Dating in the wild

I wake up before the alarm and check my phone to make sure I haven’t overslept. It always feels like I’ve been robbed of something precious when I wake before my allotted time. I dreamt about my kiss with Beatrice and felt the rough caress of the seam of my underwear as I began dry humping the mattress. I had to roll over to smooth the friction. I need to get up for work, but it’s hard to resist the urge to rub the length of the wooden pole I’ve erected beneath the sheets. I bite my lip and fist the duvet before yanking it away and swinging my legs, and my pole free of the makeshift tent, and make the mental note that now is not the time for urges.

I check my WhatsApp: still no reply. I messaged Beatrice on the way home from our date to tell her I had a nice time, which is only half a lie. Despite the intrusive bathroom interlude, I enjoyed her company. I would absolutely love to see her again under a better mental and physical state. I asked her to let me know when she got home safe, but she never replied. It makes me wonder if I should have jumped into action and scoured the streets of London to find her. However, I checked the dating app on Sunday, and she’d been active. I recheck it today, and she’s disappeared from my profile. She’s blocked me. My shoulders sag, and my previously wooden pole folds like paper. I grunt, and the tick of the non-physical clock forces me to move my limbs.

I drag my arms to the office like an orangutan. I’m not in the mood for work. I should have been walking on a high, relishing the kiss of sunlight on my skin; instead, I begrudge its intrusive nature. I don’t feel like being seen today. I feel defeated and deflated.

The office is quiet for a Monday morning, and I slide over to my desk to check my emails. Shit. There’s a Monday 9 a.m., and it’s 9:05. Why do people insist on having meetings so early? Morning people are the worst; they’re so smug. Don’t they realise that most of us don’t have our shit together? I head downstairs to the cafeteria/lounge space that’s used for company-wide meetings. I sneak into the back of the room where all the late arrivers gather. Too late to get a seat, we linger at the back like the cool kids at the back of the school bus. I file into the open space at the wall, hesitating for a fraction of a second when she looks up and smiles at me. Mikaela’s not a morning person either, and I like that about her.

“Hey,” she says so softly, I want to crawl up in the sound of her voice for comfort.

“Hey,” I manage back with a little croak in my voice. Why couldn’t we have met while backpacking in Thailand or somewhere other than a corporate office? “What did I miss?”

She offers me a sly smile, like I should know what the meeting is about, but she likes telling me. “They’re introducing the new head of the UK business.” Probably not the best time to be arriving late, I’ll admit. I’m just so over corporate restructures and transitions of ‘power’. I mean, who really cares? It rarely impacts us, the people who actually do the work and run the business, but I nod like I’m pretending to care. Mikaela’s smile kicks up in one corner, “That’s as far as we’ve got.” Her eyes flick over my face, and then she turns away to listen to the meeting. They start explaining that the company is under pressure and we need to win more business. They go on to say that there’s nothing to worry about so long as we keep doing the great work we’re doing. I stopped listening after that.

Later, I sit with Mikaela at the end of a client call to chat about the new boss.

“I’m just worried it’s going to get in the way of my progress,” I admit.

Mikaela cocks her head, “What do you mean?”

“Well, as much as I like you telling me what to do, I want a promotion to manager by the end of the year so I can ignore you.” I stick out my tongue, trying to distract from how important it is for me to see progress. I’m thirty. I should be further ahead in life, and I need to start earning enough money to actually have a life.

Mikaela laughs, “I thought you hated being told what to do?”

“I do, but it’s not so bad when it’s you.” I flick my eyes to hers and wait for my heart to beat. She runs her hand through her hair, and I suck in a breath through my nose. “I do need your help, though. I need more responsibilities to prove that I can do the job.”

She smiles approvingly, “I can do that. I can speak to the team and find more opportunities for you to lead.”

“That would be great.”

After work, I’m feeling a little more content with my chances of progression. After talking to Mikaela, it feels good to have someone on my side. The only thing that hurts is the way she said, “That’s what friends are for.” The way I sagged when she touched my arm must have been written all over my face because she then smiled with a quick tuck and release of her lips, like you do when you’re forcing it. To drive the message home, she followed it up with a “Plus it’s my job” quip that didn’t land in the way she intended. I left the office like a wounded animal. Sitting on the underground train, I open my phone and slide the screen over to the dating app page, contemplating deleting my profile, but I’m too embarrassed to open it on the tube. The older lady next to me has already glanced down at the phone in my hand, so I swipe my thumb across the screen and open Candy Crush. I pass the next couple of minutes exploding candies, wishing I were exploding panties instead.

Three days later, and I still haven’t deleted the dating app. It’s either blind optimism or desperation, but I thought I’d keep trying. Especially if Mikaela is ushering me toward the friend zone. Besides, after getting ghosted by Beatrice, I realised I clearly need to work on my dating game. I’ve decided it can’t get any worse than a mid-date pooping, and yet, she still kissed me, so the bar is set both high and low at the same time. It’s taken me until now to realise that that was my first kiss in over a year, and I’m once again mortified by how bad it was. Maybe I should practice on a fruit or something? Would that be weird? I try to picture Clara walking in on me while I’m snogging an apricot or worse, Gary. I roll my eyes, even inconsiderate, can’t clean up after himself, boring-AF, Gary is getting laid. I heard him last night when he came home with a date around 11 p.m. I had to pause Crash Landing on You, the K-drama I’m watching, so I could listen to his date moaning down the hallway. Apparently, even Gary knows how to put it down better than I do. He can’t have had any issues with kissing if the bedroom soundtrack was anything to go by. Fucking Gary. I wondered if he wooed her with his talk about Bitcoin. Swallowing my bitterness, I open the dating app and start swiping while I wait for Clara to get home. Tonight, we’re watching Love Island because we love trashing on the trashy show.

First swipe and it’s a match. I sit up straight on the sofa and give her profile my full attention. I probably should have done that when I swiped right, but I wasn’t expecting a match. It seems like a waste of time to get to know someone and consider them a good pairing if you’re never going to interact with them. Reading her profile, she’s twenty-seven, Irish, who doesn’t love an Irish accent? She’s a teacher and is looking for a relationship. She sounds too good to be true. I think about my opening move, and that’s when Clara walks in.

“Perfect timing,” I call out to her in the hallway.

There’s a shuffle of clothing and bags, and then she pops her head around the open door. “Why? Do you have wine?”

“There’s a bottle chilling in the fridge.”

“I knew I liked having you as a roommate. Let me just drop my bag in my room and change into something comfy, and I’ll join you.”

I hand Clara a glass of wine as she joins me on the sofa, crossing one leg underneath herself. We clink glasses and talk briefly about work.

“Is the news that you slept with your hot boss?” I told Clara about Mikaela the day I met her. She was immediately invested. Clara loves gossip, and after I drunkenly admitted my car-crash of a love life to her one night, she’s also been a staunch advocate of my courtship of her, even though I’ve never done much more than a bit of cautious flirting. I don’t want to lose my job, and after I tell her what Mikaela said today at work, I’m surprised when she doubles down. “I still think she wants you. She’s just playing hard to get.”

I laugh loudly, “Is that what it’s like to be you?” Clara is a serial dater, and honestly, with her looks and sense of humour, she’d be a catch in any room, but she also has killer confidence. I’ve seen her in action. She once walked over to what was probably the hottest guy in the bar and left him speechless. He tried calling her then and there, and the slow realisation that she’d given him a fake number was both hilarious and cruel at the same time. I only felt sorry for him for a brief second. That was probably the first time he’d ever experienced rejection, so I think she taught him a valuable lesson.

I tell Clara about my recent match and show her Aisling’s profile. “I need an opening. I’ve been left on read too many times.”

“Just do what they do on Love Island… wax your chest and paint yourself orange.” We both laugh, and I tell her I’m serious. “Give it here.” Clara takes my phone and scrolls through Aisling’s photos. “She’s cute. Why don’t you invite her to the Lambeth Country Show this weekend?”

“What’s that?” She shows me the website. In the heart of South London, there is a large country show taking place in Brockwell Park with sheep shearing, live music, a petting zoo, and a vegetable-growing competition. “You can take her to see the biggest cucumber and then whisper in her ear, ‘Mine’s bigger.” She laughs and slaps her thigh.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?

“Because it would be a lie.” Clara’s laugh increases to the point she’s wiping a tear from her eye, and then she switches to a sarcastic ‘aww’.

“Well, sometimes it’s better to lower their expectations. That must be what Gary does. Did you hear him last night?” She makes a sour face. “I couldn’t look him in the eye this morning. He’s so ugly, I don’t get it. It’s like when old people have sex, you know it happens, but you don’t want to believe it.” Now I’m laughing uncontrollably.

I meet Aisling at Brixton station, and we follow the crowd to Brockwell Park. The large green space is now full of excited people, hyped up by the blue sky and basking sunshine. There’s bunting flowing in the welcome breeze, and music carrying over from one of the live stages. The festivities are in full swing. I suggest purchasing a cider from one of the drinks stands, and to my delight, she agrees. Usually girls opt for a different summer drink, like an Aperol Spritz or Pimm’s, but I love a cider on a summer’s day. Nothing beats it. We drop our bums to the soft grass and take a moment to get to know one another before we get caught up in the occasion. Sheep shearing doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes, so we’re in no rush; we’ve got the whole day to enjoy.

“I’m from Galway,” Aisling says, and I resist the song that begins playing in my head, but it does make me smile. “We have the best cider in Ireland.” I have to agree, although I do love Aspall Cyder and the local Somerset ciders. “But this is tasty,” she admits.

“I’d love to visit Galway. I’ve only been to Dublin.”

“Ireland’s beautiful, you should definitely visit more.”

Feeling the cider and the sunshine, I tell her, “Maybe you can show me around.” She takes another sip, fresh droplets of condensation running over her fingertips. She smiles with her eyes over the rim of the glass as if to say, “Maybe, we’ll see how you get on.” A first date always feels like a practical assessment, like a driver’s test with the assessor holding a clipboard, marking your score as the date progresses.

Aisling wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her lips sparkle in the sunlight. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Warwickshire.” It’s in the midlands; I’m a middle-of-the-land kind of boy. “I grew up in a village, so I’m no stranger to oversized vegetables,” I tease and rush the last of my glass to my mouth to drown the self-consciousness that’s creeping up my neck like a hot flash. Thankfully Aisling finds it funny, and while I try to enjoy the sound of her laughter, I secretly worry that if she ever sees me naked, she’ll remember this comment and be disappointed. “Um, shall we go and watch the sheep shearing? I think the vegetable marquee is next door, so we can go check out the non-weed plants that Londoners have been growing. One of our neighbours’ smokes weed, and I hate the waft of dank ‘eau de homeless man’ that drifts out from their flat whenever I walk past.

We realise we’re getting close when we see the animal petting zoo out front, and Aisling is momentarily distracted by the cute animals, and admittedly so am I. They have goats and their kids, bunny rabbits, donkeys, and, for pure aw-factor, puppies. There are about thirty women and a dozen boyfriends crowding around with a slew of single guys lingering in the background, probably drumming up the nerve to make an approach. By the looks of their faces, very few of them will brave it. It’s a whole bunch of David and Gary’s. I can see my face in them. The speaker calls out from the shearing tent, and I do my best to usher Aisling away from the cute animals with a promise to return later.

The shearing is pure entertainment. The announcer is having a field day with puns and innuendos, and the crowd is lapping it up. He starts by saying, “Welcome everybody, firstly I want to make sure you’re not here because you Herd Ed Sheeran was here, because you’ll be disappointed, but you will get to see Ed Shearing.” He points to one of the farmers. “Feel free to take photographs, but no flashes please, unless you’re showing us your braaaa’s, then we’ll have a woolly good time.” Despite the dad jokes, the shearing is actually quite impressive. After a few demonstrations, they set up the stage for the competing shearers to race to see who can give these sheep the quickest buzz cut with minimal fuss. Aisling is hooked, but I’m a little worried she’s eyeing up challenger number three a little too much. He’s got that farmer muscle with his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and by the looks of a few of the girls in the front, I think they’d also let him spread their legs for a quick shave.

I survive the shearing tent, and the farmer haze seems to have lifted from Aisling’s eyes long enough for me to drag her away to the vegetable competition after another pit stop at the petting zoo. I make a mental note to thank Clara for the suggestion because all the activities and the general buzz and excitement of the event are keeping me from my own thoughts. It’s making self-destruction near impossible, and I’m loving it. To Aisling’s delight, they have a phallic-themed competition, and there are some surprisingly good entries. There’s a near life-like radish that has a kink in the middle and a distinct tip to it, that has Aisling rolling.

“Reminds me of an ex I had when I was twenty,” she says. “We were always doing it at right angles,” she hollers, throwing her head back in amusement. She laughs so hard she spills Pimm’s from her plastic cup. We stopped as soon as she saw the stand outside, and I had to join her for one. Pimm’s I can do. It’s Aperol and gin that I can’t stomach; it’s too bitter.

I wonder if the sun and the alcohol are working their magic because Aisling seems to be loosening up. I can only hope I get to experience all the angles she has to offer, because she’s incredibly pretty. She’s wearing a pair of flowy shorts that look a bit like a skirt, in a kind of light spring sage green, paired with a white floral top and what I think is called a Boater hat. With her long, wavy, light brown/blonde hair flowing over her shoulder, she’s beautiful.

As the day draws on, I wonder if I’ve missed my chance to kiss her. At one point, we were lying on the grass next to each other, and she bumped my hip with hers. I brushed a small leaf off her bare shoulder, and she looked at me, and I froze. We were so comfortable, laughing and teasing each other, and I froze. I must have hesitated for only a few seconds, but it was a few seconds too long. Then some people cheered, and her attention was diverted, and the moment passed. I shake my head to myself as we walk shoulder to shoulder toward the growing crowd, and our hands accidentally brush together. My skin buzzes to life, and I feel a slight lift of her index finger. I respond instinctively with mine, brushing my fingertip along the underside of her forefinger. She opens her hand, and I slip my fingers in between hers, my heart now racing a little in my chest. Holding hands feels so intimate, it’s almost better than kissing, but only almost. I definitely still want to kiss her.

“What are we doing now?” she asks, still holding my hand.

I pause for a second to admire her blue eyes. There’s a hint of grey that feels coastal, serene. “It’s a surprise,” I say, and we work our way to the roped fence of the racecourse.

“Oh my god, are those camels? In London?” It’s a camel race. All the riders are wearing different brightly coloured robes so we can distinguish them from one another. We found a spot just after the finish line, so we can see who wins. I make a bet with Aisling over who we think will win. “What’s the prize?” she asks, and I play with the thought for a minute.

I want to be brave, but I’m nervous. I glance over at the camels and realise there’s nothing I can say that will ruin the playfulness of today. “If you win, you can choose where we go on our next date.” I don’t let her respond, “But if I win, you have to kiss me.” The way her lips curve into a smile has me almost giddy with excitement and nerves, but good nerves, the ones that tingle in a way that says ‘something good is about to happen.’

We lock into the race, and it’s all very unserious, but a lot of fun. Aisling has started cheering on her camel, the one with the yellow-robed female rider. She throws a playful glance at me when I call out over her shoulder to the blue camel, whom I’ve decided is called Hubert. I think they do have names, but we couldn’t hear them over the muffled sound of the speaker phone and the cheering from the crowd. To my delight, Aisling urges ‘Sheila’ to “do it for the gals.” And we’re neck and neck approaching the finish line. I feel like I win either way, but a Hubert finish gives me an easier opening for a kiss, and I need all the help I can get.

“Woo! Yeah!” I cheer triumphantly as Hubert pips Sheila at the line. Aisling laughs because I’m genuinely cheering. I feel like I won the race. I put my arm around her and lean into her ear, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to.”

Aisling smiles, “I want to.” And we both lean in, but we get bumped by the crowd as the camels walk by for a victory parade, and the people jostle for selfies.

To hide my disappointment, I offer to take a selfie, and she leans in for a snap of the two of us, the camels barely a blur in the background. “Here comes Hubert, quick, let me get a picture of you.” She takes my phone and steps back while I lean back over the rope with my thumbs up like a happy plonker.

I pose, waiting for the camel to come close, but out of nowhere, from the other side comes Sheila. I feel her sudden presence and turn to look, bumping my face right into her snout. Aisling giggles in amusement, and to my horror, as my mouth falls open in surprise, Sheila slips her tongue in…

The camel’s tongue is in my mouth!

The crowd gasps, and I freeze. It’s giant, bristly tongue wriggling around the inside of my mouth like it’s congratulating Hubert. I’m in shock; it’s like being swirlied by a slobbery, uncooked sausage. I gag when it collides with my tongue, and I pull my face away with urgent retreat, heaving. I think I felt the tip prod the inside of my cheek. I keel over, gagging, feeling violated. If I’d waited any longer, it would have tennis’d my tonsils, too.

The once shared silence of unified horror begins to murmur into a quiet rumble, until finally the crowd bursts into thunderous laughter. I don’t know how long the tongue was in my mouth, but it was definitely too long. I spit out the excess saliva that’s definitely not mine and groan in discontent. I look up and grab the water bottle from the guy standing next to me, and he doesn’t protest. I swill the water in my mouth and spit it out to his amusement.

Ugh, I can still feel it in my mouth. I shudder into a whole-body shiver.

After what feels like several minutes, I slowly regain some composure, letting out a big breath and looking up to see if Aisling is still here, hoping that somehow she blacked out and missed it. She avoids eye contact, and I don’t blame her. I’d be horrified if my date made out with a camel right after we nearly kissed. Tentatively, she asks me if I’m okay and hands me my phone back. I really hope she didn’t get a picture…

“You might want to delete the photo.” I wince.

Her eyes scan my face like she’s trying to decide how to respond to what’s just happened. I don’t think she knows whether to be deeply disturbed or to laugh it off. I try my best for the latter.

“I can’t believe I snogged Sheila,” I say in exasperation. Aisling laughs, but in a nervous chuckle kind of way, like you do when you’re at a wake and someone makes a funny comment, but it feels wrong to laugh. “I think I need a breath mint.” I cry, trying to ignore the people pointing and laughing in my direction. Aisling seems to be aware of it, too. She looks unsettled. I begin walking away, and hope she follows; she does.

I’m going to need a hose and a bucket of soap when I get home.

After a few minutes, I suggest getting another drink, but it comes out like a question, and I can see the doubt cast over her face. I try to lighten the mood and remind her that she owes me a kiss, and she scrunches up her face. I can feel the disgust shrivel up my penis. “Maybe later,” she says, and I try not to despair, but I think I’ve turned her off for good. Somehow, I’ve ruined the best date I’ve ever had, and it wasn’t even my fault. I walk her back to the underground station and cancel my mental plans for the rest of the evening by deleting the ‘in case the date goes well’ file from the back of my mind.

“Well,” I say as she turns toward the entrance. “I had a really nice time. You know, up until the last part.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Next time, you can choose where we go. My treat,” I say, knowing I don’t have a lot of money to splash out on dates, but I really like her and want to see her again.

“Mmhmm, yeah.” She swallows, “That would be nice.” I’m not convinced, but maybe she’ll feel better once she’s had time to forget the sight of Sheila’s camel tongue flicking around the inside of my mouth.

When I get home, I burst through the door and race to the bathroom, grabbing the bottle of mouthwash. I swill out my mouth five times, until my gums tingle with peppermint and then strip off and jump in the shower. Mid shower scrub, I think I catch sight of a blonde blur pass by, and that’s when I realise in my rush for a deep cleanse, I left the bathroom door wide open. I hope that Clara didn’t get a good look because my penis is shrivelled up with horror as we both try to forget what happened. After the shower, I brush my teeth again before contemplating hiding in my bedroom or reliving the date with Clara in the kitchen. I pause as I collect my clothes and don’t bother to get dressed. I let my cheeks hang freely as I walk back to my bedroom and close the door. The idea that Clara might have seen my bum helps me cope with the thought of another woman picturing me snogging a camel. I check my phone and see that Aisling is online, so I send her a quick message and tell her to enjoy the rest of her evening and ask her to let me know when she’s free next. She doesn’t read my message, but I watch her WhatsApp status change from online to offline, long enough to have seen my message and choose to ignore it.

…

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