“The Recyclable” Defined

Some boys aren’t very nice (and some “bois” think they are Spencer Matthews).

The ‘recyclable’’ will begin life as a possible Prince Charming, however these initial feelings will most likely wear off after a week or two (or when they call you a “convenient shag”) and you’ll realise he is not your knight in shining armour (but a twat wrapped in tin foil). Their communication skills tend to be limited (usually between the hours 11pm-4am) and even then it will be a graphic representation rather than actual words (a snapchat of their penis, followed by a video of them touching their penis – whilst wearing a t-shirt). Even when he uses words, you’d rather he didn’t (“Easter rub?”).

So comes the Friday night, they have been sub-consciously planning a possible get together (penis snapchats are now being received in daylight hours). Your friends are not afraid to voice their opinions regarding the casual sleepover (“he’s not even fit – what are you doing”) as you explain (lie); “I just want something fun” (I am so alone, I would probably spoon a shark if it called me pretty).

When you arrive there will be the usual “hello, how you doing (did you bring the lube)”. You will have a quick (very quick) catch up before things get more passionate (“I hope naughty nurse is underneath that coat”).

The familiarity is refreshing (there are absolutely no expectations of having an actual orgasm) and you are ready for a night (10 minutes) of passionate love-making (barking out Pavarotti’s 5th symphony because that’s what they do in porn). Occasionally he will show his admiration “I love having sex with you” (almost – “you’re in my top three”).  

After, you just lie there; “that was amazing” (-“yeah great” – I might as well have sat on my thumb for 10 minutes). And fall into a deep slumber, exhausted (voice gone from the Oscar winning performance) wrapped in their arms (occasionally – sometimes they will be on diet pills so are ‘too sweaty’ for snuggles).

The morning comes (and so do they. You again don’t) and you say your farewells (in your head vowing it’s the last goodbye). Post sleepover the contact always becomes less (nothing) but you still get the occasional reminder of them (not a message – thrush).

A few days (more likely months) later they will get back in contact, but you stand defiant; “no no no, not again” (realise you are still alone…“ok, one more time”) and once more find yourself on their couch (in suspenders – questioning life) whilst they request sex positions (only a pretzel could do) and enjoy themselves (as you continue on to the second prelude of Pavarotti’s 5th symphony).

But the recyclable does provide a purpose (excluding the archive album of edited body shots) when you meet a nice guy (someone who asks how you are before your breasts) you’ll look back on those mistakes (or they will catch you suddenly off guard as you scroll through old photos and re-discover a hideous penis shot) and laugh at those funny (‘oh my god as if I turned up to his family home in a French maid outfit’) moments.


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