I find myself ordering a drink at the bar, and my mind is trying to comprehend what I’m looking at on the other side of the bar. I have three faces looking back at me, smiling and laughing. It appears they were having a great time, but unfortunately, all their enjoyment and laughter is directed at me.
My eyes slit, I tilt my head to the side, and I stare back at one person. For the last year and a half, we’ve been sleeping together. A FIFO (fly in, fly out) worker who makes it a habit of late-night visits whenever he is in town.
It is a relationship that started with convenience. It is convenient for him, and I go along with it. I’m a ‘Booty Call’ and can’t call it anything else, no matter what spin I tried to put on it. I could probably call it a ‘Drunken Booty Call’ because he is often always drunk during these late-night rendezvous. What had I turned myself into?
This year and a half, 'Booty call' started when I was out drinking one night, and I spoke with this FIFO worker. He was ten years older than me, and we had friends in common. We had what I thought would be a one-night stand, which was starting to become a pattern for men and me.
That was until he turned up two nights later, and then after that, it was whenever he was back in town. I thought it might have been leading to something more serious, but after months and months of this happening, I knew I was wrong. We met after events, like after the races, after the pub, after a concert and so on. It was always the same. We were together but never together in public.
My FIFO visitor would fly home, go to the pub, get drunk, call me, and there I was, a stupid little obsessed twenty-two-year-old taking whatever titbits thrown at me. I thrived on the slightest bit of attention and the occasional nice word. I sat by the phone wondering if he would call, if he were coming to me or if he wanted me to go to him.
Not long in, I started questioning whether I would continue to be that girl on standby or be something more. Nothing had changed in months, so I decided I wouldn’t be exclusive with him. Who knew what else he was up to, and for that matter, who else was he up to it with? I still needed to have fun, and his FIFO roster was three weeks on and one week off, and I still had a social life for the other three weeks when he wasn't there. He never questioned how many other people I was sleeping with. I'm unsure whether he knew or cared, but something tells me he would have had his sources telling him the ins and outs of my weekend adventures.
I liked him, but I knew when I was being used. Sex was always fun, but I was forever in my head, and even though it was pleasurable, I rarely came. I learned that I loved giving head and would worship a cock when it was in my hands and my mouth. I could explore the male body more, not that his body was anything special, but it was mine to do with as I pleased. We’d had sex in the rain one summer night and sex in the shower after because who knew it would be so fucking cold. I got my first-ever sex toy, which I was too shy to tell him about at first, but once I told him, we played with it a few times as a couple. I even had a pregnancy scare that I had a friend help me through. This accident happened between him and me, so I told him afterwards. He apologised, but there was no conversation about whether he would have supported me if the pregnancy had turned into reality.
Over time, I’d developed feelings for him but couldn’t get more than late-night drunken sex. Towards the end, a new dynamic in our relationship developed. We hung out with his housemates and stayed at his house more. He started to approach me in the middle of the night. He began to come up to me in public and make sure I'd wait for him, and he for me, as he let me have my dance time with my friends. He didn't rush me to leave and would wait for me to be done dancing for the night. He didn't show me any affection in public, but I knew a plan and had an idea about what was happening.
Then, one night, when we were lying in bed, he whispered that he loved me. I was in shock, and it was the moment when everything changed. I told my sister about him, stopped sleeping with other people and looked forward to him coming home from his three-week stints. I was at the point where I wanted to be and finally thought I'd made it to the next level of our relationship.
So, it’s here I find myself. Standing in a packed pub and looking into the smirking face across the bar. I honestly didn’t even realise that he was in town. I take note of his arms, which are wrapped around another woman. He smiles as if daring me to approach him and make a scene. For those that know me... I’m above that crap. There's no way I will lower myself and crawl over there. I take my two drinks off the bar and head to where my friends sit. I feel I will need more than my drink and a spare, but I carry on with as much class as possible.
I take a large mouthful of my bourbon as hurt spreads through my guts, seeping up and strangling my heart. Hurt is weaving its way through the rest of my body, wrapping around every muscle and tendon, and my blood feels heavy as my heart pounds with hurt, thick in my veins. I stand to control where I can look and who I talk to. I force laughs out and try to listen to conversations as I drink and process what is happening at the bar.
I move my eyes to look at the face of the woman hanging onto what was never mine. This woman has a similar smug smile on her face. She looks older than me and looks to be FIFO's age. She has a schoolteacher look about her and is nothing like me. She is short and blond, far thinner and more refined than I could ever be. She looks like she knows how to get what she wants and is already beating me. Case and point is standing next to her. Her smile says, ‘Yep, that’s right. I have your man.’ I don’t know this woman, and she is taunting me. Does she know our back story and everything we've been through? The emotions I went through over the last year and a half to finally feel like I was in a real relationship? What had he told her that she was treating me like chewing gum on the sole of her shoe?
The third face in the mix is his best friend. His friend is quiet and friendly in conversations. I rarely saw him when FIFO wasn't around, but I thought he was funny, and I felt like we were starting to become friends. Tonight, as he threw his head back and laughed at me, there was no friendliness. The funny, charming friend was gone.
This night is turning into shit fast—my hurt morphs into sadness and from sorrow into frustration and embarrassment. I’m lucky I’m out drinking with my best friend because she notices something is wrong. I tell her, and she and her boyfriend keep me from doing anything stupid, and I’m grateful for their concerns and questions. Like any good friend, she gets me more alcohol. They try to make me feel better and tell me I can do much better than FIFO.