Too Close for Comfort

As a self-confessed dating addict, I’d say I’ve pretty much sussed out men. I know how they work, how to get a good first date in, how to get a man to text you back, so much so that it’s come back to bite me in the arse. I have officially ruined it by being just too good.

After a month-long dating hiatus, my housemates left me for the weekend, and, accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a tub of ice cream (I felt like embodying the cliché of a straight woman in her 20’s), I re-downloaded hinge. Within half an hour I secured a date, and two days later I was on it. Joe was average to speak to online at best. He was the type to speak about where he wants to travel to next, how freeing it is to go on a run at 6am every day and how he couldn’t possibly date a woman who wasn’t interested in foreign films. But, he was fit. I allowed it because he was forward about asking me for a drink, which was exactly the attention I needed.


On a Thursday night in Fulham we met up; I was in my classic first date outfit – honestly, my best advice is to have one of these so that you don’t have to spend ages overthinking it, and can reuse it as many times as you like because no one will ever know. One of my biggest fears is turning up to a venue and not being able to find the guy because he looks different to his profile picture. Unfortunately, he’d grown his hair and beard out so the only way I managed to find him was by finding the table he said he’d be at. As I approached, he was nodding his head pretty violently to a Led Zeppelin song, which although I’m not opposed to, was a clear indication that he was going to be animated.

We had pleasant conversation, and using my incredible first date technique (good outfit, healthy dose of ‘laddish’ banter and about twenty minutes of intermittently staring into their eyes) he leaned in to kiss me. I finished the date off by beating him at pool and he invited himself over to mine.

After about four vodka lime sodas, I was suitably immune to anything he could do wrong. It was dark now and the wind was picking up as we skittered across the road to make the bus. My trench coat flew all around me and it felt like a rom-com. At the back of the bus, he leaned his head onto my lap and I spent the journey running my hands through his coarse hair and making vague remarks about his beard, eyes, lips. Time flew and I hardly noticed the burps as they arose.

Back at my flat, we watched Stath Lets Flats and he laughed loudly and brashly. We smoked cigarettes out the window and he lay in between my legs and gazed at me with sweet drunken eyes. When we went to bed, all my boundaries seemed to melt away which is generally what happens when anyone goes down on me. He called me beautiful as he pushed himself inside of me, and I let him. Now, I love an experimental lover, and maybe I’m a prude, but a man who liked his nipples squeezed is certainly new to me. Afterwards, he kissed me, stroked my hair and talked to me about how excited he was to see me next until my eyes fluttered shut and I began to abrasively snore into his neck.

…

I saw Joe again the next day. He invited me round to his “free house” aka, a man that lives with his parents. When I arrived he was in his boxers and nothing else which is the start of how I knew I’d accidentally fallen into a five-year relationship within 24 hours. He cooked us burgers, I cleaned up around his kitchen, he burped and farted without any hint of embarrassment. We commented on each other’s double chins and I peed as he brushed his teeth. Perhaps it’s an overshare, but he pulled a tampon out of me and put it in an old crisp packet.

We watched a film and ate our burgers, shagged once before bed and once in the morning, a routine which should only exist after a minimum of six months. We left together and he kissed me on the cheek at the bus stop, both knowing we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

Maybe it’s because I’ve got a Venus in Aries, or that I’ve been on far too many dates for my age, or because I’ve been through more therapy than my entire family combined, but dating has been ruined for me. I’ve read the book, written it, and won the award. Perhaps it’s time to switch up the technique, see me next time for an episode of ‘Shy, modest, girl-next-door goes dating’. We’ll see how long that lasts.