An Intro.

Let me make this clear. Fanny Flaps is not the name of this site for obvious reasons, so don’t expect to see any. Unless I get particularly bitter about something and then, even so, probably not. Famous last words. Fannyflaps.co.uk was available as a domain which I thought was a fucking travesty, and it also happened to be one of the statements I had on my dating profile for a length of time which proved to be surprisingly popular. Hence, this blog was born. At the time of writing, 15 dates, (now 26 – ed) and numerous conversations, make up my online dating history. This site is an attempt to document the experience, for better or worse, without sounding like a total prick. Wish me luck.

PS. I have absolutely no permission to use any of the pictures I have already used.

Pre-amble

I met Date#1 for a number of reasons. Firstly, I was madly in love with someone else.

I cant really speak for other online daters male or female, but it makes sense. I wasn’t lonely, or not able to meet anyone – I met plenty of people at work, through friends or just out of the blue on a night out. I was working at a large company in a medium city centre and….getting rejected, despite getting so far, felt mighty painful. She was beautiful and funny and smart and all the rest of the things you’re supposed to like about someone. And somehow, I got myself involved. We had sex a couple of times, drunken after a night out. We even had sex in a pub toilet which I almost exclusively refuse to do. But I tried, and I wanted to, because I liked her. Social cirCumstances and various other things meant it couldn’t happen. Coupled with the fact she was happy to get off with other people in front of me despite knowing how I felt about her. So a female friend, who I had actually had non internet dates with previously led me to Plenty of Fish. I literally signed up my profile, there and then, and took my profile picture in the toilet of said pub. It may already seem like the most important things happen in my life in pub toilets. Don’t be fooled, it’s a total coincidence.

toilet

Pictured: Where the magic happens.

Date#1 – The Shy Girl – May 2012

Confidence is king.

My first ever online date had me meeting someone from a different city entirely, albeit one not very far away. I’d probably sent a gazillion messages to a gazillion girls and started to feel like this whole online dating thing was a massive con. Limited replies, limited interest. Was it my pictures? My profile? My messages? God knows how I sent first messages in those days and even now there seems no rhyme or reason as to what guarantees a response, other than saying something offensive. Which I occasionally like to do.

The format for the opening exchanges would go on to be the formula for virtually every online date I had thereafter – messages online, eventually text messages, definitely no phone calls and meet. I’ve never been one for phone calls, particularly. I find them tiresome and awkward, and I’m not a 14 year old girl. Like, virtually ever.

manonphone

“I CAN’T WAIT TO MEET YOU!”

She came to me and I was 30 minutes late. And about three pints down. It was the middle of the day and my housemates birthday, so I stuck around for a bit and got sidetracked. As it was my first ever online date, I told all my friends where I was going and who I was meeting, just in case bits of me were to be found scattered around the city over the coming weeks, and I wasn’t responding to texts. Because I bloody love my texts.

I’m a hopeless romantic so we met at a Wetherpoons next to a train station.

First impressions were great. She was as cute as her profile pictures and subsequent picture messages had led me to believe. She was softly spoken and shy, which is something I would take initially as first date nerves but found out as we continued to see eachother went a lot deeper. We toured a number of pubs around the city, all of which I had experience with, and overall we had a lovely time. We returned back to my house late, and I think we always felt it was going to happen. Our text messages prior to meeting had got progressively sexual in nature and images were shared between us, so provided she didn’t turn out to be a 40 year old man from Grimsby there was always a possibility.

"I think we have a genuine connection."

“I think we have a genuine connection.”

As an introduction to online dating it couldn’t have gone better. We continued to see eachother fairly regularly for a long while. In fact, we’re still in touch. I suppose primary reason we never entered into anything full fledged is because of the distance between us, which wasn’t especially drastic, but enough to stop that from happening. The secondary reason is confidence.

For someone so smart, beautiful and funny, with excellent taste in pop culture, The Shy Girl lacked a self esteem normally associated with people with those traits. She could be swallowed up in a group, disappear in a crowd and that’s sad. And overall, if I’m being honest, that’s not me. It gave me a desire to act as more of an older brother than a lover I suppose. It was a difficult set of circumstances, really, and I still miss her.

Date#2 – Talkative Vader – July 2012

Be careful what you fish for.

Following on from the seriousness of my first ever online date, Date#2 took a slightly more comedic turn. I also think, to this day, it’s the quickest turn around from first message to an actual first meet. It was a Friday morning and I was in work, taking my usual time in the toilet. And when I say in, I mean on. And had been for a good few minutes. Now if you’re a girl and reading this, take heed. There’s every chance the person messaging you could be in the middle of what can only be described as a ‘giant’ poo. It was Friday after all. It’s not just poos either. I’ve used the online dating app in nearly every conceivable scenario.

"LOL"

“LOL”

A few messages back and forth resulted in an exchange of numbers, and then the question of whether I was free later that evening. Would you believe it, I was. Sort of. We’d made plans to meet in a bar at 7, which gave me 2 hours to go to the pub with work colleagues, have a few pints, and walk into my second date armed with a little more charm than the two hours previous. This is another thing – I have never been into a first date dry. Maybe one. But generally, I’ve had two or three drinks to calm the nerves a little. In one first date I went in absolutely wrecked. As in, at the time, I genuinely thought to myself “My God, I’m completely fucked.” But more on that later.

First impression? THE INTERNET LIES. She was genuinely pretty with a lovely smile but my God she was so fucking annoying. I won’t name the accent of the city she was originally from but lets just say it’s known for being irritating and making you sound stupid. Which is desperately unfair on her as she wasn’t. She had the personality of one of those cliche characters you see in American teen movies where they rattle off a million words every second and every single sentence ends up sounding like a question even though they’re not questions despite some actual questions being hidden in there somewhere but you have no real time to answer those questions because of how bloody quick they’re talking and how quickly those questions are being asked?

Fucking hell.

Oh, and she breathed like Darth Vader.

"I enjoy a good book on the sofa, but when I'm out I am OUT."

“I enjoy a good book on the sofa, but when I’m out I am OUT.”

 

She wasn’t, and isn’t stupid though. When we left the pub and I walked her to the bus stop, it became clear that she had breathing issues. Nothing life threatening (please don’t think I’m being callous) but definite breathing issues. It didn’t fucking shut her up though. I’m not a particularly religious man but I can’t help think it was a hindrance delivered direct from the Gods in an effort to get her to slow the fuck down and not talk for a minute. But bless her, she fought her way past her disability and carried right on. Annoying me.

It got better.

No, I lie, it didn’t. But we did actually meet again. A couple more times. The first time, we went out on a school night and she got massively drunk, hoping I would dance with her whilst in a semi empty club – dancing to music I did not enjoy. Which is, and was, invariably a no. I must confess though (and I will confess details about myself throughout this blog quite readily) that her assumptions about my dancing were partially my fault. I may have, in some of our conversations, professed to be an exquisite dancer which is not a complete lie, however my dancing does require the perfect balance of alcohol, music and lighting. Like, a perfect balance.

It’s worth noting also, before my judgment sounds purely breathing related, that Talkative Vader was a relentless texter. I sent one text, I got 7 back immediately. Then a few the next day. And the next day. Now, I have a strong opinion about this – if your text conversations on your phone show a whole page of just you talking, then stop fucking texting.

"So then I was like OMG, WTF right? So anyway, yes, I'd like to claim my PPI refund, please."

“So then I was like OMG, WTF right? So anyway, yes, I’d like to claim my PPI refund, please.”

 

The second time after the first, I met her at her house as I figured it may of been a case of poor meeting environment that had led to a categorical romance failure. We had oven pizza and put on a film. I can’t even remember what film it was, but I’m sure we changed it half way through. I want to say Scrooged…but I’m sure it wasn’t that. I don’t know. It might have had Colin Farrell in it. Alexander? Oh god, I just have no idea. It doesn’t matter.

We went upstairs, did…things, but we weren’t…you know…fully fledged intimate. And we never were. It just didn’t feel right. If it were to happen, it would have been purely for the sake of it. And I realised that I didn’t want to do anything purely for the sake of it. I also realised at that point, gentle reader, I had become a man.

Until like, way later, when it happened. But more on that in a bit.

Date#3 – The Clean Soul – August 2012

You can fly, you can fly!

I won’t lie, I entered date three like I’d been doing it for years. If I’m to look back at it now, I would swear I walked into the date in slow motion, one eyebrow permanently risen, beard cut to perfection, smelling like the sweat from a mermaids belly button and moving like a unicorn greased with the tears of several hundred kittens.

"Hi there. Pleasure to meet you. Mine's a Strongbow. Thanks."

“Hi there. Pleasure to meet you. Mine’s a Strongbow. Thanks.”

Of course, that probably wasn’t the case. Probably. We’d been messaging for a week or so prior to meeting. Clean Soul actually sent me the first message on Plenty of Fish, funnily enough, referencing the fanny flaps comment on my profile. “You had me at fanny flaps”, I believe, was her opening gambit. Turns out we actually had a mutual friend too who was a work colleague of mine, so it was a fairly smooth introductory process. Until we met there’s little else to report. And when we met, I used all my imagination and creativity to choose an amazing first location for potential love. The same place as Date 2.

First impression – she was bloody tiny. Like, put in your pocket tiny. I happened to be lurking round the corner smoking, looking cool, when she arrived and at first I thought I’d inadvertedly made a date with a micro-person. Or that the lamp post she was standing next to was outrageously fucking huge. But no, she was itty bitty, and that’s not a bad thing whatsoever. Just noteworthy.

Clean Soul was, and to this date, still is, the oldest person I’ve been on a date with at the age of 34. Which isn’t that old really is it? But I think it’s a big part of why things didn’t necessarily pan out in the way she wanted. We had a lovely evening, perhaps a little drunken, and I somehow ended up back at her house which I don’t think was in her original agenda. We had sex. In the evening. And twice again in the morning, but we had to do it on the floor because her housemate was back home and apparently fucking on the floor doesnt make as much noise. I have yet to fully realise this notion as it’s not been tested. Maybe it’s true across all houses, maybe it was just this one – don’t know.

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow."

“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.”

 

We showered together that morning and I’m quite self conscious when it comes to shit like that. But it was quite nice, and unexpected given such limited time knowing one another. Then, beyond putting a dent in the floor we then went for a fried breakfast down the road which is very difficult thing to not be great. But I suppose because it was a Saturday, and I did not have my own transport, I was actually quite keen to either a) a drink or b) drink or c) lay down for a long time and subsequently leave. As a result, I felt an itching need to move that was more than likely evident all over my face. She eventually dropped me home, and I was eternally grateful.

See, the key thing about Clean Soul, is something that’s quite personal. I have and forever will be into quotes, especially when they’re quotes about me, and she was capable of things like that. We continued dating for a little while, and it was nice. One evening she came over to my house where we had drinks and some leftover drugs I had from some other shit, and it was real nice. The key component of this, however, is when we were outside smoking. In fact, we weren’t even properly outside, it was more just ‘in a doorway’ and we were close up. She made an observation about me. She said I had a ‘Filthy Soul’.

I still think about that now.

We went back inside after this comment, after she had requested I do something not many sexual partners of mine have actually requested (things with her bottom). The rest of the evening went smoothly, (she insisted) aside from one minor incident which I can still see in my mind. Given that she was so little, and I’m fairly large, and my bed at the time was quite high off the ground when she accidentally fell off of me, she REALLY fell off me.

Almost exactly how it looked AND happened.

Almost exactly how it looked AND happened.

 

That was the second to last time we met, oddly. From then it sort of went a bit weird and serious and odd and strange and again, weird. I had to cancel one meeting that I couldn’t achieve, more than likely because I just fancied a night at home on my own, and she got a bit distant. I could sense a tone that was borderline furious which, never makes me feel comfortable, and the next time we met was soaked with an atmosphere of distain and disappointment and confusion which I think I struggled to accept. It just felt all sorts of wrong, for the littlest of reasons. So, like more than a few of these dates, it ended up fading out of stubborness and apathy. I cant pretend to deny that my overall attitude stank, on more than one occassion.

It wasn’t the right time for either of us. By the time I’d wised up, it was too late to try again.

Date#4 – Kate Winslet – October 2012

Up until now, my dates had been fairly normal. The people had been very different but quite normal people. Which is good. And not what I’d expected from online dating at all. And when I say normal, it’s meant in no term of disrespect. The spectrum of ‘normal’ people is totally vast and it includes me and probably you too. You’ll quite often hear ‘nobody likes normal’ or ‘nobody wants to be normal’ thrown about like confetti But, when was the last time you met someone who was genuinely not right in the bonce and who wasn’t a total stranger. People have their quirks, fine. I’m talking beyond that. I’m talking about that….uneasy feeling.

lovelykate

I am Parsnip Eggy Spuds and I eat sand.

 

I can’t actually recall the initial messages and subsequent text conversations that lead to this date, which leads me to believe that given it was date 4, I went in willy nilly thinking that I was totally infallable and immune to bad exoeriences. That would soon change, gentle reader. I was about to be exposed to the peculiar side of the interwebs.

The one thing – more than anything – that continues to haunt me about ‘Kate’ is her eyes. They were a combination of intense and dead, like a person who was tasered in the middle of a really nice roast dinner. They were whole, almost one giant colour. They were a deep, dark forest you had no intention of going into. The local kids would talk about it, telling stories of trolls and ghouls who resided inside so they’d avoid it at all costs yet as an adult you’d happily walk past, but a glance at the shadowed entrance made you walk a step or two away from the somewhat inviting path.

I walk that path daily. DAILY.

"Looks fine."

“Looks fine.”

 

It actually started boring enough. We met. At a pub. I’d been there before. Never really liked it. We had drinks. Standard shit. And, although I’d noticed an element of weird-eye about her, it hadnt really clicked. The conversation up to that point had actually been quite dull. And then it came.

Kate: “A lot of people say I look identicical to Kate Winslet. Don’t you think I look like Kate Winslet? Seriously, look at me. Don’t you think I do?”

Me: “Errr….Yeah, I guess, a little bit?

Kate: “Haha, you’re just bering polite. I really do look like her. And, see, the thing is that you look quite a lot like Leo. You know, Leonardo Dicaprio.

Me: ……..

If you’re wondering, I don’t. So put it away

Despite having eyes that were alarming, and the conversational nuance of someone a few nuggets short of a happy meal, we went back to hers. In fact, I must have had a death wish as I’m fairly certain I insisted we did. We got back, had some wine, and watched Little Miss Sunshine because it’s absolutely marvellous.

There was a moment. We were laying on her bed. A glass of wine each. Dim lighting. Chatting. She said something, or I said something, which I felt warranted a little pat on the bottom. But it wasn’t a spank. I can’t even explain the type of pat I’m talking about…it was the sort of pat you’d give to a fellow footballer to send him on his way or wish him luck. Minor. Friendly. A pat of camaraderie.

I spent far too long looking for this image.

I spent far too long looking for this image.

 

Now, I’m not going to say I know what you’re thinking, but I know what you’re thinking. And no, I’m not that guy. You need spend no more than 10 minutes with a sober me to realise that. I didn’t pat her bottom then immediately ask her to make me double egg and chips. Or put the kettle on. It was not a sexy pat either, so I didn’t ask her to drop her kecks or to ‘clean my pipes’. I can’t really explain the motive behind the pat, or the sentiment of it, but it was in no way meant to belittle anybody, claim superiority over anybody or otherwise distress anybody in any way.

But fuck me, distress her it did.

We weren’t standing at the time, we were laying, half clasped with one another. The atmosphere immediately went to tense and I was very much on the defensive, and rightly so. If I’d made her uncomfortable, certainly in a way that could have been interpreted as assault, then a thousand apologies wouldn’t have been sufficient. But as it turns out, three or four were enough, and after the film we went to sleep.

The next day, I was semi-raped in the morning, then I went to work. Then I went over that evening and it had all become quite clear that she was absolutely mental and all of her housemates avoided her like the plague for reasons of mentalness. It wasn’t the bum slap – I probably deserved it despite it having all the sexiness and menance of a bum slap from my mother. It wasn’t even the Kate Winslet debacle. It was just the whole aura about her. The intensity. The use of words. The peculiar, uneasy, dream-like presence you get in a movie that’s about to make you jump.

We didn’t see eachother again.

She didn’t mind.

Date#5 – Chicken Fingers – November 2012

Chicken Fingers is not a big entry, I’ll tell you that now. It wasn’t a big build up, and we only ever met once. Infact, I couldn’t really describe much about her personality, or her face, or anything else given that the 13 hours we spent with one another was divided between 15% sober, 55% drunk and 30% asleep. Which, frighteningly, seems to echo a fair few of my relationships.

CF was young. Younger than virtually all of my previous dates at the age of 22. Or 23. Don’t know. Prior to meeting we’d text back and forth a good few times, and it followed the same path, however on one Friday evening whilst out I had a selection of texts from her that puzzled me. Effectively, they were utter filth.

Without going too far into detail, they said things such as ‘squirt ur load into my tght bum crck’ and ‘can’t wait 2 C ur massive ramROD’. I was a little taken aback. I showed them to one of my friends. She said they were odd. I thought they were odd. They were odd.

Turns out her phone was stolen by one of her male mates who obviously thought that shit like that would arouse me.

"Grandad, look after my phone a minute."

“Grandad, look after my phone a minute.”

 

It sort of did.

Once her grandad had stopped getting me off we did actually meet physically a few days later. Chicken Fingers, not her granpappy. And given what had occured already I wasn’t sure what to expect. And, if memory serves correct, I wasn’t sure to expect right up until the point she left my company.

It was all a little peculiar. We met, and it was going okay, yet an hour into the date she spoke to her friend on the phone in front me of me saying something to the effect of “Yeah mate, where are you? Where you gonna be later? Yeah I’m out. Come here! I’m getting trashed! Yeah, it’ll be a laugh!”

At no point did I intrude and say ‘Excuse me, we’re on a date, if you’re bored you’ll be bored until you leave my company, thank you. I’m not having your chav mates turn up and ask me to buy them drinks and crisps and de-clamp their fucking cars.’ Alas, it didn’t come to that. I don’t really know why; perhaps it was the clear disgust I had on my face or perhaps it was that her friends didn’t really like her. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d decided she’d prefer my company solo.

You know, like a date.

If I was to recall the evening in detail, I’d be lying. All I remember is us being back at my house, and having to use the sofa bed in the lounge for us to sleep on. There were constant questions as to why we couldn’t sleep in my bedroom. Again, I don’t recall the excuse I gave but I know that the reason was because my bed had been demolished over the weekend by an encounter with a girl who matched me somewhat in both height and weight, meaning IKEA had no fucking chance. The slats hadn’t just slipped, they’d sheared. The bed had been killed. Finished. Decapitated. And it was too much to bring a new person into, especially when I hadn’t anticipated an explanation would be needed. You can’t assume these things.

"Just so you know, my house is a bit of a mess. Why? Well, there are some clothes on the floor, the dishes aren't washed and my bed is shattered from an aggressvely sexual encounter last night. Oh, and if you need a shit you'll have to do it in the shower."

“Just so you know, my house is a bit of a mess. Why? Well, there are some clothes on the floor, the dishes aren’t washed and my bed is shattered from an aggressvely sexual encounter last night. Oh, and if you need a shit you’ll have to do it in the shower.”

 

Before we got back to my house we stopped to pick up takeaway. Now, I don’t massively enjoy eating in front of people, letalone junk food, letalone a girl and letalone on a first date. Chicken Fingers had absolutely no such problem.

She lay on the sofa with her head upwards on my lap, eating chicken wings with gay abandon. Once she’d finished them, and I’m unsure of the lead up to this, she began to suck my fingers quite ferociously. And this is before we’d even kissed. The period between this moment and falling asleep is completely barren of any realistic memory so I’ll skip it entirely. Just assume we were both absolutely trashed, however we didn’t have sex and we didn’t kiss. I was more than likely distracted and exhausted from assembling a shit sofa bed.

"Ready!"

“Ready!”

 

For my sins, and I won’t lie to you dearest, I totally tried it on in the morning. It didn’t happen. And to be fair I’d already ruined one bed that week – the sofa bed could have taken little more punishment than an adbrupt turn. I had to go to work, and time was getting on, so I had to shoo us both out. Prior to us leaving Chicken Fingers insisted I call in sick from work and we both go get cider and continue to get absolutely trashed. Sadly, I’d stopped doing that sort of thing months ago. If I could go back in time, I’d almost certainly take her up on the offer.

However, I never met her again. Done. There really isn’t much more to say than that, given the fact I’ve already gone on for ages about an encounter lasting less than a day. I did see her Grandad for a short while though. But the less said about that the better.

Date#6 – The Blockbuster – February 2013

Wow, date number 6. How on earth did we get here? I’m supposed to have met my true love by now, right? I mean, EVERYONE is on the internet. Surely I must of met her by now.

NO.

And it didn’t happen with date 6 either. Although Blockbuster is the first on this list to hold…something over me. Perhaps we’ll be able to discern this together.

The introductory process – all very dull. As usual. It’s very rarely interesting until the meeting happens, except in certain circumstances, and Blockbuster was no different. We actually became friends on a well known social networking website before meeting, which shocks me now because I outright refuse to do that before meeting someone and sometimes even way after that. Just in case, you know, it gets weird PUBLICALLY. I don’t like public weirding.

We’d talked enough pre-date to ensure that we were going to get along, so the first date was actually kind of marvellous. We met at what was arguably my favourite pub, and we drank, and smoked and drank and smoked and generally had a lovely time. Blockbuster was an artist, and acted and drank and smoked and spoke as such. There is no stereotype for such things (there totally is), but you can imagine where I’m going. Long dark hair, almost in dredds but not quite, a droopy bag made from very light cotton, piercings, extremely well spoken, a suspicion of poor personal hygiene – the lot. But she was cool. It was a Saturday night – we got battered. Clearly. You know me sufficiently by now.

There are two key things I recall from our first date:

1: Whilst in the pub, Blockbuster went to the toilet and left me sat at the table on my own. I noticed two girls sat on the table next to us. I still couldnt tell you why but I turned to those girls and told them that me and Blockbuster were on our first date and that I really liked her. As I sort of expected, because they looked like good people, they were absolutely thrilled. I just wanted the attention.

2: Fucking hell, we had a good go at the drink. We left the pub and headed back to mine, not before going to an off license to attain more booze. She already had some on her – Buckfast. The drink that’s responsible for killing more people in Glasgow than Heroin and deep fried Mars Bars put together*.

* Totally made that up. I think. I’ll Google it.

Other than snogging on a busy street like a couple of tramps I could’nt tell you too much about the rest of the night.

"So, er...this has been...fun."

“So, er…this has been…fun.”

 

It’s a general pattern that would continue with Blockbuster. Drink to excess, sex, get awkward, repeat. I can’t actually recall anything we did with one another that wasn’t drink or sex related. So given that’s the case…this may get a little graphic.

Essentially, Blockbuster has this nickname because of a game we would play, created by her, called Blockbuster Blowjobs. She would get on her knees, remove me from my boxers and begin. “Okay….name a country beginning with A…”, then once the question was finished, she would commence using her mouth on me, await my answer, then continue with different questions alphabetically, all the way up to Z. Some of them, given the circumstances, were quite difficult. Most of the time we’d get through the alphabet twice, with different questions each time, yet…and I’m not completely sure how she did this…I would always finish on Z. Always. I have no experience in sucking penises, so perhaps it’s easier than I think. I just don’t know.

"I'll have a D please, Bob." "Damn right you will."

“I’ll have a D please, Bob.”
“Damn right you will.”

 

Before this deteriorates into the musings of some stereotypical male pig, I really liked BB. And she liked me. Which is why we shared these experiences. She was confident and free and smart and funny. We were capable of having a lot of fun with one another both sexually and otherwise. It saddens me to think that this period of our dealings with one another leaves me remembering almost exclusively blowjobs and the negativty that would arise at the end. There was another occassion, on a Sunday evening after a weekend of drinking. I’d pretty much spent all of my money and we decided to get a pizza delivered. Whilst I sat at my computer, looking at the menu, BB came over and got on her knees and began to suck me. No request. During this, I was asking her what pizza she wanted….what base…what crust….any sides? I came to the realisation at one stage that I was getting a blowjob from a girl whilst using HER card to order a pizza for us.

 

"......."

“…….”

 

As things progressed, and we progressed, something changed. I’m not sure what. We had a few arguments which really didn’t pan out well, and she was also going to move to London which made things feel slightly redundant. She eventually left, and I left too, so that was that.

Until like, 8 months later or so….more on that shortly. But first…

Date#7 – The Full Monty – April 2013

Hot Stuff.

Before I even write this, I’m angry. The Full Monty was the shittest online dating experience I’ve ever had. Maybe I’m bitter that she clearly didn’t like me. But it’s not that. It’s something else. Judge for yourself, this is an untarnished honest account.

We’d begun messaging, then texting, it was going well. As well as could be expected. One evening, I don’t recall why, I drunk called her. She didn’t answer but it was quite, quite late. The next day I sent her a text saying something along the lines of “I’m really sorry for calling, dearest. I’d been celebrating and I wasn’t thinking straight.” Her response was “Dearest? What the fuck are you calling me dearest for? Bit early isn’t it?”. I guess she was right, but I then had to articulate that dearest wasn’t meant literally and I wasn’t trying to tell her she was the most important person in my life. Chill out, I was just trying to be friendly. It wasn’t like I’d called her ‘love’ or ‘baby’ or ‘sugartits’.

My idol. Obviously. He knows how to express his love.

My idol. Obviously. He knows how to express his love.

 

She might have had a point, you know. Anyway, this didn’t stop us meeting.

On the day we were due to meet, I was excited. Turns out she was an usher at a local theatre and asked me if I’d like to go as she had free tickets. For what? Well, The Full Monty stage play obviously. When she asked if I’d like to go, I actually used the word ‘honoured’. We continued texting, speaking about where we were going to meet, and I said if she didn’t recognise me, look for the guy in the suit. She didn’t like that. “What, like a suit and tie? Oh God. That’s already lost you points.” She wasn’t joking either. This was serious.

I should have seen this coming.

I got to the pub early. We only had 30 minutes before having to go to the theatre so I had a quick pint before she arrived. She’d already explained she’d been dashing around and was tired. It all went wrong immediately.

When she arrived, I was stood at the bar. It was virtually empty. As she walked in, I looked over to her, turned towards her, and raised my arm slightly to demonstrate it was me. She carried on walking. Nearly straight past me. When I stepped over to stop her and say “Hey”, this look washed over her face. A look of utter disappointment. A look of total apathy and exhaustion. A look of complete dejection. I asked her if she wanted a drink and she said “Urgh…..yes….okay. Coke please.” She turned to find a seat, and anyone looking at me at the time would have seen me mouth the words “Oh my fucking God” as I prepared for an awful experience. Once her coke had arrived, my legs moved heavily towards the table.

No joke, this was her face approximately ALL OF THE TIME.

No joke, this was her face approximately ALL OF THE TIME.

 

How would I describe the conversation? Like trying to run a marathon you don’t want to run while chain smoking cigars you don’t want to smoke. I almost immediately felt uneasy and that I did not want to be there, and I’m sure the feeling was mutual. After 25 minutes of awkward conversation, I couldn’t wait to see some cock, so we headed over to the theatre. What I wasn’t told, is that every single other one of her colleagues would be there too. Everyone who didn’t have a shift that night was sat with us, in the same row. Just thinking about it now makes me want to get up and go. I very nearly did, however I just went to smoke two cigarettes outside before the show started. When I returned, she deliberately talked really loudly to her colleague next to her, rubbing it in. “Oh my God, is someone smoking INSIDE the theatre? It seriously smells like an ashtray inside here. I’m surprised the fire alarms haven’t gone off. God it’s SO bad.”

My face.

My face.

 

The show went on, and during the interval we spoke breifly. I couldn’t really hear her that well as the theatre was full of rowdy middle aged women, but at one stage I thought I saw what was a glimpse of a flirtatious smile on her face. And it was nice. But it went as quickly as it came, and the rest of my evening was spent wondering whether or not we’d see actual penises on stage. We didn’t.

Shortly before leaving I thought we might be able to get a pint or two, post-show, to scrape some modicum of decency from our evening. We queued to get out as the place was packed, and as soon as we reached the exit she turned around and told me her Dad was driving to pick her up from that very spot. “Okay” I said, smiled, and walked away.

 

carcrash

But this is what I saw in my head.

We never met again. We never even text one another again. I’m fairly certain I deleted her number that very evening for fear of saying something I’d regret. I mean, okay, so maybe I wasn’t her type. Maybe I’d already pissed her off. Maybe the smoking thing was a real negative for her. But even before that, she was a total dick. Like, a total dick. The girl was a dick. I’m sorry. End of. Dick.

Date#8 – Jane Eyre – June 2013

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Brace yourself. I have a lot to say.

Since the atrocities of my previous date, a lot had changed in my life in the span of only a couple of months. As I alluded to in the previous entry, I moved away from the city I was living in, in which all of these previous dates had occurred. And the reason I’d moved wasn’t particularly pleasant, either – my father was especially ill. When I say different city, I actually mean a different city in an entirely different country. Yes, sweet reader, I moved to Wales.

 

...IN SEARCH OF THE CHARLOTTE.

…IN SEARCH OF THE CHARLOTTE.

 

The timing of the move and the move itself, and the circumstances by which it was required, were difficult environments to adjust to. I moved to a city where I knew no-one other than my immediate family, having come from a place I’d been happily settled in for 10 years. I’d left a great job, I’d left my own freedom, I’d left a set of fantastic people I loved and I’d also left all familiarity behind. Sure, friends could visit. I could visit. But it’s not exactly the same. It isn’t the same at all. Perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, but I’d say all in all, I was on edge emotionally and felt somewhat delicate in my surroundings. I felt vulnerable for the first time in a long time. I felt sad. And I felt scared. For both me and my Dad.

The first necessity once completing this move was to find a job. I didn’t have one to move into straight away so getting one quickly was a crucial thing to do as I’d already ditched my last. Fortunately I’d managed it. At an outbound call centre. Selling mis-sold mortgage claims. Making 350 calls a day. Whilst listening to dance music. Surrounded by 90 other fuckwits. With funny accents. Now, I haven’t tended to beat around the bush thus far and I won’t start now – it was fucking hell. I managed it for only three months before desperately finding something else. But my first day there was special.

 

"Hey! Made any sales today?" "Yeah, I totally just ripped off a pensioner!"

“Hey! Made any sales today?”
“Yeah, I totally just ripped off a pensioner!”

 

It was the day Jane graduated from university, the first day we’d really started texting, and it was a beautifully sunny day from start to finish. And I’d also realised I’d be working alongside Roxy (not her real name, as she now has moved on). Roxy, currently, is the only girl I’m prepared to bring into this ‘blog’ whom I didn’t actually meet on an online date. You’ll understand why.

See, when your office is a fucking dancefloor and the rate of attrition in the workplace is as high as a hippy on a Bank Holiday Monday, you interview people in blocks of TEN. As in, my interview for this job was done alongside and in the same room as 9 other people. At the same time. They were all very pleasant. Sort of. Some had experience doing this sort of thing. Some had absolutely none. Some were quite articulate and clear in their points, some were a fucking mess. Some were very young, some were very old. I like to think I stood out.

"My key strengths are chicken, drinking, smoking and interviews."

“My key strengths are chicken, drinking, smoking and interviews.”

 

Unlike the above picture, I was the only one wearing a suit, a little bit like date #7 I suppose, although this time it went down quite well. About 10 minutes into the group interview, one candidate wandered into the group late with very little regard as to being apologetic or any sort of of caring about it. I liked her immediately. Her attitude suited my thoughts about the whole process, although I could hide those thoughts whereas she had absolutely no chance or desire to do so. This was the day I met Roxy.

She got there just in time to hear me say my piece – I spoke about me, what I was good at, what experience I had, my ambitions. Lies, all of it. As we went round the table I listened to the utter toss all the other shits had to offer, and then we got to Roxy. I listened intensely. As I did, her words were almost a carbon copy of mine. Apart from the specifics in terms of where she’d come from and her direct experience, all of the words she used were the same as mine. All of the mannerisms. All of the buzzwords. All of the core competencies. As she sat there and spoke, I remember saying to myself in my head, “You’re copying the right person.”

Please don’t think I’m being conceited by saying this – the room was crammed with more glittered turds than a Disco tribute night staged in the toilets of the Dog’s Head. She was clearly smart. Quite intelligent. She just had no idea what was expected of her when it came to things like that, so she chose the one person she thought knew best. Let it be said – I interview like a fucking demon. Like a proper sneaky, charming, well-spoken bastard. Roxy was not wrong.

We all left that interview room at the same time, off to go back to either a) Our other jobs (Christ, God bless them if that was the case) or b) home or C) elsewhere. As it turns out we walked home the same way, not speaking, only I happened to be walking about 30 seconds behind her. And I enjoyed every single second. She had the bottom of an Ebony Goddess and a face the colour of Waitrose Seriously Creamy Vanilla ice cream scooped delicately and intricately from a tub that only angels dare to spoon.

Yes.

I fancied her a bit.

 

Not my interview face.

Not my interview face.

 

BUT. Bottom line, this post is about Jane Eyre. And mercy me, I was taken by Jane Eyre. Roxy is merely a distraction at this stage, please, let us focus on Jane.

We’d talked for some time. And, for the first time compared to my previous dates, the question was raised about why I had ended up where I was. I’d actually been kind of reluctant confess the real reason as it almost encouraged some sort of sympathy vote which I did NOT want. No need for that. No thanks. We ended up skirting the subject for as long as we could.

From what I’d seen on her profile, she seemed to be a WOW. No other way to describe her than a WOW. It took us a while to meet face to face as Jane was talking to both me and another dude. She had not yet been on an online date and intended to date only one lucky devil at a time. I didnt find this out until a short time later and it turns out that one date, that first date, that lucky devil was me. Apparently I was funnier than the other dude she was talking to. And to this day, two years later, I still thank that other dudes shit ability to be funny via text for Jane deciding to meet me first.

Go me and my texting.

She’d professed before hand that this online dating stuff had lead to a lot of innapropriate pictures being sent to her she felt uncomfortable with that sort of thing. Inappropriate in the sense that…you know…there were pictures of willys. So I felt the need to send her as many ‘close to innapropriate’ pitures as I could. Pictures such as:

 

This.

This.

And this.

And this.

And this.

And these.

And these.

 

All very classy, I know. By the way, all of the above pictures are original content so if you steal them, God help me, I will SUE YOU SO HARD. Copyright Fannyflaps.co.uk etc, etc.

I remember when we first met very well. We’d arranged our date to be on a Saturday night and it happened to be the day I had loads of family friends visiting. I’d gone out with the family friends and ended up drinking quite a large amount of cider prior to meeting Jane, to the point where I had to delay the date for half an hour. By the time I got there, I was approaching trashed. “She doesn’t know me, she won’t be able to tell” I told myself. I tell myself a lot of gash.

I’d arrived slightly earlier than Jane despite being half an hour late for our date. I got a pint and sat somewhere far away from the bar but with a clear view of both entrances and the entire bar area. I was pissed so I felt confident and well-dressed. I felt friendly and charming. Suave. And I felt nervous.

I saw her come into one of the entrances and walk to the bar. She glanced around a few times to see if she could spot me. She eventually saw me looking over and we both smiled, and I tell you right now, from 30 feet at least, she absolutely blew me away. I was done. I was there. I was absorbed. I was taken. That was the beginning of the end. It was the best smile I’d ever seen.

SEXY AS FUCK.

SEXY AS FUCK.

 

That picture above is a drawing I did of her after we’d been on a few dates. I was trying to explain to what I thought of her eyes and what they looked like. She didn’t appreciate it. You’re going to have to trust me, or at least trust my perception – when the girl smiled at me I dropped everything.

Not sure how I managed to pull it off, but I think it went well. We stayed in the place we met for no more than a couple of drinks, then moved on to another place which was rammed, so much so we STOOD OUTSIDE and danced, barely able to move. Conversation went well, as well as it could go given the loudness and brashness of a town centre on a Saturday night. We then went to a…working mans club? I think that’s how it’s defined. It was bright, and full of old drunks, and the decoration looked like it had been completed by Lawrence Llwelyn-Bowen using the produce of a scat party and several bottles of piss. I said that at the time. She laughed. She told me that she referred to me as ‘Funny Guy’ to her friends. I was chuffed, but not necessarily pleased with the respobsility it bore. So I had to be funny ALL the time? Even when sober? Fucking fuck.

 

If you understand this image in this context then I'm pleased for you.

If you understand this image in this context then I’m pleased for you.

 

Once we’d decided to leave the shit-house, we went to the top of the road and sat by the fountains on some steps for a while, just talking. We talked about music, and films, and aspirations, and our jobs, and the city we shared with one another. We were on the subject of music at one stage and I pulled out my phone to play something. “Oh God, you’re not going to play something on your phone like some bus-chav are you?”. I was. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

After an hour that felt like only 10 minutes, we moved from the steps and I walked with her to get a cab. Before she got in, she turned close to look me in the eye and smile.

I went in for a kiss. She pulled away.

She may have even said something to accompany the turn. Something like “No…” or “Not yet”….or “REALLY?” but I can’t remember. I think she just smiled and shook her head slightly, then turned to leave. Her cab driver probably got a pleasant trip, with a pretty, polite and sober girl quietly smiling in the back of his cab as he drove her home. My cab driver got a fucking nightmare. “WHY DID I TRY AND KISS HER!? WHY DID I DO THAT, DRIVE!? I KNEW SHE WOULDN’T! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME!?!?”

Pretty sure he remained silent the entire way home.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the lack of kiss, even the morning after. From then on we still text one another as often as we did before, and it was evident all over that a good time was had by both. So we met again. And again. And again. And again.

Roxy was asking who Jane was. I didn’t want to tell her she was an online date as I was somewhat embarassed about what she would think. See, at this point Roxy and I were not only spending the whole working day with one another but texting each other all evening as well. And I don’t mean a text here and there, it was pretty much constant. We were flirting, heavily. That flirting turned into outright sexting. And that sexting eventually turned into pictures of her, naked. Doing things, naked. And at this point we hadn’t even kissed or made attempts to do so.

Oh, and Roxy had a long term boyfriend. With whom she lived. And this is perhaps my first foray, within this blog, into admittance of being a bad person.

 

Sorry, Obama. :(

Sorry, Obama. 🙁

Date two with Jane was non-eventful, but very, very nice. I was sober for the entirety of the evening yet I remember more about the first. I can’t recall what we did – I think it was a quiet drink in town. She teased me about my state from the date previous and it was light hearted and friendly, not malicious at all. Just all especially lovely. The alcohol served no addition to how beautiful she was the first date – she was even better the second. And funny. And I adored her voice. And her aura of calm. And her confidence. I was a gentleman throughout, and almost certainly calmer our meeting before. When we left one another’s company it was with a warm embrace and a settled, happy feeling. When I was in the cab on the way home she text me.

“Didn’t fancy kissing me this time, then?”

If I remember correctly, I melted a little inside, grinned a huge grin…and told the cab driver I’d fallen for Welsh girl.

 

"Nice!"

“Nice!”

 

The third date with Jane had me going to her house for movie watching. It was actually her Dad’s house who was staying with his girlfriend that evening, so we had the house to ourselves. He had motorbikes inside the house halfway through being fixed and a massive DVD collection that I actually fully went through. I’d brought cider and wine and pizza, and we both went for it. I can’t remember what we watched but I do recall it taking fucking forever to set up. There was some sort of speaker connection issue that meant there was a lot of fiddling and fumbling and trying things in different holes.

 

"No mate...not like that. Seriously, pay attention."

“No mate…not like that. Seriously, pay attention.”

 

I do recall thinking at the time that she sat very close to me. She sat in an exact position on the sofa that meant I was sort of squeezed into one of the ends, close to her. I think this was in part down to my response to her message about not trying to kiss her. I must have made it clear that I would the next time we met. Between actually paying attention to the film, and before any sort of kissing happened, we discussed all manner of things. One thing stood out that seems more significant to me now than it did then. We started discussing religion for some reason and Jane had already told me she was a ‘Strong, independent Catholic girl’. I knew the first two were true, I had no idea about the third. We got into a mini argument about the subject of God. I put forward the opinion that anything could be a God if it has someone to worship it. I pointed to the tyre on her Dad’s bike – “That could be my God. If I was to worship it, pray to it, assign principles to it and practice those beliefs, why could it not be my God?”. My argument may have lacked any real credibility but she proffered nothing to really counter it. I don’t think she appreciated what she would consider a belitting of her religion.

We drank a little more, and moved even closer, and eventually we were kissing. It was an excellent moment. We kissed a lot that evening. By this time it was getting quite late, so we moved upstairs and lay on her (single) bed and watched “Step Up 2: The Streets”. What the living fuck we were doing with that on, I don’t know. We were both pretty drunk by this point, so kissing became touching, touching became removing clothes, removing clothes became me kissing her from her neck to her thighs, stopping more than a few times along the way. I adored every inch, and I told her so. At one stage she said “Oh, so you’re a talker?” and I didn’t really know how to react. I suppose I was.

For the record, still am.

I had to get a cab back home at about 6:30 in the morning whilst quite, quite drunk. I didn’t have enough money to get all the way home so stopped the cab driver almost two miles from my house and walked the rest of the way along the seafront, the early morning sunshine beaming on my very happy face. It was a good time. On my way back I picked a flower from the side of the promenade, held it up and took a picture of it on my phone then sent it to her, then threw it the fuck away. This may be your first insight into my moronic nature, dear reader. However, I’m sure you’ve already got me sussed. I can’t remember whether she even replied to that or not, but the gesture was there. You know, a romantic gesture.

 

Romance and drunk romance - very different things.

Romance and drunk romance – very different things.

 

From then on there was a lot of sweetness to me and Jane. Things appeared to be going well, where she would come to mine, I would go to hers, we’d watch movies and talk. God it was lovely. One time she came to mine and asked me to put on one of my favourite films, which happened to be Boogie Nights. If you’ve not seen it, it’s about 2 and a half hours of movie about the porn industry in America in the 1970’s. So, you know, it looks like I just want to be rude to her. Which I did. But it’s an amazing film at the same time so you know, license or whatever.

 

Standard everyday occurrence.

Standard everyday occurrence.

 

Whether it was that night or another I don’t recall, but we lay in bed with the lamp on looking at one another. Snuggled. We lay talking, with the duvet up to our noses. She said that she hadn’t experienced that ability to be that close that soon before. And again it made me melt. There were a couple of times where I would go into the city centre with her on mornings as she started an hour and a half before me. We would sit, on those same steps we sat on the first night we met, and wait for her to start work. I think about it now and it just seems beautiful with me and her sitting there together, resting her head on my shoulder. In actuality, at the time, all I could think about was what I was going to say to work when I called in sick and got the bus home to sleep. Perhaps I should have taken more stock.

From here on, I’m a little confused. Confused in part because I still don’t really know how things went the way they did and…well, no, I just don’t know. I was drunk. I let her down on a few ocassions whereby she asked me to attend certain events and I’d cancelled. But nothing severe. If I was to tell you, dear reader, that at this time of my life I was drinking really rather heavily, mostly alone, and armed with a phone, then I would be telling the truth. The things I’ve said, mostly by text, when drunk, have harmed my relationships with other people more than almost anything else. As a consequence of this, I may have once or twice, pushed her a little on her feelings. To the point of being unsexy. At one stage I went as far to say that I wasn’t completely sure about ‘us’ dating, and her response was, again, ‘Really?’. To this day, I’m unsure if that ‘Really?’ was one of ‘Oh no, is he really serious?’ or one of ‘Really? Don’t take the piss. I can see right through you.’ As time goes on, it’s looking more and more like the latter. And that’s…fine.

 

"No...seriously, it's fine. I've got a shitload to do anyway. Honestly."

“No…seriously, it’s fine. I’ve got a shitload to do anyway. Honestly.”

 

The next few dates? Fractured. Slightly tense. Awkward. And in hindsight it’s become clear that I was fighting a losing battle. And given my general shambolic approach to most things at that time, I strolled through it like a monkey with a cigarette and an erection. We’d gone to see ‘The Worlds End’ at the cinema but beforehand went and had Mexican food. This isn’t going where you think it’s going, I have a stomach like a rubbish skip. It was just…stand offish. Like, everything we said to one another was immediately met with a sneer and a violent sigh. Generally the kind of situation I want to get up and walk away from. Whilst we were at the restaurant, (I say restaurant, it was more of a well maintained shack) the waiter, who was a young, athletic, handsome sort of cunt, pretty much exclusively looked and spoke to her when taking orders and all the other gash waiters are supposed to do. And, although she didn’t necessarily encourage it outright, it fucked me off that she was so at ease with it. His gaze was pretty much met by hers, second for second. So my overall feeling of redundancy was further compounded.

 

"And a little later, I'll be using THIS on your girlfriend."

“And a little later, I’ll be putting THIS in your girlfriend.”

 

She did, however, despite wearing a pristine white shirt, not manage to get a single bit of food on her. I can’t recall, but I probably had the contents of a Mariachi band’s lunch down me. High fives to her.

Once the film had finished (I won’t comment on the film, I had a waiter on the brain), we began a slow walk through town. I’d assumed I’d be coming back to her house but the offer hadn’t actually been given. I asked her if it was okay if I did, and tellingly, it was along the lines of ‘You can if you want to, yes’.

Terrific.

Whilst back at her house, we had a beer or two and went to bed, and I remember the evening really well. It was hot, and I really struggled to sleep, perhaps because I quite wanted to have sex with her. We’d already had sex a number of times before, but despite all of my ‘moves’ this night, it wasn’t happening. I didn’t ask, because people don’t generally ‘ask’ do they. Do they? Do people actually say “Right, would you mind if I did sex to you?” No. Surely not. If they do, email me please. I’ve been doing it all wrong. But it wasn’t that she didn’t want to have sex. It’s that she didn’t say she didn’t. Which lead me to believe at the time there was a reason as to why she didn’t say it, and she wasn’t prepared to lie. Meaning it was something along the lines of not fancying me physically, emotionally or personality-ly. I lay there, looking at her back, stroking her side, thinking pretty much all of the things I just mentioned. And it stunk of the end.

The next morning, before she got in the shower, I held her in bed for a while, and I suppose my ‘moves’ went into overdrive. We had what I consider very uncomfortable, mechanic, chore-like sex, with all the passion and enthusiasm of a mother who has given in to her child’s demands for a toy. I can’t truly say it was ever pulsing with passion, even at the height of our romance, but even during this I felt like it was something for her to ‘get out of the way’. And it didn’t happen because I desperately wanted sex. Frankly, I wank like a champion. I was mostly attempting to use it as a tool for her to like me. To ignite something. To try and gain some ground. To bring back some modicum of closeness. And of course, it didn’t happen. Once I’d come, I clambered back up the bed and she went to have a shower, with not a word said between us. It was the last time we had sex.

When she came out of the shower, she began her morning routine in front of me and it was the first time I’d really watched her get dressed from start to finish. She stood there, in front of me, naked. I genuinely couldn’t help but tell her how incredible she looked. And anyone that knows me will tell you I won’t be satisfied with a sub-standard, plain compliment. This had to be powerful. Touching. Laced with sexiness and sensuality and emotion and intelligence. So I said it.

“Fuck Jane…you look……..majestic.”

Her physical response was almost identical to how I feel reading that, and her words were something the lines of “Oh….er….okay.” And it’s at this point I should point out that Jane was NOT A FUCKING HORSE.

 

 

Christ...look at the tits on that.

Christ…look at the tits on that.

So, as you’d probably guess, things began to tail off somewhat between me and Jane. At least, that’s the way I see it now. At the time, my liking of her was only growing, but reflection has made me see things differently. The last time we met was on a Friday night out, with a few of her friends.

Now, I know it’s not just me. You remember parts of your life – small tiny segments, fractions, 2 second, even half second clips – as vividly as if happened in the time it took you to read that sentence. I got out of the cab, saw Jane across the road yet she didn’t see me. I walked over to her and she spotted me when I was no more than three feet away. She looked me up and down very quickly and a look of what I can only describe as disgust washed across her face. It wasn’t what I was wearing. It wasn’t that I was a little late. It was just me.

I’d never met any of her friends before, so to do so was quite nice. You might even think that it was some sort of ‘test’ in the dating game. You know, meet the mates sort of thing. It wasn’t. There may have been more, but I only remember two, one of them being an extremely well dressed, out for the night, fake tanned, massive eyebrowed girl, with eyelashes like canoes. She was very sweet. She’d have to be, because that wasn’t really Jane at all. The other was a really friendly, well travelled gay guy. Whom I immediately liked, and whom immediately liked me. He’d spent a fair bit of time living in Sweden, so whilst in the company of Jane I referred to all the places I knew in Sweden and asked whether he’d visited and stayed there. I sounded knowledgeable. Interested. Rugged.

 

This has literally taught me everything I know about places. Anywhere. Ever.

This has literally taught me everything I know about places. Anywhere. Ever.

 

The night continued. It was so-so. I embarrassingly ran out of money, so had to borrow a tenner from Jane to get home. Which, still, to this day, I want to give back to her. But you know, I’m not going to arrange it with her or anything. I like tenners.

I know this happened, yet it puzzles me, as I carried on drinking for a long time after that tenner was leant to me. We went to a local ‘club’ which was effectively a big fuck-off house that turns into a ‘cool place’ after midnight. It wasn’t. And isn’t. It’s the last fucking gasp at capturing a coolness that will never belong, yet still I appreciate its gesture and presence. There was awkward dancing. A bit of sweatng. By this time, I’d been thoroughly fucked off by the effort it took to garner anything more than a friendly smile from Jane, so my overall attitude was ‘get smashed’. I wasn’t nearly smashed enough when we all sat outside and were approached by a guy wanting a cigarette (which I duly gave him, because I’m a legend), who claimed he was an Air Traffic Controller at a London Airport, back home for his weekend off. Jane looked on in awe. Which purely served to heighten my desire to be no more than a drunken fool.

Less than ten minutes after this, Jane and her curly friend went back home in a cab and I was left with the well travelled, Sweden-living homosexual. Which was absolutely awesome. This tenner was seriously going some fucking distance. I really liked him, to be fair. He was funny as fuck, found me funny as fuck, and was more than happy to have me talk about Jane.

 

"Yep...yep...yep...oh really...yep...yep."

“Yep…yep…yep…oh really…yep…yep.”

 

At the entrance of a different club. Another club. A low key club. We spoke about Jane, closely. And part of me at the time thought about how we may have looked, to an outsider, that we were flirting. And about how we were, indeed, probably flirting. Although at the same time I was commenting on how Jane had not yet…you know…given me a…you know…one of them…you know…things. And how I liked those, you know, things. Very much.

It came the time for us to leave. We lived in entirely different directions. He said ‘cool, there’s a cab stand just up here.’ Indeed there was. He flagged a cab, gave the driver his address, and left the door wide open for me to get in. “You’re coming back to mine,” he said. I told him no, I wasn’t. I couldn’t. Could I? Should I? What if…no, that wasn’t going to happen. All of this, by the way, was said very much out loud. And once it was all said, I’d decided to get in my own cab. Which he tried to force his way into.

Once I’d convinced him that I didn’t want a night of penis – just yet – I went home and reflected on the evening with a cider and a monumental grimace.

That was the last night I ever saw Jane.

We were supposed to go out the next night, me and Jane that is, but she decided against it as she she wanted to stay home alone and have a chinese. I told her that her homosexual friends were a definite threat to her relationships. She didn’t care.

 

I know. I know.

I know. I know.

 

Let’s wrap this up.

The Saturday, given that I was no longer going out, was spent getting drunk again. And texting Jane like an imbecile. I broached it again. I told her that I wasn’t entirely sure we were right for one another. That I wasn’t sure we had much further to go. That perhaps we’d walked as far down the road as we could. And her response wasn’t ‘really?’ this time. She agreed with me. I’m pretty certain that when she responded in agreement, further adding to the ‘walked as far down the road as we can’ analogy, I may have said ‘really?’ myself.

By this point I was mightily drunk. To the point where tact and logic had no bearing. So I began questioning her. Why? What was wrong? What was happening? What had I done? The responses didn’t come as quickly as I wanted, so I called her, whilst en route to the garage to buy more alcohol.I walked along the seafront and it was pitch black apart from the moon hitting my eyes through the trees. When she answered my call, I asked the question. Why didn’t she want to continue seeing me? After a short pause, which at the time felt like an eternity, she answered that ‘It isn’t there romantically.’

At the time, and for some time after, those words haunted me. I’d repeat them over and over, and no matter how many times I said them, the sinking, doomed feeling I got when I first heard them wouldn’t go away.

The whole thing with Jane, and the ceasing of it, actually hit me quite hard. I can’t really tell you why – it didn’t especially feel intense or emotional whilst it was going on. I can only put it down to an overall feeling of vulnerability that came with my circumstances. We shared a few texts back and forth the next few days, mostly me drunk and sending her songs. The last text I sent her asked her if another guy was involved. She didn’t reply.

Date#9 – Inappropriate – October 2013

Limp Bizkit

When I was in university times were tough. Seriously. You know, really tough. Most students will tell you that and you will rightfully smash them somewhere in the groin for being really annoying, whilst they subsequently pay for chips and cheese with a bastard cheque.

I was no different.

If you’re reading this as a student, I apologise, but frankly, I found you annoying even then. At one stage of university living, I lived at the top of a HUMONGOUS road, followed by a HUMONGOUS hill. And sure, I was young. Sure, I was ahtletic and cool and had a music device to entertain me. But sometimes, sweet reader, I straight up couldn’t be fucked. I just could not be arsed. And I won’t lie – it was ONE stop.

For that reason, I would get the bus with my student day rider ticket, whilst being perfectly capable of walking the journey. This bus, given the areas it went to and the time of day I usually got it, was absolutely full of old people. They clearly weren’t in a hurry, but it would bother me that they would see a young man getting the bus for just one stop, then getting off. I imagined them glaring at me. Complaining about me over dinner. Thinking about me during their evening read. Having nightmares about me. Waking up in cold sweats over me. And generally muttering horrific words about me on their death bed.

To assuage their total hatred of me, I would get on the bus with a fake limp.

"I still hope you die slowly of cock cancer."

“I still hope you die slowly of cock cancer.”

 

It seemed a reasonable means of getting what I wanted whilst also not making the coffin dodgers quite so…venomous. You may wonder why I bring this up. Why am I telling you about this when it clearly has no bearing on my online dating life which commenced some 7 years later? Tenuous, I’m sure you’ll agree, but date number 9 had a SERIOUS fucking limp. And I’m pretty certain it was real.

The limp had never been brought up prior to us meeting. Nor the various other things I’ll get around to mentioning in this. But as I approached the pub (yes, it was a Wetherspoons, God!) I saw her crossing the road, waddling over to the entrance, clearly struggling with just…general movement. A tiny flash – and it was only a flash I swear – saw me turning around and just going home. Running, even. But perhaps a flash even quicker than the first saw me imagining her leaving the Wetherspoons, head down, face saddened, struggling to comprehend why I’d not shown up. In my imagination, despite learning this information no more than 1 second ago, she was still bloody limping.

So onwards I walked.

Once entering the pub – the Wetherspoons – I got myself a drink and sought her out. I was more than likely a pint or few down already and that was fine. Desirable in fact, despite the fact it was a fucking Sunday.

 

Church.

Church.

I sat down with her, and the first thing that became apparent was the funny eye. She had a funny eye. And I don’t mean like Will Ferrell or an old man getting hit in the cock funny, I mean, it was pointing the other way. Upwards. North West.  Like, she was secretly a pub lighting inspector. If they have those. I don’t know.

Now, I’m not sure how much dealing you’ve had with people with funny eyes, but I seem to have had my fair fucking share. For a start, my biology teacher had one and that meant all  manner of confusion. Was she blaming me or William for the bad results? Was she looking at me or the diagram of the cervix? I think eventually the awkwardness of the whole situation mean she just looked up at the ceiling to avoid any further confusion. And you know, it worked. Inappropriate girl, as in date No.9,  had no such privilege. Especially given that I’m an ‘in-eye’ looker.  I’ll always look you in the eye. Even when you’re telling me how much you resented the fact that I called your mother a White Walker and shat on your carpet, I’ll still do it. It should be done. It must be. It’s part of my parcel.

And to be fair, she was cool with that. I’d established very early – looking her into her right eye was the way forward. It seemed more respectable to just ask straight up, because I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable all night. I basically just said, “Okay, there’s a funny eye thing going on here, tell me what to do” and she told me. You may cringe at the prospect of that being said. Well….you’re a moron.  First date and all that, she was probably nervous anyway. She knew it, I knew it. Let’s work this out.

What possessed me to go on a date on a Sunday, I don’t know. I was working the next day. I’ve told you already – I don’t do dry dates.

 

Drunk at Work

“I’ve been blue-sky thinking and strategising ALL weekend. I swear.”

 

We got on pretty well, truth be told. She had a dry sense of humour and an aura of calm that really worked for me. After the drama and emotional anguish that became the end of Jane, it was nice to sit in front of an internet-stranger and flirt with them. While drinking.

I remember it getting to about 10pm and when I returned from the toilet, she had moved over in her seat and prompted me to sit next to her. My initial thought was that this would be a great opportunity to give the eye a full-on inspection, and let her know my findings. Which, incidentally would have been something along the lines of “Aaaahhhh….right. Yes, now I see. Okay. Yes. You have funny-eye. Very common.”

My second thought was that I should sit next to her and kiss her. In a Wetherspoons. So I did.

We ended up back at my house – my new house – and slept together in my bed. We didn’t have sex, although there was fondling. Sufficient fondling for me to…you know…fall asleep afterwards.

 

Pictured: Post-Fondle.

Pictured: Post-Fondle.

When I awoke the next morning, despite not actually being that drunk the evening prior, I’d completely forgotten most of what I’d learnt the previous evening. When leaving my house, Inappropriate requested I assist her down my steep steps which, at the time, I put down to her being massively hungover as opposed to…well…disabled.

I’ve wracked my brains for juicy information on subsequent dates, and I genuinely have very little to report. She came to mine a few times, I went to hers…once. I think. There’s not too much to say. We were very much just ‘dating’ – we didn’t seem to be establishing any particular bond or commitment, or at least I wasn’t, which is why….

Date#10 – The Horror Show – November 2013

“I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice..Strongbow”

Which is why…I totally went on another date with someone else. For no particular reason. Well, there was a reason. I’ll explain later. And honestly, you couldn’t really call it a date. Well, you could…but…look, seriously, I’ll just carry on.

Myself and The Horror Show – hereon known as HS – had a very brief encounter. We’d quite easily text a thousand more words than we ever spoke in person. She was the alternative type. It’s a ‘blanket’ way of explaining her look and vibe and I normally don’t like to categorise people in such a way, but she was the type who LOVED horror films. Half of her profile pictures were of her dressed up like some horror film character because it was Halloween or a fancy dress party or her birthday or because it was just a fucking Sunday afternoon and she had fake blood that was going to go off or something. She must of been about 24 or 25. Blisteringly blue eyes. Like, seriously blistering. Which was a nice eye-differentiation from my other dating option. They both pointed the same way too.

BONUS.

Our text conversations I actually found quite dull. She never really amused me largely, or intrigued me particularly. She had a boring job. Generally quite boring life. But I found myself saying things like ‘I like horror films’ (I fucking don’t), and that I like dressing up (I really fucking don’t). It was just for the conversation more than anything, I think. She hung out with dudes with beards who smelt a bit and dressed like shit. I felt I had an advantage because I had / have a beard and smell okay and dress okay. Sometimes like shit. Surely, entering into her circle of friends I’d be like…the Pitt / Clooney / Hardy of the group. We got onto discussing tattoos eventually, because she OBVIOUSLY had 16 and desperately wanted to talk about them. She sent me an image not hugely unlike the below:

 

tatleg

“What do you think of my coffee table?”

Above in this post, I mentioned ‘reason’. I am a man, and an animal. That leg was the reason. I’d like to point out that the above is NOT HER LEG. She sent me her leg, although the effect was just the same. And as far as I was concerned, it didn’t limp either. Also, a picture of her leg was sent, not her actual one.

We continued texting. I’d tell her what horror film I was watching, she’d say something boring and shit. At one point, I called her ‘sister’.  As in, “The Shining sure is a fantastic film, sister”, like the cool people do. It’s not a hugely common thing for me to say, but I see no weirdness or strangeness or oddness in it. Even now. She did not feel the same way. How do you feel about it? Answers on a postcard.

“You know I’m not black, right?” is what she said.

I debated my response for some time and decided going down the playful route of “What!? Seriously?” was the best option. It sort of worked, I think. But from then on, in her mind, she had forever branded me as some sort of shit Eminem, I’m sure, constantly worried about an impending battle rap.

 

DATE NIGHT!

DATE NIGHT!

 

Her reaction to that text saying ‘sister’ was as shit as her fucking conversation. It highlighted the fact that she was probably someone with a very limited outlook on life, and also served to show that although she was someone who lived the life she wanted and wasn’t afraid of looking or acting different, she put things firmly and neatly in boxes – racially or otherwise. I found that quite ignorant, guarded and immature.

Seriously, that leg picture, though.

So we eventually agreed to meet.

I say agreed. I was planning on catching up with Inappropriate that evening and meeting some of her friends and generally hanging out and getting smashed, but that wasn’t until later. HS was out with a few of her friends, so I thought if things went well I could keep on, or go meet Inappropriate afterwards if I felt like it. Daters prerogative. As I readied myself, I text her saying I’d be the one with the lovely beard. At that point I wasn’t aware of the beard competition. She said I’d have to do more than that to stand out.

It was Saturday night and I’d had a fair bit to drink. Obviously – you’ve been reading this right? When I arrived, her and her friends – about 5 dudes – were all sat around in a booth in a small club I’d never been to before. She was sat at the back, in a darkened part, so actually speaking to her properly was all-round difficult. It didn’t bother me – one of her friends turned out to be a rather large fellow with a rather large beard and I essentially spent the next 45 minutes quizzing him on a) how long he’d had it, b) how he maintained it c) whether I could stroke it, d) whether he faced beard related questions all the time and e) whether it was okay to call a girl ‘sister’ as a milky-white man like me. I cannot tell you his responses.

Me and HS did manage one or two brief words with one another. The group were discussing what to do next, and they were planning on heading to a bigger, louder, darker, smellier club imminently. We all exited, and me and HS walked together. She asked me if I was going to come with them. I remember her looking at me, almost like…she wanted me to come. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable. She actually wanted to go somewhere else where we would actually have more time to talk. Maybe we could go about back and have a smoke together. Maybe we could have a dance. Have a bit of a flirt at the bar. Maybe go home together after.

After a pause of about 3 seconds, I said no, I was going somewhere else. So I went to go meet Inappropriate.

About 6 months later, I had a friend come visit me and was really struggling for ‘night-out’ company so him and I could go out and party with a group. I text HS. She replied saying sorry, she now had a boyfriend.

I was going to text back and say, “No, I really couldn’t care less, I just want my friend to come out and meet a bunch of people” but I didn’t bother. So we played Playstation instead.

And for the record, using the word ‘sister’ is cool.

That was the end of that.

Date#9 Continued – Inappropriate Again– November 2013

Big Limpin’

I’m a little ashamed to say my recollection of subsequent activity with ‘Inappropriate’ is hazy at best.

An occasion came about whereby she actually met my mother – purely by accident. All three of us were tremendously drunk, but I remember enough to recall her constantly interrupting my mum, mid-sentence. And my mum is cool, man. Don’t interrupt her. Ever. Definitely not as a potential love interest. So that lost her a massive amount of points. My mum is cool enough, laid back enough, and confident enough to not even notice it. But me? I was like “Ugh…lame.”

Something happened around that time. Or something was said. Something that made me think, “Okay, you have a problem and you’re massively inappropriate and I really wouldn’t like to see you any longer.”  Inappropriate sent me a message on Plenty of Fish, a message which when reviewing my other messages with her via Facebook and Whatsapp, seems wildly important. I can’t re-read this POF message now as it seems to have been deleted but she said something…I just cant quite recall…

 

"When I remember what you said to annoy me, my GOD I'm going to be extra annoyed."

“When I remember what you said to annoy me, my GOD I’m going to be EXTRA annoyed.”

I wish I could recall the things she said as I felt I was SO BLOODY JUSTIFIED IN MY SUBSEQUENT ACTIONS. And I sincerely was. Yet, alas, I cannot. I had a lot going on at the time.

My Dad, God Bless his soul and may he rest in peace, passed away not long after this in the beginning of 2014. Myself and ‘Inappropriate’ had been out of touch for some time. perhaps a few  months. She knew my Dad was very ill and she must have been keeping her ‘good’ eye on the obituaries as she felt it right and decent, despite having never met him – and knowing her and I were not on good terms –  to message me when he passed away and ask if she was able to attend his funeral.  She actually said in her message, “I’ve seen the obituaries.” Fuck me. I didn’t respond to this message, despite my feeling of absolute disdain and annoyance at the request. I felt it best to just not respond. That was the mature me. The decent me. The tolerant me. I was changed. I was reformed. I was bigger than this.

However, ‘Inappropriate’ isn’t named as such for no reason –  she asked me again. She received no response to her original request so ACTUALLY asked me again to come to my dad’s funeral. Even as I’m typing this I’m a little aghast at her behaviour. And bear in mind, this was ON TOP of her already being ‘Inappropriate’ beforehand.  It’s a head-shaker. Truly. Just a massive lack of understanding of what’s what and more importantly – of what’s right.

Myself and Inappropriate did not talk for quite some time. I bumped into her about 18 months later, at a bus station where <CUE THE AWESOME CUT BACK TO ORIGINAL TOPIC>, she was waiting for bus. I said “Fuck your bus, come for a pint in a shit pub.” She said “Okay.” We both talked. Nothing happened. Never heard from her since.

That was thoroughly, thoroughly the end.

Date#11 – The Techno Viking – December 2013

“Me and you….we could…we could, like….take over towns and stuff.”

By this point in my online dating history, I’d become a little disillusioned. Again. For the second time.

My dad passed away in January of 2014, a few months after I’d been on any sort of date with  ‘Inappropriate’. Yet in December, 1 month before he passed away, I got a message on POF from Techno Viking.

Of all the dates so far, the Viking was only the second to message me first, but not the last. A pattern of which is not lost on me. First messagers seem to last the longest but I’ll have a think. The problem with The Techno Viking is the patches by which things occurred. It’s not necessarily as straight forward as ‘message – date – date – date’ etc. I’ll attempt to make some sense of it for you. And me. God knows, I could use some help. I’m in a somewhat difficult position as she’s one of the dates who actually knows of this blog and will more than likely actually read it. I must remain unbiased.

I couldn’t tell you what the first message said but knowing her more as I do now, probably something really bloody plain. In fact on my profile I’d made reference to have comical interactions with various animals, so it was probably a reference to that. Because, you know, everyone loves animals. And cake. I should really say more about cake.

 

cake

“I enjoy walks on the beach, nights on the sofa, watching Netflix and MAKING YOU FEEL LIKE AN ACTUAL PIG.”

 

I’ve had plain messages before. Messages that said ‘Hi’ or ‘How are you’ or something as equally dull. And I’ve straight up not replied. Because, fuck that – who do you think you are? Fuck off! As a man on dating websites, one of the things you’ll read on 9 out of 10 girls’ profiles is “If you’re going to just say ‘hi babez’, or ‘hello’, or ‘hi’  then you can just not bother messaging me”. Those girls then proceed to send one word messages with absolutely no fucking interest in what they hear back. Twats.

The Viking, thankfully, was not one of those. Her opening gambit was sufficient enough to get my interest. Plus, gentle reader, and I must be honest with you here – my word, was she a bit bloody stunning.

A few messages went back and forth, which eventually turned into Whatsapp messages, not before I’d conducted sufficient research to make sure she wasn’t a Nigerian man pretending to be a girl asking me for money.  And, I think The Viking set the record for this, we actually spoke on the phone prior to meeting. I would describe this phone call in detail, but I cant. I was pretty drunk. All I remember from it was that a)  she was FUCKING WELSH, like, SUPER Welsh, b) she had some bad experiences with ex-flatmates being proper thieves and c) was definitely a girl, albeit with a fairly deep voice. This voice would make sense later on, and the fact I’ve labelled her as The Techno Viking should give you some indication.

If you’ve never seen this before, I have it on good authority that he will Techno to the bus, Techno to the train, Techno to the nearest port, Techno across the ferry, Techno on another bus, Techno on another train, Techno to your house and TECHNO on your face.

Despite this, no alarm bells rang.  Turns out she was pretty cool. We seemed to get eachothers sense of humour. Or at least, she got mine. Which is way more important. I find very few other people properly  ‘funny’, and ‘being’ funny has always been quite important. I don’t always achieve it but I felt I sort of did this time.

I just got a message from her telling me that she’d liked what I’d written so far. I’d like you all to remind me that getting into this situation is bloody ridiculous, and should never really occur if you aim to be an objective journalist. I’ll obey her one request.

sexvike

Enjoy it while you can, Viking. No fucking more.

In our conversation, another thing that came up is a date she’d recently been on. She wasn’t particularly convinced by this whole onine dating thing (despite not being able to resist messaging me, obviously), so it was all relatively new. I was told the story of her messaging a guy for some time, them meeting in a pub, and within fifteen minutes her texting her friend whilst her date was at the bar.

“I just don’t like him. He’s a bit weird. I kind of want to run away. Shall I run away? I’m going to run away” was what she sent to her friend. Through sheer bad luck, or utter incompetence, she actually managed to send that text to her date. That she was with. While he was at the bar. Buying HER a drink. It’s this sort of nonsense that should have sent my alarm bells ringing. But I’m one of those people that is confident enough to think that will never happen to me. I’m….cool.  And, as you’ll see further on,  it didn’t. I deliberately made enough jokes about it beforehand to make sure she was too fucking scared to even look at her phone. This is the key to online dating – fear.

So, as you’ll gather, we had agreed to meet. More than any date previous, I was actually a little scared. Scared of…not being up to scratch. Everything I’d seen of her prior to this made me think ‘I should really have abs for this’. I sent her picture to my mate and asked him how the fuck I was supposed to present myself. How can I turn up to meet her? This is ridiculous.

I’ve come a long way since then. My philosophy now is fuck it. I’m an incredibly charming, handsome, intelligent and well spoken cat. And also, the plan to do exercise is just as good as actually doing it. So I met her. And before I did, I knew she was going to really cool. Important. Interesting. Funny. Ambitious. Beautiful. I had to impress her. I had to make it perfect. I had to have everything just right.

So we met in Wetherspoons.

 

Where dreams become reality. And burgers come with pints.

Where dreams become reality. And burgers come with pints.

 

It was a Saturday and it was a long time coming, at least a month after we started talking. Maybe I’d put it off to maximise my sit ups. Of course,  I didn’t do any sit ups. Maybe 1. By accident. It was a sort of convenient set up – she was planning on going out on a big night so we met for a few hours before she went off. That was perfect for me, as although it meant there was no first date loving, it also meant I could get pretty trashed with no risk of looking/acting/sounding like a drunken wreck at the end of the night. Safe in the comfort of this knowledge I drank most of a bottle of wine beforehand, got there early, had two pints and awaited her company.

When she eventually turned up, I found out that she was, in no uncertain terms, a fucking giant.

 

"Photo booth!"

“Photo booth! Love these!”

 

She wasn’t large in a width aspect, quite the opposite, but the girl was tall. I’m pretty tall myself, but if memory serves she may have even beaten the height of me. Which is going some way, seriously.

I like tall women. I feel like I stand a chance. It’s not common that a girl will want to go out with a guy shorter than them, so…shout out to nature and genes.

I didn’t consider it at the time, although the the height thing now makes it funny, I’m pretty sure she ordered a jug of wine. You know, like a full-fledged Wetherspoon jug. The sort of jugs they normally serve cocktails in that are meant for 8 people.  This is after she had already had one glass and decided that that just wasn’t enough.

I was actually quite impressed.

Throughout the date, I couldn’t really tell how it was going. I just didn’t know, and she didn’t really give much away. I think before we met, I said to her “If you fancy a second date or whatever, just give me a hug when you’re leaving and I’ll know. If you don’t, it’s all good.”

On two separate occasions she saw some of her friends. One of them actually came into the pub with us, and I think may have even had a quick drink. I can’t quite recall. I’ve subsequently learned he’s actually a really good friend of hers, maybe even a best friend, but at the time I just wanted him to fuck right off. Plus he looked a bit like a child and passers by might think I was out with a MILF. I couldn’t quite tell whether he ‘popped’ in to eye me over. Maybe he did. I haven’t asked.

 

"So, are you in a suitable financial situation to support me? Because I have a serious milkshake habit and I cannot go without Tangfastics."

“So, are you in a suitable financial situation to support me? Because I have a serious milkshake habit and I just will not go a day without Tangfastics.”

 

The second occasion was when we were outside smoking. A group of about 8 of her friends walked past and I stood there for a few minutes whilst they chatted. Naturally, I held in my stomach and pouted and squinted the whole time. Just to reassure them I wasn’t dodgy and that I was very open to offers should the Viking reject me.

I haven’t heard anything. But you know, these things take time.

The remainder of the date went fine. At one point she touched my leg. Not in a creepy weird Grandad way, but kind of a ‘oh you never guess what’ kind of way. Which was nice. Having said that, it may have been an accident. It’s quite a big leg. In my mind, I’m half suspecting that I was invited to go ‘out out’ with her and her friends afterwards but I might have completely made that up. Either way, I didn’t go. I felt that extending the date further might have tarnished things a little. So we said our goodbyes and left eachother.

Right after she hugged me.

 

fist-pump-baby

I can’t seem to escape this child so I shall embrace him instead. Mentally. Only mentally.

 

After leaving the pub and letting her get sensationally hammered, I went home and probably drank myself into a silly stupor then touched myself a bit. SATURDAY.

Beyond the first date, it’s difficult to say where things went. We continued to text. A lot. We sent voice messages to one another. A lot. But that was it. They weren’t especially flirty or romantic, just shit-chatting, really. And I was fine with that, it didn’t feel weird or like I was waiting for something more. Despite thinking about her naked several times a day, I felt no need to push it or chase it. It was really nice. I began to feel that I’d made a nice friend. A hugely tall, sexy friend. So that was kind of that. And because that was kind of that, I began dating elsewhere. I met date #12 before I’d met The Viking again. But more on date #12 later.

So a while went by, a timescale which I can’t fully describe but for narrative purposes let’s say it was three months. I’d had a couple of friends down who wanted to see the sights over the weekend, so we went out on the Friday and got substantially drunk. We also went out on the Saturday, but as we were all pushing 30 it was significantly slower paced and we returned home at a fairly respectable hour of 10pm or so. Shortly after my friends decided to retire to the bedroom, I received a text from The Viking saying she had been out, her friends had all decided to go home early, and was I free and up for doing something. I was exhausted. Half drunk and still hungover from the night before. But my answer was always going to be yes. I invited her over for a night cap. She agreed.

 

fist-pump-baby

He’s growing on me.

Techno arrived with more alcohol and we proceeded to drink and chat the same sort of interesting tosh we’d been discussing over messages. She was great. Proper great. Her accent and general manner were just awesome. Really good company.

Then she played some Techno.

Now, if you were to ask me to describe Techno, I’d say it was loud, industrial, fierce, powerful and mathematic. And I always knew The Viking was into techno. I knew this because I almost certainly asked about her music taste. Which is a weird question for me to ask because I generally listen to what people say they like in music, totally space out, then tell them what I like and why they should listen to that instead. I am an iPod nazi. If you are having a party in your house and are playing music, I will set up camp next to your speakers, control the music, and surgically point out what you’re doing wrong. In short, don’t let me in. Also, bongos. Don’t let me near your bongos. I cannot play the bongos. Drunk me insists I’m a bongo master. I am not.

violin

“These Bongos are the TITS”

 

Anyway, Techno Viking was going to play me some techno. From her phone. I had speakers but I didn’t tell her. So I waited to hear what her favourite song ever was (favourite song ever is actually really, really interesting) and held my breath.

It was basically a metronome. Seriously. It was essentially ticking. She was playing me a clock. I sensed there was some sort of technical (technocal – ha!) hitch and I was assured that eventually the actual techno would kick in. It never did. And that was absolutely fine. I played some of my music and it was fine. No clocks.

Viking went to the bathroom, and when she returned to the lounge area, I went in for the kiss which I thought would be appropriate. It was. I wasn’t rejected. Although throughout the kiss, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d pinned her to the door and consequential door handle, giving her an awkward indent into the small of her back. I have never asked this question as I don’t want to know the answer. I did, however, get told I was a good kisser. “Thank God. You’re a good kisser. I hate bad kissers”.

So do I Viking, so do I.

 

"15-20% tongue protrusion. Seriously, we've talked about this."

“15% to 20% tongue protrusion. Seriously, I emailed you about this.”

From the kiss onwards, evening was a little blurry. We had sex that evening. And again in the morning. I felt extremely good about myself, (fist pump kid good) although I sense she may have felt the opposite. It’s a weird one. She got dressed when her lift was about to arrive and I watched her closely whilst she did because, you know, you want to remember these things. All in all I was just quite pleased with myself. You know, ssshhhhh, but….*I’d seen her privates*. It was great. Sadly, because I’m an awful friend, my friends had to leave before I even got out of bed with her. Which is a horrendous thing to have to say but at the same time…she was really hot. They understood. They got it. I text them on the train. It was fine. They were fine.

Beyond that, it kind of returned to the way it was. Which again, was quite nice. And it continued that way for a LONG time.

See, myself and Viking were comfortable and cool enough to share other people’s dating profile pictures. To see other people.  To date elsewhere. To talk about how ridiculous those dates were. We were compadres in the dating world. It wouldn’t work between us – we were just too tall, people would think we were in a circus – but we would help each other out in the dating game. And chat about other shit in the meantime.

 

woman-beard

“Shall I reply? I don’t know. I don’t like pink but I’m not decided. Shall I reply?”

On Christmas Eve, we both had extremely slow, lonely days in our respective offices. We spent the majority of the morning sending screenshots of 90’s cartoon shows and having the other guess what they were. It was sequences like that, times like that, that made me appreciate having her as a ‘friend’. Albeit one that was 99% via my phone, and 1% in real life. Throughout time, because I probably liked her and hadn’t seen enough of her / sexed enough of her, I would be a bit of a dick. Via text, obviously. I wanted attention from her. I wanted her to want to see me. To go out somewhere with me. And instead of asking her myself, I suppose I would just be a knob in various ways.

On only one other occasion we met again, and it was exactly the same circumstances as the first meeting. She came over after being out. It’s important to know, to get some sense of timing, that between the first time she came over and the second time, there was about a year of not seeing one another at all. Other than selfies. This second occasion however, was significantly more debauched than the one previous. A lot more booze, a lot more topless dancing and a lot more fun.

 

viking

There is nothing to say that he isn’t already saying with his beauty.

 

Like ships in the night that do inappropriate things to bottoms, she left the next day and that’s the last I’ve seen of her.

Since, we continued the texting / voice messaging for a while. Mostly about dating, relationships, that sort of thing. It wasn’t flirty or romantic. We were never like that, at all. I entered into a relationship with Date #24 (fucking ages later) and we were still texting. To the point that, of course, it made Date #24 feel awkward. In fact, it was as a result of a text to Viking that my relationship with Date #24 ended. But more on that later.

As of right now, I haven’t text her or had a text from her in a few months. Which is a shame. I genuinely miss her, despite having only ever met her THREE times.

But I’m not fucking texting her first.

 

 

Date#12 – The Cappucino – January 2014

Uncertain about the situation with Viking, I continued to online date. Naturally. I should outine right now that between first starting talking to to Cappucino and actually meeting her, my father passed away. I met Cappucino for the first time exactly 5 days after he left this mortal coil, though this will make more sense moving on.

It was a Sunday evening. I had the Sunday blues, big time. Most people tend to get a slither of it around 8pm when they realise the fun is over, bed is looming and they’re on the cusp of starting another 5 days of total and utter mind-numbing dread and sadness. My feeling of this tends to start around 11am Sunday.

fetal

“Maybe if I cry enough I will drown and THIS WILL ALL STOP”

It seemed my online dating had taken a bit of a downturn. I wasn’t managing to get into any decent conversations, there wasn’t anyone especially exciting to speak of. My purple patch had turned…another colour that wasn’t purple. Mauve? Let’s say mauve. Mauve is not sexy.

My Sunday blues, on this particular Sunday, were alleviated when I had a message on a dating site I rarely used. Bizarrely, I had logged into it for the first time in months and months earlier that day, then in the evening, I received a message from Cappucino. It said something along the lines of “bit cute aren’t you” to which I agreed and commended her observational skills. I returned the compliment – she was beautiful. I checked her location. She was 250 miles away. I’m not exaggerating. 250 miles. Earth miles, yeah? Not space miles. Actual miles.

long-distance-relationships-quote

FUCK OFF.

It quickly became apparent to her that her search settings on the site were fucked, and she shouldn’t be browsing people so far away. But, for some reason, we carried on messaging. Couldn’t hurt could it? Besides, we were having fun. It was nice. So nice in fact, it consumed the rest of my evening. And my entire Monday. I called in sick to carry on talking to her.

And bed. I like bed.

She was funny, and intelligent, and had a job that fulfilled in her soul. Our messages went from a couple of lines, to paragaphs, to full fledged letters. We connected in a way I hadn’t anticipated and the distance issue became something we’d entirely forgotten. But as we got closer, of course, it’s weight also grew.

Messages online became text messages and eventually phone calls, although we probably only spoke on the phone 2 or 3 times before meeting. She was from the North of England (but wasn’t living there), and I hadn’t really considered the accent attractive before. But my word something changed in me significantly. I was hooked.

 

jon-snow

She is also responsible for the fact I need to marry this woman.

The distance issue wouldn’t go away, obviously. We continued talking and decided that perhaps we could meet halfway. She was a frequent visitor to the city I lived in prior to my moving, and I regularly went back, so perhaps that was the best option for us. We didn’t book anything in. We waited.

Given that I received a message from her, almost accidentally, due to the distance settings, it was then quite bizarre that I was asked to travel 250 miles by my company to complete some on-site work which would keep me there for a few days. I would be about 15 minutes drive away from her. This was unprecedented, I’d never been asked to do anything like this previously, and it happened not much more than 1 month after talking to Cappucino for the first time.

I’m not a superstitious man. But something, somewhere, wanted this to happen. Something had aligned to allow this to happen, against all realistic odds.

stars

“On Tuesday 21st January 2014, Mars will align with the Earth and something else, and you will finger someone in a Citroen.”

It was on. Arranged. We were going to meet. I was staying on a holiday estate type place where the clientele had an average age of 97. I arrived on the Monday, we met on the Tuesday, where she came to visit me at my estate, which had a bar. I was excited and nervous. I’d already felt quite a lot for this girl so was quite tense. I’d arranged to meet her at the front entrance of the main lodge, and I arrived probably 15-20 minutes before her. This meant I had a lot of time to figure out how I was going to stand. Which is something I consider quite often. Those minutes felt like an age as I checked the time every 12 seconds, but eventually, she had arrived. And I was blown away.

I’d seen pictures of her before, of course, but experience had told me never to take anything for granted. She had this long, wavy blonde hair and dressed like a smart hippy which suited her down to the ground. Physically and in terms of her personality. When she saw me, and got closer, she smiled this big, warm, beautiful smile and I think at that point I fell a little in love.

This may sound a little peculiar, but Cappucino had a little twitch in her eyes. I don’t know what it was, but every other minute she would close them tight. I never asked about it (just called her Twitchy a few times), so I don’t know why she did it. Whether it was a tick or a habit or what. But fuck me, I absolutely adored it. It was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. I can’t even explain why. If it was one eye, then I might have found it disgusting. But it was both at the same time and every time she did it I fell a little deeper.

 

Twitchy

“BEDROOM. NOW.”

We walked the the trip upstairs to the bar where we had a couple of drinks. Approximately 5 minutes after arriving and taking our seats, the worst club singer I’ve ever come across began singing on the tiny stage. It was very loud. Shortly after this, he started wandering around the diners, singing to each table individually. Wisely, we took our drinks and moved to a back section where surely even he wouldn’t dare to venture. It became clear that this place sucked. Hard. So she suggested she take me to a little local old man’s pub in town. I agreed. Fuck this place.

We drove about 15 minutes and settled in a little pub which was empty. We laughed, and chatted and it was beautiful. She wasn’t drinking as she was driving, but I was. I also smoke, which she does also, but only when she’s had a lot to drink. So, because I’m a hopeless romantic, I left her alone a couple of times to go and smoke. She didn’t really like that, and I can’t blame her. She told me she was displeased with this, and although now I can completely agree with her, at the time I was a little, little, little annoyed. Almost in a ‘don’t tell me what to do’ kind of way. It was the first seed of something…something I didn’t like.

After a bit over an hour, we decided to make the trip back. I can’t recall who initiated it, but stood next to her car, we kissed.

 

kissing-street

“So, err….how much do you get to the gallon?”

 

Now, whether I’ve made it clear or not throughout these entries I can’t say, but let me make it clear now. Kissing is extremely important to me. It’s a wonderful thing. I happen to think I’m quite good at it, rightly or wrong, but either way I take it very seriously. In my later years, perhaps because I’ve found more importance in it, or perhaps because I’ve become even more of a dickbag, if you’re a bad kisser I will in fact actually tell you. Yes. I will tell you. THERE AND THEN.

I would like to make a statement. A statement I’m prepared to live by until the fact changes: Cappucino, to this day, is the best kisser I’ve ever come across. Fact. We created some ridiculous  magic when touching lips and it completely floored me. It was weak leg, wobbly knees stuff. Unequivocally.

Kissing, I understand is a ‘two to tango’ sort of deal. Certain types of kissers will work better with other types. There is no definitive ‘this is the best way’. Some people might enjoy attacking their partners gums with some sort of ‘lancing’ action – that’s not for me. But of course there is a degree of harmony to be found between types.

I don’t know what it was, or how the mechanics worked, but kissing Cappucino was heavenly. Nothing short of. It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

We drove back to the estate I was staying on, and on the way she insisted we stop in a little lane to continue the kissing. I didn’t argue.

 

kissing_in_car

“Seriously, what sort of warranty you get on this?”

Once Cappucino dropped me back we stopped outside my lodge and I invited her in. She agreed. It was a lodge I was sharing with a colleague so it was a little bit like bringing back a girl with your mum asleep next door, but wasn’t a problem. Bless him. We lay there, on my bed, for a long period of the evening. Kissing. Talking. Laughing. I attempted at one stage to…navigate my hands somewhere of an intimate nature. It wasn’t welcome. But it was fine. I was quite, quite satisfied with everything else I’d experienced that evening. After possibly 2 or 3 hours sleep, with the light still struggling to permeate the sky, she left.

As I was working on a huge holiday estate out in the middle of the country, travelling between lodges required a golf cart. Needless to say, this only punctuated my feeling of awesomeness.

golf-cart

My memory is hazy, but this is exactly how it looked.

 

I left later that day, so couldn’t see her again. I believe we were both anxious to reunite.

Now, gentle reader, I present you a problem. As I was on the verge of turning 30, I was a little embarrassed about the fact that I could not legally – or indeed in terms of my actual physical knowledge of doing so – drive. I mean, the golf cart was a piece of piss so technically I was 70% there.  But I MAY have told Cappucino that I could. Which may have made her feel a little more comfortable about the distance situation. I do not feel great about this. I was naturally prepared to use public transport but…a little less reliable on the timings front.

She came to see me the following weekend and drove the whole distance herself. She was taking part in this lifting scheme online meaning that for one stage of the journey she was escorting a young girl from one point to another, before completing the final journey to me. This young girl, as was kind of Cappucino’s way, was then texting me words as spoken out by Capuccino, from Capuccino’s phone. This was just another thing I kind of liked and also found a little odd and scary. Having said that, I made out I was a rally driver without knowing how to change a gear. Make of that what you will.

rally

“Which way is left? WHICH WAY IS LEFT!?”

The weekend was great, for the most part. She was down from Friday evening until mid-Sunday afternoon.  We went out and had food and drinks and played each other our favourite music in the evenings and had sex and all the other nice cuddly things the NSFW police would approve of. On Saturday afternoon there was a weird, peculiar moment whereby she received a text from a friend saying ‘where are you’ as she was supposed to be attending / hosting some sort of party. For 20 minutes or so, she was going to leave on an emergency basis, but she didn’t. The reality of that situation I will never really, truly know.And I almost don’t really want to. I half believe that it was an excuse as she didn’t really want to stay with me. The other half of what I believe is a hodge podge of various other options. But she didn’t leave. And I was glad of that.

When she  did leave, it was drawn out. I love my own space. Possibly too much. And because the distance between us was so huge, I think she felt it necessary to eek out the goodbye. I was quite happy to slap her car on the roof and shout ‘safe trip!’ but she wanted more than that. And she did indeed get more than that. But part of the reason I bring up space is that we texted a lot. As you’d expect. But also, I received a lot of phone calls. Like, a LOT of phone calls. Which….I truly, truly hate.

I possibly….maybe….hadn’t thought this through.

 

phone-call

“I MISS YOU TOO”

It carried on this way until the second time Capuccino visited. Now, despite the above drawbacks and criticisms, you need to be and should be aware that I really, really liked this girl. Sensationally so. Like, amazingly so. Bar phone calls and facetime, being apart is a difficult thing. It really is. However, I as a human being am not equipped to deal with it WHATSOEVER. I was really, really into a girl I couldn’t see without getting a train. It just kind of sucked. On top of that, my Dad died.

When she arrived the second time, she arrived in the evening. Late in the evening. It had been a long journey.

I opened her car door, we made the standard hello type introductions, and within a few minutes, nay seconds,  she said “You smell like al-kee-hol”. She said it in that way to presumably make it sound less accusatory. But it didn’t make me feel any less like a loser. I had been. A combination of nerves and a generally emotional time are the only means I have to justify it. But those words still haunt me now.

When Capuccino was with me,  on this occasion, I sadly had the responsibility of arranging a funeral and writing what would eventually be the speech I gave at the funeral of my father. He, nor I, have ever been religious people so we opted to go with a non-religious inspired type ceremony – you have a space, a time, you do what you want.

 

strip-club

“It was all just, genuinely, so sad”

 

It seemed a bit contradictory to arrange something with hymns an psalms and Jesus blowing for a man who would have found it all a little beyond him. And un-him. However the massively non religious ‘leader’ we found to conduct the proceedings was REALLY not up for God. Like, seriously NOT up for God.

Chances are, you like…nay, LOVE a song that has the word God in it. Chances are you LOVE a long that has Jesus somewhere in it. Have a check – you’ll be surprised.  This lady conducting the ceremony was having none of it. None of it. Anything remotely biblical was outright refused because it was against her…’ideas’. And this created all sorts of havoc and it was an experience I’d not encountered before. Now, I’m of the opinion that you can be non religious and still be affected by a song that is  God / Jesus orientated or related. This lady? Not so much.

 

crucifixtion

“Twat. Twat. Double Twat”

 

I can sort of understand it, but at the same time, we just wanted something a bit free. A bit open.

I consulted Capuccino about the readings that would be required to be read out by the lady before the family stepped in. A couple of paragraphs that could be read out prior. You know, introductory stuff. Without really asking her properly, she came up with some Bob Dylan lyrics which were absolutely perfect. My father loved Bob Dylan (I never did), but these lyrics seemed to work and fit like some sort of bizarre, awesome, husky lego.

They were still not ‘approved’.

Given we just wanted to bury my father, and were prepared to sacrifice things just to avoid the drama, we just went ahead. The Non-religious host didn’t want any religious songs but this was the main one. It has Jesus in it. A LOT.

And so it fucking should.

 

Not sure how long it was after all of this hullaballoo that I saw her again. A few weeks? Maybe longer. She came to visit again before embarking on a European journey, so we relaxed for a few days and went shopping for bags and warm clothing. The end may have begun here…

Whilst browsing a famous sports shop and looking at the various bags, we got separated. I wasn’t close to anyone at this point, and I hadn’t farted for two days out of fear of reprisal,  so I let a silent one ease it’s way out. Within 2 and half seconds, she reappeared. Out of fucking nowhere.

 

looking-into-bag

“I genuinely think something might have died in here”

 

Not my finest moment. And it was clearly me. She quickly made excuses to be somewhere else. Oh the shame.

Between this and the next time we met, there were, again, a lot of phone calls. Some nice, some not so nice. She had a habit of being one of those people where if you’re on the phone with her, you’re effectively in the room with her. Or doing whatever she’s also doing. So, if someone walked into the room she was sat in, she would have a full fledged conversation with them without telling me to ‘hold on’ or ‘give her a sec’.  It was just furiously  annoying. She obviously anticipated that I’d also be wandering around chatting to people / making spreadsheets / skydiving,  but if I’m on the phone with someone that’s pretty much all I’m able to do. And before you say anything, yes, I can multi-task. But not with my trousers off.

I’d encountered this sort of thing with people before and felt the overwhelming desire to promptly hang up. I’d never previously ‘been out’ with one of these cretins – I had a sudden throwback to being 13. But seriously, on the phone, talk to me or don’t. I’m really, really easy either way.  To me, it was a whole new world. I was Aladdin. In Agrabah. On the rug with Princess Jasmine as she nattered away to someone whilst I wondered if she’d survive a fucking shove.

Despite all of this, and the fury that some of our phone conversations brought out of me, I had a lot of feelings for her. She tested and pushed me a number of times about moving away from where I was. About getting a car (that I couldn’t actually drive), about getting my old job back. This was because, as far as she saw it, my work here was done. But it wasn’t that simple, or at least it didn’t feel that way to me at the time, although I could and still can understand her standpoint.  It just all felt a bit soon for me, whilst I also knew that there was no point in time wasting and lingering somewhere I didn’t belong. That I probably still don’t belong.

A week before we met for the last time, we had a conversation on the phone that got somewhat sexual. We’d not seen eachother for some time, a month perhaps. At the beginning it was great, just some light flirting, but as it got deeper, and dirtier, and more….(ugh) erotic, she went really, really, really quiet. She was providing a ‘sexy whisper’. Even to this day it’s because I assume she was in a room full of really quiet people watching the Eastenders Omnibus.

Challenge: Say “I seriously cannot hear a word you’re saying” in your best ‘phone sex’ voice. Say it again. And again. And once more.

 

obama-phone-wide

Shut up B. You weren’t there.

Obviously, it didn’t end well.

When we did meet, which only came about because she happened to be travelling somewhere and I was also travelling somewhere, there was an in-between location of our travelling. A hotel.  I arrived at our hotel a number of hours before she did. We spent only a few hours in the  hotel, awake with one another, before either one of us had to leave. She had a bath. She’d been travelling  a lot of the day. I sat next to her whilst she bathed and I stroked her. She smiled.  I smiled.

I was laying on our bed by the time she exited the bathroom and here’s where it fell apart.

As she stood in front of me, vulnerable, beautiful, moist…I took a picture or two. I didn’t hide it. She knew I was doing it.  I suppose the urge was enhanced because of the fact that I so rarely saw her. I wanted a document of what I thought was a beautiful physique. A beautiful person.  And this was something I’d never done, or felt the need to do and have never done since. She wasn’t naked, she had a towel draped around her. And it was the sort of moment I really adore within a relationship, not just with her, but with anyone I’ve been in a relationship with yet struggle to really put into succinct words. Essentially, watching her get ready is the baseline of it.

The smell of her fresh from a shower or bath. The smell of the shampoo. Watching her pick her clothes. Brush her hair. Catching a glance of her in the mirror. Listening to her hum or sing. Catching a smile. It’s that sort of thing which I find perfect.

I had to get the train at 5:00am, so my actual time with her was outrageously minimal. This was the last time I saw her (which I didn’t know at the time), but I kissed her on the cheek as she slept, and snuck quietly from the room hoping I wouldn’t wake her. In hindsight I should have done / said a lot of things. A lot of things.

Like left her the bill.

 

goodmorning-kiss

“Sshhh…go back to sleep. It’s early. But just so you know, I’m taking 2 towels, a shower head, 4 miniature bottles of vodka, a Toblerone and the TV. I owe you £400 quid. See you soon.”

 

I was sad to leave her, genuinely. And sad that we got to spend so little time together.

Weeks went by, and we had some wonderful conversations / texts back and forth, though it seemed the frequency of questions about what I was going to do with my life, and what changes I was going to make and when I was going to move and when I was going to buy a car increased. She may have been getting somewhat impatient. To the point it really made me annoyed. All this, and there was no real query about her moving or doing anything of her own, partly because I implicitly trusted her to be far more mature and have all these things in hand and be able to act upon them at a moments notice.

Those who know me truly, of which there aren’t that many, know that pressure and continual questioning just won’t work with me. I’ll sooner walk away than answer. It’s likely my own fault as I know the answer will invariably be “Wait, I’m working it out” and yet I don’t really want to say that. It sounds cheap. So I’m guilty of telling people what they want to hear (to a degree) and hoping for more time than they’re prepared to give. Her pushing may have resulted in a few angry phone calls. At least one phone call whereby I had to hang up.

In the midst of all of this, we had an evening of texting back of forth whereby we spoke of the things we missed about each other. The little things. The things that if you’re not in a relationship  really make you want to be sick. Like,  full throat-sick. Cool sick.

 

on-the-car

“No, seriously, what’s the tax like?”

They were nice texts.

I sent her the picture of her wrapped in the towel. It was something I missed. I was about to accompany it with a full novel of how much I loved that evening, and how it was too short. But she most certainly did not feel the same way. She saw the picture and demanded that I delete every picture of her I had, of her  including pictures that featured her arms, neck, legs, upper chest and face. Which, (and I still don’t understand to this day why) I actually did. There’s nothing left of her on my phone. All gone.

I reacted badly to this. It was almost as though I was no longer worthy of having such items at my disposal. It’s the way it felt. And it was actually the way it was. We weren’t going to go any further as a couple and without her needing to say it, she did. So I called her a wanker.  Which she didn’t take very well.

I can now understand that,  but I felt this happening almost as though a discussion had been happening behind my back and had been reverted back to a ‘text boyfriend’ until eventually not being a ‘boyfriend’ at all. Almost a little like when you know you’ve done something wrong and your parents have a good chat about it before speaking to you. I felt it all slipping away, but the thing that made me saddest is that she seemed to wait for a moment to do it. A moment whereby I’d crossed the line, when, in actuality,  it was always going to end this way. Always.

She was supposed to come the following weekend but she didn’t. I spoke to her on the phone and she slowly phased out the fact she wouldn’t come. I said I would get a train to her. That afternoon. That evening. The next morning. But it wasn’t going to happen. I remember the tone of her voice –  it was still really, really lovely. But negative none the less. She paused in all the right places to make it poetic. She ‘ummmed’ in all the right gaps to make it a slow, soothing pain. Like death by Morphine.

I appreciated it.

Since then it’s been a one or two drunken messages back and forth that have amounted to nothing, over the course of three years.

It’s dead.

Literally 3 weeks ago (June 2016) she sent me a message saying “We really did do some amazing kissing didn’t we?”.  My heart actually raced when I read it. I replied. I agreed. Whole heartedly.

I’ve heard nothing  since.

Date#13 – Happy Days, Grotty Nights

Timing is everything. Make no mistake.

Whilst browsing a particular dating site for a while, perhaps even before the last few dates I’ve written about above, I’d sent a message or two to Happy Days, Grotty Nights.

Happy Days, Grotty Nights will be henceforth known as HDGN. Unless my stating the full name is funnier for one reason or another.

The first few non-successful messages were probably the latest standard opening gambit. Something along the lines of ‘Gosh your hair is marvellous’ or ‘Wow, your taste in dress is to die for’.  Something just enough to make them feel that although they could date me for a while, at some stage I’m going to burst out of the closest to fanfare and confetti wearing a leotard, heels and a Freddie Mercury ‘tache.

I can’t remember the exact messages, but I remembered her. And I remembered we’d already had a few messages back and forth with nothing moving forward. This happens a lot on dating sites, in my experience. You can message someone non stop for a couple of days, even exchange numbers, then for one reason or another it just stops and there’s a feeling of “Well….lets not push.” I’m not a pusher. I don’t like pushing. If it doesn’t feel like pushing would be appreciated, you shouldn’t push. I try not to push.

 

Woman hiker standing on cliff edge

“Nature will find a way” – Jeff Goldblum

 

A few months after we’d first had a back and forth, I was clearly drawn to her profile again and sent her something along the lines of “You’ve clearly been on dates and they’ve all been absolute rubbish, when in fact I am not rubbish and I am possibly 2, maybe 3 steps up from rubbish”.

Like a flyer. Or a pamphlet.

She must have liked charity muggers or kebab shop windows because it was almost instantaneous that we began texting and arranging a time and place to meet. She gave very little away in those opening messages, really. I knew she was smart and articulate, had a passion for photography and had big ambitions, but other than that our pre-meet correspondence was minimal. I still wasn’t sure what to expect from her.

She lived in a small town no more than 15-20 minutes drive away from me. I didn’t know that then as I didn’t drive. And had never been there before. So on a Wednesday night, I gladly got on a train to meet her. The location we met was about a 10 minute walk down a long road from the train station and I distinctly remember taking a photo of the road I was walking down to my friend.

 

street

The mood was set.

 

 

I eventually got to the pub. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what pub it was, so I’ll refrain from that and let you make your own assumptions. Which are probably true.

I was just glad to be indoors.

I got there rather early as I tend to like to do. Too early in fact, to the point where I managed to have a pint or two and actually wait outside  on a bench across the road to await her arrival. When I saw her arrive, a feeling of dread overcame me. Not because she was limping or had tickets to ‘The Full Monty’ – she looked…WAY stunning. I can picture the situation now, more than 3 years later, thinking “I’m totally wasting this girls time, this isn’t going to last more than an hour”. She walked towards the entrance with a swagger that was undeniably confident, and dare I say, sexy AF. It was at this point the two pints I’d already had seemed like a Godsend, so I decided to follow her in and meet her at the bar in a “SURPRISE, I’M YOUR DATE” kind of way. But with less fanfare and more Strongbow.

And that’s pretty much exactly what happened.

 

She did this. But with WAY better hair. But worse lips. And worse cheekbones. Better teeth though…I think? I don’t know.

 

Overall, the reaction wasn’t as horrendous as I expected. Although even then, and certainly in hindsight, she was a good person. We took our ‘surprise’ drinks to a table that I had secured for nearly an hour and we began chatting. If I was to detail the finer points of our conversation, I’d be making nearly every single one of them up. If it hasn’t become clear already, gentle reader, I remember the things that are important to me. I’d been here before. This wasn’t my first Rodeo. But a few key points do remain crystal clear.

Point 1: My Story

I may or may not have (I did) tell a story (it was probably my killer ‘losing iPhone down a National Express Bus toilet’ story) and at a couple of points throughout I did get the feeling that I’d completely lost her. Like, her beer mat was way more interesting. You are more than likely familiar with the feeling of telling a story to someone when you’re TRYING to keep them engaged, but seeing in their eyes that they have totally, truly, unquestionably lost all manner of interest. It’s a horrible feeling. If you have never felt this feeling then I would suggest you…just…fuck off.

 

Point 2: The Statement

At some stage throughout us chatting, drinking, and laughing about my hilarious iPhone story, it felt right to kiss. And kiss we did. At one point in mid kiss, of which the kisses were fairly drunken and…well,…drunken (in a well lit Wetherspoons at prime hour) she said something to me. At the time I loved it. And even now I love it. But I’m never sure that I interpreted it correctly.

She said:

“I never thought I’d fancy you this much”

Unfortunately, at the time of writing, querying the meaning of this statement is akin to asking Elvis what he thinks about Brexit.

 

“Well I do worry about the strength of the Sterling, honey.”

But at the time, I took it MASSIVELY flatteringly. Like, really well.

Hindsight has made me think that “I never thought I’d fancy you this much” could be applicable to my so-so online profile, my piss poor texting technique, my “SURPRISE” introduction or my *amazing* iPhone story. And we’ll never know, friends. We’ll never know. What we will know is that when she said it, mid-kiss, I felt invulnerable. Regardless of the context, it’s a positive. And a memorable one. It’s still a nugget of strange interpretability that I adore.

Basically, in the end, she had the hots for me. And the feeling was mutual. Until 12 hours or so later.

 

 

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