Nadia Uncensored: 'I told my mum my marriage was over because I got wasted and made out with a DJ.'

If you’d asked me two years ago what I’d be doing right now, my answer wouldn’t have been writing this story.

Two years ago, I was married, scanning Pinterest for a new couch for the living room, and bickering with my husband over leaving his dirty socks on the bed.

Two years ago, I hadn’t flown across the country to meet a 21-year-old backpacker at a hostel on a whim, gone on 30 Tinder dates in a single month, or told Kylie Gillies and Larry Emdur on national TV about the time I left work to catch a D.

I know. It sounds like a giant shit storm. Like, way to turn your perfectly good life into a train wreck, right? And perhaps that’s how I’m supposed to see it… But honestly? The last two years have probably been the best time in my 34 years on this planet.

That’s not to say it hasn’t been without challenges; telling your mum your marriage is over because you got wasted and made out with a DJ isn’t exactly a fun moment. Nor is having to sit through your doctor explain you broke your vagina by going OTT with your post-divorce gift-to-self. (If you wanna talk about walks of shame, try hobbling around the office for a week after being overzealous with your vibrator.)

But it taught me A LOT. Things I never would’ve learnt if my life hadn’t crapped itself like Taylor Swift’s career in 2017. Important things like, how to glean creepily specific details about a guy before you’ve even been on a date (thankyou, Interwebs), why you probably shouldn’t use the “turbo” setting on your new vibe straight off the bat (or like, ever), and, how to beat Tinder f*ckboys at their own game (also some other more meaningful stuff, but I’ll save that for Oprah).

I’m sure you’re familiar with the term “f*ckboy”. But in the unlikely event you aren’t – you beautiful, untainted soul, you – a f*ckboy is essentially a guy who strings you along for shallow reasons; like entertainment when he’s home alone wanking (also known as the 2am “U up?” text/eggplant emoji), ego fulfillment when he needs a reminder of how big his dick is (though it’s almost always comically small), and sex (which tends to be *just* good enough to keep you hanging for more). He also typically has around half a dozen girls on the go at any one time, because his tiny brain is easily bored, much like his tiny penis.

So, how does one beat such a player at his own game? After a month of mildly awful to pitifully unsatisfying Tinder dates, the logical answer seemed to be, by becoming a f*ckgirl myself.

So, first things first, I got into role by shedding any sense of morality I had. Things like treating the people I was dating like they were fellow human beings, employing basic manners, and having actual emotions were all off the table. In their place was a footloose and fancy-free attitude whereby men became the Uncle Toby’s muesli bars I keep in my handbag to snack on every time I get hunger pangs.

Next, I had to become comfortable employing a go-to script of pre-rehearsed dishonesties. Ie: “You’re SUCH a man!” (What does that even MEAN??!), “Have you been working out? Your arms look so strong” (I’ve actually seen more robust pillows, but whatevs), and – my personal fave – “I can’t believe we’re moving this fast, I never usually do this but it just feels right, you know?” (AKA: cut to banging, because this conversation is making me stupider by the minute).

And finally, I had to embrace cruelty, because, generally being a bitch works wonders on f*ckboys. I think it’s perhaps some sort of Freudian thing to do with their tiny peens and the fact their mums never loved them, but anyway, FBs can’t get enough of being ignored and treated like shit. The text response that got the most traction was waiting a week to reply, then sending “Sorry, new phone. Who’s this?” HOLY SHIT, THEY LOVED THAT.

Also: “I’m not sure there was any chemistry” was pretty reliable for igniting the Prefrontal Me-Not-Hear-The-Word-No part of the f*boy’s brain. The more I insisted I wasn’t interested, the keener they became, not unlike the kid in Kmart throwing themselves on the ground within moments of being told they can’t have a new Playstation.

And, after several dates, in true f*ckgirl style, I’d curated a rotation of half a dozen guys I could call upon to fulfill various superficial itches, which I mentally graded, based upon my mood.

FB #1 was my top guy, the one I was at the greatest risk of developing actual feels for due to the fact he was totally unattainable and wrong for me in just about every imaginable way, including the fact he’d been in trouble with the law (why must that be so HOT?!). Therefore, I contacted him the least of all and told him I didn’t see a future with him. Naturally, it only made his FB brain go crazy and he pursued me relentlessly. Oops.

FB #2 made my lady parts feel good when I looked at him, but my brain hurt every time he spoke (he once referred to OCD as “OSD”, insisting it was “the same thing” and informed me there were 357 days in a year). I called him whenever I was horny or needed to take a break from my vibrator. In two months of seeing him, I think we exchanged a total of one hundred words.

FB #3 didn’t really do it for me physically, but was a powerful lawyer who ordered me around in a way that both pissed me off and turned me on. I kept him around for Friday night dinners (which inevitably turned into Fifty Shades Of Grey-style romp sessions) and sexting when I was bored at work. He also proved helpful when my flatmate wouldn’t pay her share of the rent.

FB #4 was the classic nice guy – cute and sweet. He perpetually complimented me, then apologised for complimenting me so much, and texted an inordinate amount of smiley faces. Irritatingly, he was the least stimulating, and so I mostly kept him around for when 1, 2 and 3 weren’t available and treated him like a time-filler. Which he loved.

FBs #5 and 6 were both terrible at thinly veiling the fact they were just there for the sex, so I often made a game of secretly playing them off against one another. I’d text them both “R U DTF?” (that’s “Are you down to f*ck?” for the non-millennials) at the same time, then tell the slower responder out of the two something had just come up. (Pun intended.) I also regularly flaked on our “catch-ups” (FBs NEVER refer to them as “dates” for fear it’ll ignite the baby-making hormones in the woman’s head and send her into crazy-bride mode) and treated them more like mates than love interests, avoiding displays of affection in public. (Because, another fear of the FB is that expressing any hint of humanity will result in his ultimate undoing.)

The trick to juggling them all at once, was allowing each one to believe that, despite the fact they were clearly courting several other women at the same time as they were seeing me, they were the “only one” whom I was seeing. This is necessary, because the FB has an incredibly fragile ego that must be buoyed up at all times by believing that, even when he’s ignoring you for weeks at a time, you are sitting by your windowsill in your silky PJs pining over him, and saving up all your orgasms for him.

So, now’s the part where I explain how I eventually felt like a jerk and stopped, right?

Only I didn’t. Because being a f*ckgirl felt good. Great, even. It was the best I’d felt in a long time, and so I began plotting my next move; chucking a sickie to fly across the country to meet a cute English backpacker I’d matched with on Bumble… Unfortunately it landed me in love rehab, and then on TV, telling Larry Emdur, and all of Australia about my vag. But that’s a story for next week’s column.

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