It Happened To Me: I Accidentally Hobbled The Boy Next Door

We never did have sex. His arm still hadn't healed a month later, and I was too guilty to see him any more...
Publish date:
October 10, 2012

As a rule, I don't tend to date traditionally good-looking men. I even managed to possibly become the only female staff member to hold onto their 'male-model virginity' while staffing at a popular men's mag for four years.

But my God, Craig was beautiful.

He had the face of an angel and a body that could have been carved out of marble. [Jesus Christ, was he Edward Cullen??? ---Rebecca]

I first met him when he tried to steal the taxi I’d ordered outside the building I had just moved to. He was trying to convince the driver that yes, his name was 'Periwinkle Jones' and that this was his taxi.

I said I'd give him a ride and he took my number during the drive so that he could pay me the £7.50 he owed on the fare.

Turns out, he lived in the same building as me in the flat above mine. Which technically made him the boy next door.

The next week I was having a dinner party (because I'm classy like that) and when we had a dropout I invited him to come down.

We had a bit of an awkward drunk snog on his way out: he went to kiss me, I assumed he was going for a cheek kiss - his tongue ended up wiping the side of my face. It was awful.

I saw him about twice a week after that - all very chaste, first base stuff. My excuse was he couldn't possibly fancy me - he was gorgeous and must be beating girls off with a stick covered in wasps.

His excuse, I imagine, was I looked like a rabbit in the headlights every time I realised we were about to kiss. Which isn't a very sexy look.

We quickly fell in to a routine - he worked nights at a bar to supplement his modeling work (he fronted a major Nivea commercial, apparently. But just his hands), so after his shift he'd text me when he was close by and he'd join me in which ever terrible bar I was in, before we went back to his to sleep.

The problem was… I don't like anyone touching me as I sleep. I hate spooning. Sometimes it's a necessary evil, but I wasn't even having sex with the guy.

Plus, those huge muscles weren't useless - he would tighten his 'loving' grip during the night, much like a boa constrictor slowly squeezing the life out of his prey.

He was Lennie and I was the rabbit.

So I got in to the habit of waiting until he feel asleep, then tiptoeing out, back to my own apartment.

Pretty cunning, huh?

Except that if he woke up, he'd get annoyed and I'd have to get back in to bed. Like a fucked-up game of Grandmother's footsteps.

In the end we had an informal agreement - if he caught me trying to sneak out three times in a row I had to stay the night. So my flights would often involve me knocking over wine glasses and leaving behind shoes in a desperate attempt to get back to my flat.

So far, so normal…

After about two months of hand-under-shirt action I decided, fuck it, I'm going to fuck him. So when I stumbled home from the pub that night I got changed in to some sexy underwear and a black dress, and waited for him to finish work. Sure enough, the call came and I went up to see him.

He answered the door wearing a designer suit and just about took my breath away. We started kissing in the hall, crashing in to walls and priceless artwork, like in the movies. We stumbled through his bedroom door, and I fell out of my dress. As I was unbuttoning his shirt he said "Wait… there's something I have to tell you."

"Oh God, he hasn't got a penis," I thought.

He slid off his shirt and pointed to his, very heavily bandaged, arm.

"I had an accident last week and have sliced all the tendons in my arm. I can barely move it and the doctors think I might have permanent nerve damage."

Now… Here's the bit he doesn't know… The week before, while on my final attempt to flee Craig's flat, I had knocked over a glass of water.

When Craig got up the next morning, he slipped on the water, fell, and landed on the glass, which of course smashed - severing all the nerves in his arm.

He missed an important modeling shoot and will probably have scarring from the nasty black zig-zag stitches running the length of his bicep (or tricep? What's the one on the back of your arm?).

He assumed his messy flatmate had spilled the water when he went in his room, and I never corrected him.

We never did have sex. His arm still hadn't healed a month later, and I was too guilty to see him any more.

In what was possibly the greatest act of self-sabotage I’ve ever committed, I managed to hobble the extremely good-looking boy next door.

And we don't even have disability access in our block of flats.

Can you top this tale of dating woe? What's the worst thing you've ever done on a date (yes… yes that counts as a date) and gotten away with? You know where to leave the comment