is it necessary, after two dates, to send someone the ‘I’m sorry, I’m not interested’ message? Or is ghosting a completely valid option when you haven’t even made it to three dates? (For all those opting to ghost, DO NOT add the person you’re dating on Facebook. Ghosting and posting don’t mix).

I ended up doing what all reasonable adults would do in my position: bent the truth to make myself sound busier than what I am (mature, I know). More than anything, I felt like I needed to buy time to figure out what my next move will be. I still don’t know what I’ll say if/when Richie follows up, but I know that I’ll have a whole lot of trouble sleeping at night if I become a ghoster.

…Wait, does this make me a Ghostbuster? Heck yeah!