The sex was incredible, but his insecurity over being five inches shorter than me held him back. Sydney Summers recounts a relationship that started promisingly but was ultimately doomed by her partner's inability to accept his height.
One day at the supermarket, my date Rob angrily hissed, 'Don't ever do that again,' before storming away. Shocked, I stood frozen, clutching a bottle of wine. I had never been spoken to like that, especially after doing something I considered normal—reaching the top shelf for the wine I wanted. The only difference was that seconds before, Rob tried to get it but couldn't reach it. So I told him I would get it myself, which I did. This apparently was the worst thing I could have done. At five feet tall, he was five inches shorter than me, and even though I didn't mind, he obviously did. I watched him huff out of the store and sighed dejectedly.
I met Rob on Tinder just days after my 23rd birthday. His profile was what I'd describe as 'fine'—nothing about him or his photos drew my eye. He was just an average, nice-looking guy, so I swiped and we started chatting. As I got to know him, I realized how much we had in common. He liked the same bands and TV shows—it was 2009, so we talked endlessly about Lost. Thanks to some respectful and consensual dick pics, I also learned he was incredibly horny and well-endowed.
After chatting for a few days, we decided to meet up. He lived in Oxford, and I in London, and he offered to make the trip down to see me. Waiting on the patio of a bar in King's Cross, I nervously waited for him to appear. After ten minutes, with the sun in my eyes, I saw the silhouette of someone approaching but assumed it was just a teenager based on his size, so I returned to my fruity cider. 'Sydney, hi.' Rob stood over me, his head blocking the sun. Behind him, the rays formed a halo-like crown. I still couldn't really see him. 'Hi Rob! So nice to finally meet you,' I stood up to hug him, and that's when I realized he was far shorter than me. He let out a nervous chuckle, and I joined him. 'Yeah, I'm shorter than you thought, aren't I?' He sat down and laughed. Looking back, it felt like a 'gotcha' moment, but I'm not sure why. 'I don't care,' I shrugged and sat next to him, taking a swig of my cider and smiling.
Because I really didn't care. His height had no effect on me, and I wasn't going to let something like that stop us from getting together. That night we got drunk, roaming the streets of London, trying to find more bars to go into, and even asking hotels if they would let us stay for free. I had moved back in with my parents at that point, so I couldn't take him back to mine. We ended up bar-hopping all night, giggling our way to the morning, when he had to catch his train back, and I sheepishly went home. It was a great night, and it would be one of many. We didn't technically start dating, but we met up for regular hookups over the next six months or so. I would drive to Oxford to see him, and he would take the train down to London.
During this time, we had great sex—but every now and then, his height would get in the way of our relationship. Two months into meeting up, I visited Oxford and noticed he looked about an inch taller. My eyes moved down his body to find the culprit: his new chunky trainers. I didn't say anything, but he noticed me peek at his new Nikes and snapped. 'So what if I wear these?' he screamed. I was taken aback but smiled and told him I didn't care.
A few weeks later, back in Oxford, he saw me looking at another man while sitting in a restaurant with him and yelled at me for 'wanting to be with taller men.' I comforted him again with a reassuring smile. Each time it happened, I let it pass. I thought he would eventually understand that I really didn't care, and we could move past it, but he never got over it. One time when we were spooning in bed, I asked if he could have sex with me from behind, and he got up and walked out. At the moment I was confused, but I later realized it was because his face would have been up against my back instead of my neck and head, and he would have found it humiliating.
Our relationship started to deteriorate. I wished he would talk to me about it, but he'd always fight instead. Every time I brought it up, he would lash out. I felt for him and understood to a degree: I'm sure his entire life has been full of people mocking or using him, and he found it hard to trust someone. But that wasn't me, and the fact that he couldn't accept that meant that eventually enough was enough, and I ended things. When I told him it wasn't working and that I thought we should call it, he said, 'You're dumping me just because I'm short. You bitch.' I laughed and walked away, knowing I did nothing wrong.
I made the right decision, and I've never looked back.
