“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.