Last one in is a...

Rotten Egg

Being the last in line of the Horton clan had it's perks. I was spoiled as a child, receiving gifts upon gifts from close family and elders I barely knew. I had three extremely cool older brothers, who taught me tennis, skateboarding, how to dress. By the time I reached the 3rd grade, our family graduated from bologna to salami sandwiches, with additions of doritos, cheetos and (occasionally) dunkaroos in our lunch boxes.

Jackpot.

I was also a late bloomer intellectually. Only when I attended middle school did I realise, "Oh! Must I study... hard... for this test?" Before that, I gained recognition for my creativity and completion of work, but not for its accuracy. I was the girl who left her coat at school, who was sent home with extra multiplication practice, who received "S"s for every subject (the mark of satisfactory work, i.e. not outstanding).

My curiosity often went unanswered. Many topics were too inappropriate for the youngest of the fam, especially as a girl, and I often played dumb because I knew things that I thought I shouldn't. When wanting to discuss rape with my brothers (after glimpsing snippets of a very emotional Hallmark Movie), they told me I'll learn about it when I'm older. I was constantly accosted by the words, "you'll find out eventually", until I learned not to ask anymore. I developed a life of disillusionment, trying to play the role of that young, naive woman they addressed. When Phil told me babies come from pekpeks, I acted aghast, but I knew it was true. When he told me that Santa didn't exist, I dismissed his statements because I wanted to keep the Christmas magic, and my innocence, alive.

When it came to my growth as a woman, though, I was truly bewildered and very, very embarrassed. My brother was the first to point out my underarm hair, my cousin the first to tease me about needing a training bra. Unfortunately, my only clues about womanhood came from my subscription to Seventeen, where I learned how smooth a woman's skin should be and how embarrassing her period can be.

You see, I was also a late bloomer in this regard. I got my period just before my 14th birthday, far after the cool girls started wearing their tampon-filled purses into the bathrooms. Before my period, I was embarrassed that I couldn't chat about it; afterwards, I was embarrassed because I could. Rather than sporting a purse, I'd try to hide all evidence, tucking tampons into my socks, going to different floors to avoid my classmates, and generally just living in shame disguised as nonchalance.

Congratulations if you've gotten this far, especially if you're a man. I encourage you to keep going.

These are things that I went through, growing up in a Catholic household and an all-girls school. Once I got to University, I learned about myself around men, but could not figure them out. Years later, the pennies drop, clinking brightly and clearly through my mind.

Travis fake name 

I met Travis on the day I moved into Uni. Travis was the socially awkward, yet altogether cute younger brother of my new flatmate. I'd go out in the hopes I'd bump into him, pegging my flatmate with questions about his mannerisms and likes. I thought it was cute (albeit disgusting) that he liked eating tomatoes like apples, that he often walked around barefoot, and I was impressed with his ability to climb any structure with ease. One glorious day he joined us on a walk to Coogee, where we discovered an abandoned guitar and began playing on the beach. I told him about a job opening at work, and voila!, he soon joined the Unibar staff. I was looking forward to Octoberfest, our largest event of the year where we would spend all day serving hot dogs and all night at an epic staff party, replete with limitless booze. This was my chance to finally get to know him, and after a couple of drinks, he leads me out of the Unibar and onto Anzac Parade. 

I feel my heart flutter and my grin spread as I take in my surroundings, breathing in the air and enjoying this first glimpse of alone time. He leads me into a construction site, and my heart pounds harder and faster as he climbs the scaffolding and guides me up through the ceiling and onto planks. I then follow him up, up, up to the top of a crane, each rung on the ladder making me quiver with excitement and fear. We are suddenly gazing over all of Sydney (cue "A Whole New World") and he asks me to lean over and look down, promising to support me as he places his hands on my shoulders.

As I lean over to see below us, he slides his hands down to my chest, then boobs, and I'm taken aback. Surely it was just a slip as my centre of gravity shifted. I try to right myself with dignity. Not showing my shock, not willing to admit what had just happened. I'm still beaming, the view is still magical, but the happiness within me is curdling with doubt. 

Bart fake name 

FF to Orientation Week, 2012. My new flatmate Jane seems both gorgeous and sophisticated, self-confident in her MAC Retro lipstick, porcelain skin and golden waves. I'm busy helping out at the NUTS (theatre society) stall all week, and am looking forward to finally partying with her on Thursday. We end up at my favourite haunt, The Rege, and Jane begins chatting up my friend Jason, who conveniently moved into our apartment block that year. I'm happily talking to his friend Bart, and as we both sense how flirtatious Jane and Jason are getting, we make light of the situation and continue our conversation in their absence. Bart looks like a chubbier, younger Mark Ruffalo; his plainness gains my trust. We all head home, and as Jane invites Jason into her room, I continue to chat with Bart. He begins to call me beautiful. It feels nice. He begins to kiss me. It feels nice. He begins to explore other places and asks to go to my room. I say no. He asks again. and again. and again. and I tell him to leave. He plays the pity card, "I'm sleeping over at Jason's place, and I can't be bothering them now for the key... let's just hang out longer. Why don't you show me your room?"

Tough luck, Bart. I go into my room and am forever grateful for the lock on my door, the solace of my bed, and the sound of his footsteps dejectedly leaving our flat. Our newfound camaraderie felt nice. His compliments felt nice. But I never heard from him again, and after a week, I washed my hands of him until I saw him on Uni-walk at the year's end. I held my head high and walked past, trying to be proud, but again doubting. Why the hell didn't he just accept my decision? Am I not worthy of that respect?

Other

Throughout my University experience, I had multiple sexual encounters that made me physically uncomfortable, made me question myself, but mostly, made me consider, for the first time, how twisted men were. Growing up, my family tried to safeguard me from everything; they were my vigilant guardians. In contrast, the men in my dating life tried to exploit me and undermine my decisions. It was then, and still is, a shock that these men treated me as such. It is a relief that 50% of the men I've dated throughout life respected the boundaries I set, but I imagine that percentage is lower for many of my friends. Men, if you're still reading, please a) be that 50% or b) become it, and let's grow that percentage.

An extremely important factor:  I understand that I met these men in our romantically formative years, when we're uncertain about every move, and informed by poor sources (like my old Seventeen magazines). I understand that we are the consequence of a variety of upbringings, and that we all have received poor guidance from TV, social media, and questionable friends. I understand that in some cases, me not saying how I felt allowed a guy to think that behaviour was okay. We all can make changes through diligence and persistence.

I have no grudges, only hope.

Good Egg

I'm currently in a relationship with a man who, on our fourth date, asked if he could kiss me and received my consent before doing so. Truly, a man after my own heart.... 

Yet our relationship is tainted with my lack of trust. Me asking him why he compliments me, why he's nice to me, why he loves me. 

Love in life is a hard egg to crack.