Romantically Challenged Read online

  About the Book

  Despite her best efforts (and the fact that she was once voted ‘TV’s most spankable personality’), Sami Lukis has always been romantically challenged.

  Aside from a handful of serious long-term relationships, she’s been a serial dater for the better part of thirty years. It’s not like she hasn’t tried to find the one – she’s given it a bloody good go. She’s been on more blind dates than is reasonable for anyone to endure in a lifetime. She’s dated guys on almost every continent. But for reasons she can’t quite understand, she seems to be a dating weirdo magnet.

  There was the date with Kevin Costner’s bodyguard (yep, the Bodyguard’s bodyguard), and the delightful gentleman she later found out was an armed robber. The sleazy TV exec who loved the word ‘moist’. The bloke who wanted to rent her ovum. The guy who proposed on their first date. The loser who sent her a selfie featuring a hickie – which he hadn’t got from her. Oh, and that time she realised she might be dating her cousin.

  Now Sami’s sharing her dating disasters in the hopes of connecting with anyone who’s experienced the highs and lows of the always nerve-wracking, sometimes uplifting and often stomach-churning roller-coaster of romance. Romantically Challenged is an unintentionally entertaining romp through the men, the meetings and the misadventures a woman can face on her quest to find love.

  CONTENTS

  Romantically Challenged

  Ruck Off

  Hanky Panky

  Kissing Frogs

  Where the Men Are

  My Mok Moment

  Speculums and Sliding Doors

  Pads Are a Passion Killer

  Fake Jobs

  The Age Game

  The Ex Files

  The Invisible Love Current

  Dating Hand Grenades

  A Moment of Clarity

  The Business Lunch/Date

  Big Brother

  The Cashed-Up Prince Charming

  Get a Dingo Up Ya

  Call 1800 Sami

  The Millionaire Matchmaker

  Ridgey Didge

  The Celery Celebrity

  Before Sunrise

  The Penguin Club

  First Dates to Forget

  Putrid Pheromones

  Who’s in My Area with Their Pants Off?

  Texting and Dating

  Please Don’t Hehehe Me

  Embarrassing First Dates

  The Warm Sushi Escape Clause

  The Player

  The Double-Pug Conspiracy Theory

  Inappropriate Crushes

  Kissing Cousins

  Snooping is Always a Good Idea

  World’s Dumbest Cheater?

  The Worst One

  The Spud Gun

  Drunky McDrunkface

  Bad Hair Day

  Cocaine Cowboys

  The New York Swag

  The Love Hotel

  A Mixtape Means I Love You

  The Playful Pussy

  The Armed Robber

  The Bodyguard

  The Horny Hipster

  The Naughty Texans

  An Indecent Proposal

  Costa Brava

  The ‘Kinda’ Guy

  What Happens in Monte Carlo

  The One

  Pure Love Paul

  The Biological Time Bomb

  Sami’s Baby

  Can I Buy Your Ovum

  The Sperm Stampede (Part 1)

  The Sperm Stampede (Part 2)

  The Sperm Stampede (Part 3)

  That Time I Turned Down Brad Pitt

  Sexual Bucket List

  Choke and Poke

  All the Good Ones are Taken

  The Lawnmower

  Mash-gate

  Neville No Pay

  Sperm on his Business Card

  The Doggie Deal-Breaker

  The Flirty Frenchie

  The Other Woman

  Pashing War Zone

  The Shithead

  Chanel Can’t Buy You Love

  Monster-In-Law

  Unfortunate Breakups

  Mr Happily Ever After

  To Oma

  who gave me

  my name

  my strength

  and my weakness for gin

  I don’t count sheep. I count lovers.

  I’ve been a hopeless insomniac my whole life. But at some point in my early forties, I finally found a remedy that works. I lie in bed, staring into the darkness, doing a mental count of the number of men I’ve slept with.

  The exact number? I honestly don’t know. That’s why I fall asleep. The strain of trying to remember every single one is quite tiring. I usually get to around forty-something before I lose count. Or drift off.

  Mission accomplished.

  Now before you start questioning the possibility that I might be a tad – promiscuous – I want you to know that I’m not the least bit bothered by what you think of my ‘number’. Just like I don’t care how many people you’ve slept with. All those studies and surveys about what an acceptable ‘number’ should be are just sanctimonious noise.

  As I write this, I am a 47-year-old single woman who’s been having sex since the age of seventeen. I am aware that my ‘number’ is considerably higher than most of my friends’. I also know that it’s much, much lower than many others’. Plus, the ratio of men I’ve shagged versus men I’ve dated is surprisingly low. I’ve been on hundreds of dates in my search for Mr Right. Hundreds. This is not an exaggeration.

  Aside from a handful of long-term relationships, I’ve been a serial dater for the better part of thirty friggin’ years. But, while all those years of dating did provide me with an unusually effective insomnia cure (and, thankfully, no STIs), they have, so far, failed to locate my Mr Happily Ever After.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried to find Prince Charming. I’ve given it a bloody good go. My frog-kissing game is strong. I’ve dated guys on almost every continent. I’ve been on more blind dates than is reasonable for anyone to endure in one lifetime.

  However, despite my best efforts, and the fact that I was once voted ‘TV’s most spankable personality’*, I have always been romantically challenged.

  I’m challenged in quite a few areas, actually. I’m completely useless in the kitchen. I’ve never been able to solve a Rubik’s cube. I’m crap at tennis. And I cannot, for the love of Oprah, understand how the stock market works.

  But above all, I’m challenged in the romance department.

  Some people are lucky enough to meet their soul mate randomly, effortlessly, and perfectly by chance. For others, it’s a full-time job. For me, it has, so far, proven impossible.

  I swear, if one more person says to me, ‘I just don’t understand why you’re single’, I’ll claw my own bloody eyes out.

  My own parents even decided to have the we-don’t-mind-if-you’re-a-lesbian chat with me sometime in my early thirties. I imagine they were confused about why their little girl hadn’t settled down with a lovely man and started popping out babies. And the only viable reason they could think of was that I didn’t like boys. When Mum sat me down to have a serious conversation, it went something like this:

  Mum: All your father and I really want is for you to be happy. So we want you to know that it’s totally fine with us if you find that happiness with a man . . . or with a woman. Okay?

  Me: Thanks, Mum. Good chat. And PS I’m not gay.

  I guess I could simplify it by saying the reason I’m single is because I just haven’t met the right guy. And I have steadfastly refused to settle.

  It has also become blaringly obvious, during my three disastrous dating decades that I am a weirdo magnet. For reasons I do not entirely understand, I often find myself in ridiculo
usly bizarre and sometimes extraordinary interactions with the opposite sex. I’m the girl everyone turns to at a dinner party, keen to hear about my latest dating drama (which usually results in cries of, ‘He did what?’ as everyone roars with laughter at my expense). My married friends have been living vicariously through me for years. I once penned a weekly magazine column documenting the perils of single life. Hell, I even made a career out of sharing my deepest, darkest dating disasters on my own radio show.

  I have also considered the possibility that I’m just not the marrying kind (if anything, I’ve realised that marriage can make some people very, very unhappy).

  And so, with no imminent wedding to plan, I decided to write this book: a collection of my most memorable and unintentionally entertaining courting encounters.

  I would really like this book to be a celebration of all the smart, self-sufficient and self-respecting kickarse single gals who also refuse to settle. In a world that still loves to measure a person’s happiness based on their relationship status, we know there are plenty of other ways to have fabulous and fulfilling lives. Being single doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with us. We don’t feel like we’re ‘on the shelf’ or that we’re unlovable. ‘Single’ isn’t some kind of unbearable holding pattern we begrudgingly exist in, between relationships. And we’re certainly not living in a state of limbo, waiting despondently for Prince Charming to come rescue us from our singledom.

  No, we’re not looking for ‘Mr Perfect’ – we all know he’s hanging out in Middle Earth somewhere with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And please stop assuming we’re all just ‘too picky’. We are not too picky. We’re choosey. There’s a difference. We’ve already managed to create valuable and meaningful lives without a significant other, so we’re only interested in meeting someone who adds to what we already have, not someone who detracts from it.

  I will concede, however, that all of the above does make us pretty ruthless on the dating front. I guess that’s why people like me, who have been single for so long, seem to have the most difficulty finding love.

  On the upside, it has enabled me to accumulate this vast and mostly humorous assortment of dating anecdotes.

  I share my romantic misfortunes in sympathy with anyone else who’s experienced more lows than highs on the always nerve-racking, sometimes horrifying and often stomach-churning dating roller-coaster. This is for you unwavering romantics who have found yourselves in dating hell or on a date from hell. I trust my dating disasters will help you feel a little better about your own.

  As you read the following stories, some of you might think at times, ‘Oh come on, she must be making this shit up.’ But I assure you, as outrageously ludicrous and shockingly unbelievable as some of these encounters might seem, this is not a work of fiction. Everything I have written about actually happened (although some names have been changed to protect me from the wankers).

  And please don’t mistake my intentions. I am not a man hater. Never have been. Never will be. I adore men. Most of my closest mates are men. I’ve just been exceptionally unfortunate with them in a romantic capacity.

  And so, to all the men I’ve loved, and dated and slept with. Thanks for the memories – and the following yarns.

  * (Interpret this as you wish.)

  I had my first ‘real’ date with a boy when I was fourteen years old. And by ‘real’ I mean chaperone-free. It was a big deal and I was equal parts excited and petrified.

  I thought Jake was the most babelicious boy in Brisvegas. He was one of those sporty types – tall and super fit with a square rugby head and wide swimmer’s shoulders. We went to different schools but I’d see him every Friday night at swimming club, where I couldn’t keep my eyes off his rock-hard sixpack as he pranced around poolside in his dick stickers.

  He’d been flirting with me for months, which consisted of flicking me on the back of my legs with his towel whenever I walked past. And giving me Chinese burns whenever I was close enough for him to reach a forearm.

  So, basically, I knew he liked me.

  About seventy-five towel flicks and twenty Chinese burns later, he finally asked me out on an actual date.

  We agreed to meet at Timezone in the Queen Street Mall on Saturday afternoon. Which might sound like the lamest date ever, except that it was the eighties, so an afternoon of playing video games was, in fact, a totally bitchin’ idea. I couldn’t wait to impress Jake with my mad Galaga skills.

  In the days leading up to our rendezvous, I was on a massive high. I told all my friends about it. I knew exactly what I was going to wear (my favourite ‘Choose Life’ t-shirt, of course!) and I even splashed out on a brand-new fluro scrunchie for the occasion. But on the day of our date, Jake’s mother called my house and informed my mum that he wouldn’t be able to meet me at Timezone, because he’d been trampled at the bottom of a ruck during a school rugby game that morning and was laid up in hospital with a broken leg.

  I was devo.

  I’d been psyching myself up for that date all week. But all it took was one phone call . . . and drats! My dreams were crushed and I felt like my life was over. I was heartbroken, wondering if I’d ever see him again.

  Jake was a no-show at swimming club – der, broken leg! – and I really missed him. And his dick stickers. And those annoying towel flicks.

  And then, bingo! Three weeks later Jake called my house to ask if he could reschedule our date. He was still on crutches and not very mobile, so would I like to go over to his place and sign his cast and watch a VHS and enjoy some Chinese burns, for old times’ sake?

  Yepparooni! What took you so long? (Also, yay!)

  And, just like that, I was on top of the world again. My date was back on, like Donkey Kong. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

  My excitement level reached fever pitch by the time date-day rolled around. Mum dropped me off at his place and Jake’s mum met me at the door and led me down to the basement rumpus room, where my dreamboat was sitting on the couch, his right leg in plaster, looking very forlorn (mainly because he’d already missed three weeks of rugby and it didn’t look like he was getting back on the paddock any time soon). He was wearing tracksuit pants and I remember noticing that he didn’t seem to be wearing any underpants underneath.

  That was weird.

  We chatted for a bit about the hospital and his broken leg and the cast and how itchy it was, and I told him I was there to cheer him up and I tried not to look at the dubious bulges in his trackie dacks. And then I put the cassette into the VCR, ready to settle in and watch the movie with my little lovebug. In that moment, life couldn’t get any better.

  I realised very quickly that Jake had absolutely no intention of watching a movie. We didn’t even get through the opening credits before he launched himself at me. He wasn’t going to let a silly thing like a broken leg slow him down. His tongue was down my throat before I knew it and his hands were all over me. We’d already enjoyed a few sneaky pashes under the grandstand at swimming club, but this was the first time I’d let him (or any boy) touch my boobs. He was awkwardly grabbing them and kind of squishing them like you do with those rubber stress balls and I couldn’t understand where the enjoyment was for him in that whole situation. There was zero enjoyment in it for me.

  That was weird.

  It was also my first ever body contact with a hard penis. I didn’t actually touch it (gross!) but I could feel it through his flimsy pants. He kept pushing that thing up against me. We might not have made it to the video arcade, but Jake was still determined to score as many points with his joystick as he possibly could.

  Despite numerous dexterous attempts on his behalf, I wouldn’t let Jake put his hand down my pants. I was afraid he might think I was frigid, but I just wasn’t ready to go to third base. He tried valiantly throughout the movie, and by the end credits, he’d given up and completely lost interest. He said I should probably go home.

  I couldn’t believe our date was over already. Had I done so
mething wrong? Was it because I wouldn’t let him touch my bits? But I thought he liked me?

  Boys are weird.

  So I left my first ever real date feeling inadequate and frigid and humiliated. And I had the physical scars to remind me of that heartbreaking afternoon for days. Jake had given me the worst pash rash ever (oh my god, we pashed for two hours straight). My boobs were sore from all the squishing and squashing. And the next day I noticed an actual bruise next to my hipbone, from where he’d been poking that thing into me all afternoon.

  Best. Date. Ever. Not.

  I guess Jake was looking for a home run, because he never asked me out again and he pretty much ignored me when he eventually returned to swimming club. He attempted the odd towel flick now and then, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  I couldn’t believe how confusing this whole dating caper was. How could something that had initially brought me so much excitement and happiness turn out to be such a big fat fucker of a disappointment? One minute I was the happiest girl in the world: I’d met a spunky boy, he gave me butterflies in my belly, I thought he was the perfect guy! But our date was a disaster. And Jake turned out to be a massive jerkwad.

  So that was my introduction to the highs and lows of ‘dating’ and the roller-coaster of emotions that go with it. A taste of things to come . . . for the rest of my friggin’ life!

  Congratulations, Jake. I don’t want to give you a big head or anything, but you hold the esteemed title of being number one on the list of countless disappointments in my dating life.

  But don’t worry, buddy. You’re not alone. This single woman has plenty of other equally disastrous dating stories to tell.

  Mum says I came home from kindergarten one day and proudly announced that I was going to marry my classmate Troy. And when she asked me how I knew Troy was The One, I said it was because he always lay on the mat next to me during nap time. There was no hanky panky going on, just some kind of invisible love current drawing us together as one. The mere fact that a boy was lying beside me obviously meant that we were destined to live happily ever after.