There are lots of stories I can (and will) tell you about Wes, the greatest love and worst mistake of my life, but for #fuckboyfebruary I had to delve into the abyss to find something truly abhorrent.
Wes is mental; documentary-style unhinged. I maintain that if I’m found strangled to death it will be that little dreadlocked psychopath who killed me. Our relationship was toxic; I loved him too much and I loved him too quickly. That is the simple fact of the matter. So for the introductory story to Wes, the #fuckboyfebruary behaviour had to be the time when he shattered my already-cellotaped-together heart into smithereens. The day I finally found the proof that he had been poking his way through Slough’s smorgasbord of beaver I got my motivation to escape his clutches (give or take a couple of obligatory relapses).
Wes was the stereotypical wasteman – he and I went through a monthly fiscal cycle. I got paid, he asked me to ‘lend’ him money. I was always promised that money would return to my outstretched, desperate grasp by Friday at the latest. At first this was not a problem. I have always been a hustler and I’d saved myself up a tidy sum of money. I worked hard and I wanted to help him. The problem with this borrowing burrow for Wes and me was that Wes had a knack for numbers and a nasty little Machiavellian streak right down to his soul stemming from the environment of manipulation and poverty from whence he spawned. I, on the other hand, have always been a literary girl. He calculatingly began to bamboozle and confuse me, paying me a percentage of what he owed me and then asking to retain the rest until the following week. But the next week he added to his debt and, if I’m honest, I hadn’t really been counting what he owed me so I lost track of where I was. The warning flags were titillated by a light breeze but I was in love for the first time so I put my blinkers on and continued running to keep up. I was therefore left scratching my head as miniscule numbers of bank notes would be returned to me in recognition of a debt that was wider than the growing gap between me and my self-respect.
I was besotted by him and the little home we shared – I felt like the unhappiness and the loneliness I had always known was the price I had to pay for this incandescent happiness I now consumed. However, as weeks turned into months it dawned on me that I was covering the rent, the bills, Wes’ drug habits and social life plus, on occasion, the habits and social lives of his wastemen friends. I had nothing left for my own life but you get what you tolerate; I’d made my poverty stricken bed and now I had to lie in it. I had never used drugs so couldn’t formulate a fair opinion but I loathed them deeply, blaming the weed Wes smoked and the cocaine he snorted for ruining our former bliss.
Months slid into years and I found myself existing on my nerves. Our relationship was tempestuous and Wes was the archetypal bully. He came at me so hard and furiously in the beginning of an argument to assert his dominance that I backed down straight away –at five foot and growing up with my Mother believe me when I say, I’m pretty feisty by nature but he simply wore me down. If I asked him not to do cocaine and stay out all night with his friends I’d be met with him blaring out ‘who are you talking to? Who the FUCK are you speaking to like that!?’ When my childhood pet had to be put down he allowed me to be upset for the briefest of moments before asserting ‘alright, shut the fuck up now – it was a fucking dog, mate.’ And if I dared to ask him where he had been all night, or why he had what was clearly a love bite on his chest, or when he was going to give me all that money back his reaction was to grab me round the throat so hard and so fast that the air was choked out of me instantaneously. ‘I will punch you to your jaw!’ or ‘Do you want me to chop you to the neck?’ To this day I cannot fathom what a ‘chop to the neck’ actually entails – I imagine Wes would be channelling his inner Ninja as he repeatedly struck my outspread neck. But, through borrowing and stealing, Wes had taken every penny I had – he owed me thousands and I knew I didn’t have a hope of getting that back, especially not if we terminated proceedings.
Wes’s social life was like a never-ending turntable of raves, drugs and after parties from which he would return, eyes bulging out of his little round face and brown stains on the corner of his lips from surreptitious nervous licks. After one such night out, Wes came home with his snotty crustacean of a friend, Kirk. They decided to continue snorting cocaine off DVD cases in the pre-dawn light of the living room until they got a phone call inviting them to an after-party at Wes’s friend, Kerry’s. I awoke to Wes and Kirk leaving our home around 4am; two stooges who had about three brain cells between them imagining themselves sneaking away into the night like grandiose cat-burglars but the execution was more the ilk of Horace and Jasper in 101 Dalmatians.
I had been introduced to Kerry as ‘Fat Kerry’ as this is what people called her, though I didn’t know if she accepted this name or if her so-called friends called her this behind her back (I did not, and would not, nickname a fellow woman like that). I won’t go into the details as to why she had this nickname – I think I can probably leave it to my readers to draw their own conclusions. What I will say is that it was evident throughout my relationship with Wes that Kerry had feelings for him; I wasn’t threatened by this because Wes would talk about her with complete disregard and disrespect and, comparatively, we were polar opposites in both manner and in body. But I was concerned for her because I knew from my own experiences that unrequited love is the shittest of all the loves to feel. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
I gave him the silent treatment for the entire day after his eventual return from her party, partially because it was respite from the usual shit he spouted on a come down and partly because I was punishing him for the additional crime of preferring to spend his time with Kerry and her crew of unwashed miscreants than me. The following day he took me out for mediocre food as an apology – imagine my disbelief when that apology was actually funded by Wes…I should have known something was amiss. That evening the weekend’s ventures caught up with him; he languished naked (he was always naked for some ungodly reason) on my crushed velvet sofas, sweating out his exertion and the class A’s onto the luxurious material cradling his epidermis. I changed into my pyjamas and reclined with a book on my own sofa.
From time to time I threw a glance his way over the top of my much-loved copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’. I watched him there with his squat, muscular body cocooned into the crevice of the silvery splendour beneath. His floppy little penis was stuck with body heat to his empty ball sack like a prawn on a wrinkly bed and his pot-belly was rising and falling as he gulped in the fumes of clean, crisp air that must have been so alien to his drug addled body. He breathed deeply, clearly in the post-coitus slumber of a well spent male, not a care in the world. And then my eyes fell upon something. His phone.
‘Don’t be that girl!’ I told myself. I couldn’t go through his phone…
If he woke up and caught me I was frightened his punishment would be swift and decisive. Plus it was obviously a breach of his privacy but that was a mere afterthought. My internal monologue continued for some time until Wes broke through the profundities of my dilemma by squeezing out uproarious flatulence. I’m surprised this wasn’t followed by a cloud of weed-smoke and cocaine puffing from his sphincter, desperate to be clear of the toxicity imprisoned within his anal tract. He turned deeper into the sofa, away from his phone and returned to his coma. It felt like a sign. I snapped up that little rectangle treasure trove and I punched in the liberating pin.
Any girl who has gone through their man’s phone will know the frantic passion with which the search commences. You have limited time – he may wake up or come back to the room at any second. You are also in a quagmire where you are determined to find something, but reluctant to know what dirty little secrets reside inside the digital fortress that lay in your eager palm.
Firstly, his text messages. I thoroughly investigated, opening and scrolling with frenzied fervour but I found nothing incriminating. Impressed at his ability to cover his tracks, I moved on to Facebook Messenger. He was always getting Facebook messages so it made sense to me that this was the net he cast to catch his little floozies. Alas, nothing to be explored in the archives of his Facebook portfolio either. There must be something, surely!? Finally, WhatsApp. His group chat was always pinging off – there must be something convicting buried there amongst the bestiality videos and pornography he and his chums found so entertaining (the male group chat is a world of sin we wish to know nothing about, believe me). My heart was pumping like Elton John’s fingers on the ivories. I could hear my dozing partner’s rhythmic breathing to my left so I knew he remained lifeless but the anxiety of this act was almost too much for me to bear. Almost…
I rested hesitantly on that name. ‘Kerry.’ I tapped into it, not expecting to find anything of any interest but wondering if the two had ever conversed over me. There, right there in front of me, was the following:
Obviously, I was devastated to read those messages. For the most part I felt betrayed and humiliated. Not only had he clearly slept with Kerry, but he was completely taking the piss out of me over it too. ‘A brat!?’ Seriously!? I’m unsurprised that his grasp of the English dictionary extended far enough for the meekest of monosyllabic insults at my expense but ‘a brat?’ It wasn’t even accurate. Also, I noted the ‘bit bad’ on me element to the message – thanks for throwing me that bone, Wes. Finally, I can tell you apart from brillo-padding up the financial gains of other people there wasn’t much he was ‘good at’. But the sensation of sweet relief also trickled over me like warm water as I realised I had finally found my excuse to unceremoniously remove that leach from my life.
I sat for some time mulling over how to proceed; I was nestled between the slumbering cheater and the freedom of the front door. I should have got right up and left – of course, I know that now. But if I left this flat and him lying there in his pit of sin and iniquity I’d have no hope of ever getting him out. He would turn it into a squalid meat market of pussy, prison-fodder and pills. Plus the flat was in my name, paid for entirely though unintentionally by me, so to leave him there opened me up to all kinds of legal and financial issues. I had to get my head in the game and think smart, not emotionally.
Probing further into the trail it didn’t seem like they had slept together before but I was realistic enough to work out that after two years, a cheater does not commence his disloyalty with somebody like Kerry who had clearly wafted the nectars of her cavernous penis shack at many a wasteman; she was at the end of a slippery slope of girls. My enquiries yielded a useful fruit though – I noted at one time she had screenshotted him a trail of messages between them and I made note of her background image for the WhatsApp screen. It was picture of her and a friend, frolicking and laughing with matching bright red lipstick. The picture reminded me of Aunt Spiker and Aunt Sponge from James and the Giant Peach.
This image gave me the germ of an idea. Thrilled with my deviousness, I feverishly embarked upon screenshotting the evidence, including the image of her own message trail. I sent them to myself and then deleted the images from Wes’ camera roll. How I was level headed enough to do this when my world was crumbling into the void around me, I don’t know. I was ready for the capacious drama that was about to ensue. I took a deep breath, locked and returned his phone to its usual position and walked to the end of the sofa, taking a cushion with me.
With no restraint, I hammered him with that pillow with all my might. The soft thuds of silk on skin were punctuated by my heavy, furious breathing as I lifted my arm again and again, raining blows down on his perspiring carcass. He awoke from the safety of sleep into the middle of his comfortable world ending. Yelling out in shock and panic, he lifted his leg defensively and exposed his penis from a new and unappealing angle while still lying, dazed, on his back. I continued to pelt him with the cushion, over and over until he came to his senses. I repeatedly cried ‘You slept with Kerry!’ until tears began to sting my eyes and burn at my cheeks. I’m not sure how or why I eventually stopped but ultimately I flailed and the pillow of passion was released.
‘What the fuck are you going on about?’ he demanded.
Quick as a flash, I hit him with my evidence. ‘I just got a text from an unknown number with all these screenshots!’ I turned my phone screen to face him with the image of Kerry’s WhatsApp background exposed – he greedily took in as much as he could before I snatched it back and flicked across the shots I had taken from his own screen, reading them out word for word including the typing errors he had made for some extra nastiness. Take that, bitch! I let him think I was reading from the screen I had just shown him. Really, what a total idiot.
‘I don’t know where you got those from or who sent them but I never said any of that!’ He protested. I could hear from his voice he was now becoming angry, reaching for that go-to place of intimidation he knew worked so well on me.
‘Show me your phone then!’ I demanded. He knew he was caught between a rock and a hard place and a fraction of me watched his internal struggle with glee. I half expected a tiny nugget of faeces to spring from his little muscular rectum.
One thing about Wes though, he never stammered and he never stuttered. That was why he was so convincing as he wove the web of lies he had ensnared me within. He surprised me by vehemently coming out with all guns blazing. ‘I can’t talk to you about Kerry because you’re so fucking nuts. If I could have done, I would have told you the reason for those messages but I can’t remember even what they’re about. Fuck off!’ he growled maliciously.
I was incredulous. There was the proof staring him right in his horrible little face and he still wouldn’t admit it. He started to dress himself, pulling his socks ferociously onto his feet and walking from room to room to find the clothes he had strewn around the place earlier. His penis puckered around with each stride, bobbing to and fro like a little chicken head. I mentally noted his admission that he had, at least, sent those messages though clearly this was not up for further discussion.
‘You’ve clearly slept with her. Just admit it. Why else would someone have sent me these messages?’ I still clung to the lie that I had been sent the images and so far, he had not put two and two together and realised my crime.
‘Fuck off!’ He spat it at me, disgust lacing his voice. He pushed me out of his way and I bumped into the wall. We went on like this for the entirety of his endeavour to clothe himself; me trying to remain calm as I asserted my conviction that he had eaten from Kerry’s gaping goblet, him gunning out insults and defensive commands imploring me to get out of his face. He pushed me over and into things, grabbing my arms and throwing me around to move me out of his path. Still I rose up and carried on beating him with my metaphorical stick of truth.
Finally, he sat himself on the sofa to put his trainers on. At last it dawned on me that he intended to leave. But I wanted him to say it; I felt that if he just admitted it, rather than making me look crazy or like I was mistaken or I’d been tricked by some third party we both knew didn’t exist, I could walk away.
I decided attacking him was not the right approach anymore so I sat down beside him in an attempt to feign calm. Reacting to this defensively, I got a hardy helping of his bruised ego; he told me I had never been good enough for him, that he could get a million better girls than me because I was ‘ten a-penny’ and he would never sink even lower than me to sleep with someone like Kerry so I’d better stop accusing him or I’d get punched to the jaw. When he had finished tearing untruthful strips off me, in an explosion of pure rage, he grabbed my wrist tightly in his fist and, with his other hand, pushed me as hard as he could away from him. I fell off the sofa and collided with the table in the middle of the room. I knew immediately I had really hurt myself (as it happened, I’d actually smashed four ribs which was later confirmed by X-Ray – the same ribs that I would break a second time more recently taking the recycling out) but hitting the left side of my chest on the table had coincided with Wes getting up and collecting his keys from the arm of the sofa so I was momentarily distracted. Where did he think he was going when I needed a confession?
‘I’m going to my mum’s you fucking spastic!’ He appraised me with a sickened look on his face as I sat on the floor, cradling my left side. With that, he squeaked his Nike TNs to the front door, opened it and left. It took me bloody ages to crawl my way across the floor like a demon in a horror film, sliding on my side to the sofa to get myself up. I was also making those weird, winded, demonic sounds just to add to the general effect.
Eventually, Wes did concede he had, in fact, slept with Kerry. He said it was the biggest mistake of his life – he had never cheated before and never would again. I didn’t believe him. The fact is that even if he was telling the truth (which he definitely wasn’t) I would never believe it anyway. Add to that the fact he only admitted it because Kerry plastered passive aggressive statuses all over her social media that made it quite clear she had ridden him like a donkey rutting itself against a fencepost.
Now I am a bit older and I feel like more of a woman I can see Kerry is a person to be pitied, not hated. It’s taken me a long time to get to that point but I can only imagine how unhappy it must be to be the person even your closest friends refer to as ‘Fat Kerry.’ She was forced to wait in the wings like a wasteman wheelbarrow, hoovering up the sludge and slime I didn’t realise I never wanted in the first place.
Unfortunately, that was not the last of Wes, but it was the beginning of the end. I did get my vengeance though; firstly, he has to live his life knowing he lost the best, most lucrative thing that ever happened to him – he hasn’t a hope of getting a woman like me again. Secondly, I shit all over him in one of my relapse sex sessions with him which was mortifying for me but did leave me able to cheerfully imagine him wiping away diarrhoea from his foreskin and little purple helmet. Karma’s a bitch.