Emotionally Void Jonny Bravo

Let me take you back. Picture it: a sweaty sports hall, high-octane energy, and me—middle of my midlife renaissance, having recently decided to play sport competitively again. You know, to chase glory, feel alive, and maybe tighten the glutes.

Enter: him.

Out of nowhere, this golden-haired, shirtless wonder glides into training one day like some sort of Scandi sun god. I kid you not—an actual eight-pack (which, apparently, is a thing), cheekbones you could hang your coat on, and hair like he’s just wandered off the set of a teen Netflix drama. Oh, and did I mention? Disgustingly good at sport. The kind of good that makes you question whether he’s human or just a walking protein shake with emotions.

Anyway, he’s from the same country as me, which felt like a serendipitous sprinkle of fate. When one of our teammates dropped out of an upcoming tournament, I took the noble, selfless, not-at-all-thirsty decision to invite him onto our squad. Strictly tactical, of course. Nothing to do with the fact he looked like a Calvin Klein model on a beach holiday.

Fast forward to the morning of the tournament. I’m on the train, sipping my coffee, minding my own business, when who should swing onto the carriage like he owns it? Him. Cool as ever, sans shirt (or so my memory chooses to recall), rucksack slung casually, like he was born to be both early and late at once. We chatted. We walked to the venue together. We vibed.

Then the games began—and we were electric. He played like a Greek god. I played like a woman possessed by... hormones and a vague sense of competitiveness. After the matches, the after party hit full throttle. Booze, dancing, bad decisions bubbling under the surface. And somehow—don’t ask me how—we ended up alone together in the car park, saying goodbye to the rest of the team.

And then we kissed.

Me. And him. The Adonis. Lips. Touching. Madness.

Reader, I ignored the warning sign that came next: he wandered off and inhaled a late-night kebab like a raccoon that had just broken into a bin. I mean, honestly. Garlic sauce dripping down that angelic chin. But I powered through—blinded by tequila and the sheer novelty of it all. We stumbled back to his Clapham flat (shared with four other lads—yes, four—Clapham, naturally), where we had what I can only describe as a drunken fumble. Emphasis on the fumble.

It was all a bit... meh. Like ordering a luxury chocolate cake and discovering it’s just a stale muffin in fancy packaging. After, he called me an Uber and off I went, disoriented, questioning everything, but mostly just craving hash browns and my own duvet.

Now, most Gen Zs would ghost you with a passive-aggressive emoji or a vague Instagram post, but not this one. Oh no. A few days later, my phone rings. Rings. As in, actual voice call.

I pick up, fully expecting a sexy round two invite or maybe that he’s accidentally butt-dialled me while doing push-ups. But no.

He says, “Please don’t tell anyone what happened.”

I froze.

WHAT. A. LINE.

I mean, is there a script somewhere? Who says that? Who phones to say that?

The ick hit me like a freight train. It was instant. It was absolute. It was irreversible.

Suddenly, all I could see was a human Jonny Bravo—cartoonish, cocky, emotionally void. A big-haired, protein-powered mirage of manhood. And I’d kissed it. Gross.

Moral of the story? Sometimes, the idea of someone is far more thrilling than the actual human. Also, if he shares a flat with more than three people and uses your face as a napkin post-kebab, maybe... just maybe... it’s not true love.

Still, what a tale, eh?

Till the next cringe-filled confession. Stay hydrated and avoid Clapham.

Your emotionally wiser, slightly more cynical, kebab-scented heroine.