with my on­line troll

Cosmopolitan (UK) - - Contents -

The in­ter­net can bring out the strange in peo­ple. I found this out last year when a troll tar­geted me af­ter Love Is­land fin­ished. I was an Am­ber and Kem fan. He wasn’t. This, it ap­peared, was enough for him to keep com­ment­ing on my In­sta­gram ac­count long af­ter the se­ries was over. At first it was ban­ter, things like “I can’t be­lieve you could show your face af­ter vot­ing for them” on self­ies, but ev­ery now and then it got vi­cious. He called me “chunky”, would com­ment that I needed to get my roots done, and once wrote “I find it hard to be­lieve you can read” af­ter I posted a pic­ture of the book I was en­joy­ing.

It got to the point where I dreaded get­ting no­ti­fi­ca­tions. My stom­ach would lurch if I saw one from him. My friends thought I was mad for not block­ing him, but I just de­cided to ig­nore his very ex­is­tence – un­til, af­ter I posted a pic­ture of some tick­ets for an in­ti­mate gig I’d got my hands on, he wrote some­thing fairly nor­mal. “Didn’t re­alise you were a fan,” he wrote, adding that he had a ticket for the same show. “Sur­pris­ing what you can learn about some­body when you get to know them,” I quipped back.

When he liked my com­ment, I de­cided to take a peek at his pro­file. My mouth dropped open in shock. With his per­ox­ide-blonde hair and pierc­ing blue eyes, he was gor­geous. I fol­lowed him back.

At the gig, my eyes scanned the venue for him. Dur­ing the in­ter­val, the crowd scat­tered and I clocked a flash of blonde at the bar so I tapped him on the shoul­der.

“You?!” he beamed, clap­ping a hand to his mouth in shock.

“The one and only,” I said sar­cas­ti­cally.

“You look amaz­ing,” he said, drink­ing in my curves and cleav­age.

“So you are ca­pa­ble of be­ing nice then,” I huffed.

He looked crest­fallen, and to say sorry for trolling me, he bought me a drink and we got chat­ting – in per­son his sar­casm was quite sexy. I be­gan to think that maybe he’d been flirt­ing with me the whole time, that per­haps I’d taken his com­ments way too se­ri­ously? For the next round, he bought us shots… and af­ter that I found my­self in a taxi on my way back to his.

The minute we stum­bled through his front door, he was greed­ily tug­ging at my top, ac­ci­den­tally tear­ing off a but­ton. I de­cided to seek my re­venge by lit­er­ally rip­ping the ex­pen­sivelook­ing shirt off his back.

“Oi!” he moaned. “That shirt prac­ti­cally cost me a month’s salary!” Then he pushed me onto his bed, pulled my thong to one side and went down on me. Just as I was about to or­gasm, he climbed on top. But, stub­bornly, I pushed him off and strad­dled him.

Un­able to agree on any­thing, he claimed back dom­i­nance by flip­ping me onto my belly and slid­ing in­side me from be­hind. Mo­ments later, we came at the same time. The morn­ing af­ter, I left him asleep as I scooped my clothes up off his bed­room floor and left with­out even find­ing out his real name.

But it didn’t mat­ter. I knew that I didn’t want any­thing more to do with him. And I guess my dis­ap­pear­ing act must have re­ally knocked his con­fi­dence be­cause he never com­mented on my pic­tures again.

“Maybe he’d been flirt­ing with me the whole time”

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