I’ve been on two dates this week. Two. Now please don’t imagine me lounging about in a satin smoking jacket, smugly boasting about my conquests: the very idea of it still shocks me. You should understand, this is coming from a man whose usual idea of a wild night out is heading down to the fish and chip shop to collect dinner. But this week I’ve had two dates with actual, human women. Two!
The first date is difficult for me to talk about, firstly because she’s an old friend of mine (as in I’ve known her for a long time – I’m not out there hitting on 90-year-olds), but also because I know that she reads this column every week.
For that reason, let’s just say that it was the most amazing, mind-blowing evening of conversation that I’ve ever had (It wasn’t, she was a drunken mess – but a likeable drunken mess all the same).
So on to the second date of the week, and the main basis for this week’s instalment. Both of my regular readers will remember that a few weeks ago I had a crack at the world of online dating, which proved to be a much bigger challenge than I had imagined.
However, lurking in the depths of the plentyoffish.com database, hidden somewhere between the menopausal woman posing as a 22-year-old and the girl who (and I quote) “only dates vampires”, was a nice, attractive, genuine woman. Maybe.
On paper she ticked all the boxes: a music-loving redhead and a fan of Peep Show with a penchant for nights on the town. If it turned out that she had an Irish accent I might have had to propose there and then.
But I didn’t. I was cavalier. I was laid back. I was cooler than an Eskimo rap star, keeping messages short and not overly-frequent, bringing out all the A-grade self-effacing wit I could muster.
As I mentioned last time, I had found that most girls were looking simply for conversation on the web, never to manifest itself into meeting in real life. So you can imagine my surprise then when this girl (let’s call her ‘Kate’) suggested that we meet up.
I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I was nervous when the moment of meeting did eventually arrive. Don’t judge me for this confession, but one of my main fears was a surreal one: I’d turn up and instead of an attractive twenty-year-old woman, there’d be just be a schoolchild sitting there in the pub, staring at me silently.
I’d stand waiting at the place where I’d agreed to meet ‘Kate’, and the child would just be sitting there. I’d wait for a minute, then suddenly, BAM. The doors are kicked down and twenty gun-wielding policemen burst into the pub. There are television cameras, there’s an excited presenter, condemning me to hell and asking me why I had arranged to meet with the child. “I didn’t!” I’d exclaim, in a fit of desperation.”I’ve been set up!”, I’d shout. But it would be too late: I would already be on some sort of sicko register and condemned to a life of being spat on by strangers. A strange one perhaps, but this was one of the many possibilities working their way through the back of my (no doubt therapy-worthy) mind.
Luckily, Kate turned up without any attempt at false imprisonment. Meeting her in real life was a strange experience, at first. It’s like ordering a holiday: you can look at the brochure as much as you want, imagining what it’ll be like, but you can never quite predict the funny smell at the beach or the overly-camp lifeguard. I knew it was the same girl from the photographs I had been talking to, but the odd freckle, awkward mannerism and tendency to say ‘like’ between every third word still took me by surprise.
The evening was eventful, to say the least. We began with a venture into Suburban, a cocktail bar in Wimbledon. The first moments of awkwardness made me feel that some social lubricant was necessary, so we started with two strong cocktails (one of which is a drink called ‘Envy’ – definitely worth a try). However, even with a touch of chemical confidence in my system, it still felt a lot like hard work. After a while I figured out the problem: it was panning out more like an interview than a conversation. In my other life I’m a music journalist, so coming up with questions is normally no problem, but as I asked question after question after question there was a slow frustration boiling up inside: ‘What about my favourite film? Eh?! I suppose you don’t care if I get on with my siblings?!’ She didn’t. It might be petty, but as we continued with our one-way chat I felt myself slowly holding it against her. I wanted to call it a day early, but as she suddenly took my hand and led me into Edwards across the road, I had to wonder: ‘Is this her idea of a good date?’ Several drinks later and it had become a bit of a game for me, seeing how many things I could ask before she eventually returned the favour (for those who are interested, 24 was my record). It wasn’t early by this point, and again I was about to announce my departure when Kate mentioned that her housemates had invited us to join them in Wetherspoons. I’ll admit that things get a bit hazy at this point, but I jumped at the chance to talk to other humans (who might actually understand the concept of conversation), and chatted with one of her housemates until last orders.
Now I can’t be held accountable for this next turn of events: It was drunk John. He’s got a mind of his own: he likes to send love messages to girls that I don’t even find attractive. In short, He’s an eejit. Regret it as I might, for some reason drunk John decided that it was a good idea to accept an invite back to Kate’s student house. The place was like a scene from Trainspotting, only dirtier and with more drugs.
So I sat there for an hour or so, trying to relax in the squalor and definitely not doing anything illegal, until one-by-one her housemates retreated to their rooms. After minimal interaction for the good part of three hours, Kate then said she wanted to show me “something” in her room. She knew there was no something, I knew there was no something: still, we went to see something.
There’s nothing wrong with a cheeky snog: It’s noncommittal and more importantly, it’s fun. I’ll admit I wasn’t Kate’s biggest fan, but a little kiss didn’t feel out of line. After a short while, for the third time that night my flight instinct kicked in. I told her that I would be leaving in a second and headed off to the bathroom for the twentieth time that night. And here’s where things got a bit complicated.
I re-entered the room to find Kate lying under the covers, with her clothes thrown into a pile on the floor beside her. I’m sure at this point all the American frat boys reading this are high fiving their screen, trying to give me ‘props’ for ‘hitting that’, but I’m afraid that’s not quite how things panned out. Don’t get me wrong, I like a naked woman as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is Louis Spence), but jumping into bed with someone that I could barely tolerate didn’t feel like a good plan, no matter how attractive they were. Also, would I really want to be starting a relationship with a woman who goes to bed with someone knowing barely a single thing about them?
To cut a (very) long story short, my first (and only) ever online date ended with me being hurrying out of a Tooting student house/drug den, being screamed at by a naked woman swearing her mouth off and shouting “You led me on!” loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Needless to say, my Profile has been deleted.
Next Time: Speed Dating
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