Shitty Assholes

Posted On May 23, 2016

Singapore Why is dating and the on-going struggle to find love relevant to travel? I’m glad you asked. You see, life is full of stereotypes, and well one stereotype that proves to be true again and again is that 80% of expats are expats because they don’t fit in (can’t survive) in their home countries. In Singapore this isn’t as true as some of the other places I’ve lived because it is a major business hub, and people don’t often runaway to these shores so much as they are given opportunities to advance their careers. But I’d still say that a solid percentage of the expats here do still have the same stereotypical issues that draw the average loser to life abroad: lack of skills and/or intelligence, social issues and other complexes, or the usual sexual tourism, which is disappointing because you are always hoping that life abroad would be attractive to the modern-day heroic adventurer instead.

So, if you’re single and abroad (whether you yourself have issues or not) you are effected by the aforementioned stats. These are your fellow fish swimming around in the tiny fishbowl that is dating abroad. Now, it’s easy to tell yourself to keep your standards high, and for six years that’s what I have tried to do. But by no fault of your own, your standards begin to erode slowly like a once mighty mountain, and guys you probably wouldn’t have entertained back home, are suddenly the guys you’re getting excited about. That is, until you have a horrifying wake up call that greets you like a glove slap to the face and double ice bucket challenge all rolled into one traumatizing event. What you’re about to read is about one such wake up call. Do yourself a favour and do not eat or drink while reading this story.

The night had started off well enough and he seemed promising, but I suppose everyone would seem promising. You see, I was trying to forget about Wine and Cheese, not because I didn’t like him or didn’t think he was perfect (I do), but because he was faraway, and at my age I’m too jaded to believe that people are willing to go to the ends of the earth and back for love in the age of the smart phone and dating apps (even if I am). It seemed like the best thing for me to do was just get back out there and try to forget about him. And so when I met the head bartender at one of Singapore’s most prestigious 5-star hotels, it seemed like a nice, healthy distraction.

His shift ended at 1am, so we decided to go for a moonlit walk in Gardens by the Bay. Being a bartender at such a quality establishment, he was able to procure two nice bottles of champagne and the glasses needed to drink them in the park (illegally). And we did. And he told me all about his struggle for love and to find “something real” living abroad. Which sounded nice, right? But not really when he was also telling me about how he had to train his under-bartenders in how to pick-up women while at work. One such move he shared with me was to stick his finger in simple syrup because apparently most women will idiotically feel the need to just suck it off a strange finger. Remember this story later!

Two empty bottles of champagne later, and a proposition to go to Indonesia with him a couple weeks later, he had basically invited himself over to my place. I wasn’t ready to besmirch the memory of my wine and cheese with Wine and Cheese with a guy who hadn’t succeeded in making me really, truly want him yet. But it was 6am and I was willing to let him crash, since as soon as I sat down in my beanbag chair, that’s exactly what I did, but not before the “hopeless romantic” bartender had first boorishly raided my fridge and cupboards. He drank from every bottle of alcohol I had in the house, as in he put his mouth on them to taste them. My extensive collection of flavoured Bailey’s was ruined! And he even stuck his dirty, drunk-girl-sucked fingers in every jar of sauce I had in the house too. Who the fuck was this guy?!

Turned off by his bad manners, when my alarm clock went off later that day, I began the difficult task of making him leave. I told him I had an appointment to get to (which I did, but it actually wasn’t for several more hours – but he didn’t need to know that), but he wouldn’t get up. Instead, he told me to “stop stressing him out.” When he finally did get up, he asked if he could take a shower. I said no because I had to get to my appointment and he needed to go home. Then I heard the water running because apparently he viewed my casa as his casa, and decided to take the shower anyway.

While he was in the shower, I walked into the bedroom and saw that he had thrown his underwear in such a manner when he took them off, that they were now hanging from my internet router like a tighty-whitey flag of shame. His lack of respect for my house, my schedule, and for me was really starting to enrage my inner dragon, and if he didn’t exit the building soon, I was thinking that I would have to scorch the fucker. And that was the moment that rage quickly turned to complete and totally revulsion.

He waltzed out of my shower thoroughly pleased with himself for his disobedience with his underwear in his hand. At first this seemed like a good sign – a sign that he was actually planning to get dressed and leave. But then the horror, the horror, oh, the horror.

He held up his underwear to the daylight with both hands – perhaps to examine them or make sure he was putting them on the right way, I’ll never know. And that was when I saw it. Yes, the biggest, freshest shit stain you’ve ever seen! I was horrified and yet he showed absolutely no emotion or embarrassment on his face and didn’t quickly try to conceal what I had just seen.  Did he think this was normal? Did this guy not know how to wipe his ass? Had he really been walking around with me all night with an ass that unclean? And if he didn’t know how to properly wipe his ass, then did he even know how to wash his hands? And then I began to think of all those poor drunken fools sucking simple syrup off his dirty, shit-tainted fingers, and how I’d have to throw out every jar in my house that he contaminated, AND how he was probably making all the patrons of his bar ill every time he served them a drink.

Sensing my frustration and disgust, he asked if he was going to see me again. At that point the psychopathic smile on my face said it all, “Get the fuck out of my house or you won’t live to see noon!” However, he interpreted my murderous grin as an invitation, and he immediately threw me down on my kitchen table, tore at my clothes and attempted to have his way with me, which might have been hot if A) he wasn’t a total asshole, B) it was actually wanted activity, and C) I hadn’t just seen his shitty man-panties in all their glory!

Finally, I got this Shitty Asshole off of me and to the front door, but not before he first served himself a glass of my fancy spa water I had chilling in the fridge. Half way out the door he turned back to say a few parting words, “You know, if you were Asian, you’d be begging me to stay and you’d be giving me the spare key to this condo right now.” You see, that’s the other stereotype that brings the “special” expats to Asia. Sad, shitty assholes like the guy in this story believe that the local women are basically born to worship them (another stereotype)… you know, because he’s such a gem. Yet, I found his remarks a bit bizarre because he was basically admitting that he thinks I’m out of his league because I’m not Asian.  Hmm. Gee… I wonder why he lives here. No, I’m out of his league because he’s a shitty fucking asshole!

I quickly locked the door once it closed behind him, and began the immediate task of gathering my bedding, towels and anything else he may have sullied, so I could wash them. And then the story got much, much worse. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it actually gets worse!

Back in the bedroom, I noticed that there was a strange white fluff all over the side of the bed he had been sleeping on. “Was he wearing socks?” I wondered. No. He hadn’t been wearing white socks and this substance wasn’t fluff. Upon closer inspection, I made the life-shatteringly vile discovery that what was actually all over my bed was chunks of balled-up, shit-stained toilet paper that had literally fallen out of his ass! My bedding suddenly went from needing a wash to needing to be quarantined.

Once the bedding and towels had been dealt with, a dark cloud came over me as I remembered that his underwear had been hanging from the internet router when he was in the shower. What a surprise, scattered all over the floor around the router were bigger, more offensive chunks of shit-stained toilet paper that had fallen out of his underwear when he took them off. Seriously. How did this guy not know he had that much shitty toilet paper stuffed up his ass all night?

I had no choice but to wash my apartment for weeks… literally weeks. Even now, I still wonder if some shitty surprise accidentally got swept under the bed and will come back to haunt me one day. It was like doing a walk of shame in my own damn condo, and I’ve been afraid to invite over any “overnight guests” since – an effective, yet unfortunate form of birth control! So, that was when I had the wake-up call and the self-loathing began. What had I done to deserve this? Why was this my life? Clearly my standards had been dropping over the 11 months that I have lived here and I hadn’t noticed until a bad date with a Shitty Asshole turned my apartment into an outhouse. I mean, 11 months ago I was complaining about the guy who took three showers. Oh, how I’d trade a shitty bartender for a super-clean football player now. Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

Never settle.

Sorry for the realness.