I was working in fashion retail. I divided my time between looking for innovative ways to wear my polyester black ‘classic’ river island uniform (there are none) and going to BARCODE. Yes. BARCODE. I know. It gets worse. Much worse. (you saw the title). I also went to Fibbers. I’ll give you a minute… Ready? Okay. I’m sorry about all this.
For those of you who don’t know Fibber McGees is a ridiculous late bar on Parnell St. It looks like a motorcycle bar from a hollywood b-movie except there is actual sweat dripping off every wall and people bleeding and fucking in all of the the corners. Also all the girls are mildly overweight and wearing at least one lumounous piece of clothing. Usually a sock.
It started with a text from a number I didn’t know. Who is this? Someone who fancies you. Ooooh. Exciting. It’s a friend of friend who I met in… Fibbers. The texting is cute and it goes on for a while.
Next thing I know I’m in a taxi out of BARCODE, I’m also wearing a black dress with silver… ahem… sparkles… and I’m on my way to his house in the suburbs. When I get there I discover he has built a fort in his bedroom. He’s 24, I’m 17. He’s on the dole. He goes to fibbers. He built a fort in his bedroom.
Nothing happens that night. The following week, we have our first kiss, in the fort, to the JCB SONG.
For the next nine months of my life his room was my escape from all the things that were truly awful in the life. On my first night there I rolled around the big comfy bed and noticed alot of marks on the opposing wall. I asked him what I was looking at. He said, thats my spitwall.
I said; what?
He said: Thats my wall, that I spit on.
I didn’t leave. See previous notes about contextual state of mind. I stayed in that room for NINE MONTHS. And look, for all intents and purposes, it was a good room. It had a lock on it for keeping his crazy mother (alco) out. It had been painted a really nice blue colour. It had a bed that could be made into a couch. It had a CD player. It had a metallica album. It had blackout curtains (made from a black rug). It had loads of six packs of crisps. It had a fridge with tuborg inside it. Most importantly, it had a giant TV, which you could watch ‘Only Fools And Horses’ on living tv gold all day and avoid everything. The bed was amazing. It was really comfortable and it had loads of pillows. And he was in it. And he was really good in bed.
I would go straight out to the suburbs after school and just get into the bed and stay there until monday morning. I literally would not get out of the bed. And he would make me lovely food and I didn’t have to even talk. I would just turn off. I would even turn off my phone. He used to watch me sleep and buy me presents. He was on the dole but he had nothing to spend it on, so every night we’d get dominos and get drunk. That would be until the dole ran out- and he would trade his video games to buy condoms. But we would laugh. And as I mentioned above- he was REALLY GOOD IN BED.
It was like a coma. And the one issue with this is that this was what he did ALL THE TIME. While I was off living my life, he would be in the bed asleep, and so when I would get there, sometimes that would mean I would be disturbing his sleep, and since he slept, all the fucking time… that was quite often. And lying in a bed for six months gets boring. And you can only fuck so many times before you might want a conversation. And because his life consisted of sleeping and eh eating and maybe a bit of spitting, not to mention fucking me and making me bacon and egg sandwiches (which were fucking delicious) that was all we could talk about. And that is very boring.
But I couldn’t get out. I mean he had been minding me for a long time. Making me sandwiches, buying me drink, paying for my taxis, buying me dresses, giving me amazing orgasms. I felt a bit trapped. It was a relationship based on food and sex. He wanted sex. I wanted food. And c’mon. He was so cute with his little sleepy head in the bed. And you know, next week, he was gonna print out his CV in his ma’s office and get a job. and next week, he was also gonna clean the wall. But he never did. and eventually we got sick of fighting. broke up with a text message. And suddenly- I realised how much of my life I had wasted, being asleep in his arms.
So my advice is; and this may seem obvious, but if a man has a wall that he spits on, he is hardly gonna respect himself enough to respect you. Nor is he ever gonna clean it. And what you should do is, when you see it, you should leave. No matter how good the orgasms are, no matter how crispy the bacon. A ‘spitwall’ is always a dealbreaker.
Tags: arrested development, bacon sambos
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