When you’re dating women there’s a pitifully small pool to choose from. I’m not even sure it can fairly be called a pool. It’s more of a pond or a puddle or a light drizzle or an egg cup full of water. Where’s my girlfriend? I think mournfully, prodding the egg cup.
My flatmate’s single too and every now and then we compare matches – him scrolling through reams of options from the last week alone whilst I show him the one woman who’s swiped right in the last fortnight.
“Look I have 1,400 matches!” he croons.
“I have 9.”
Things take a turn for the better when I match with the Italian: a dimpled bella donna who has a bit of spark about her photos. I show her picture to my friends and they agree that “she’s hot!”, “phwoar”, “join that vagina carnival!”
I get to know her over a bottle of good wine. She’s lovely: as light and airy as a panna cotta but with a pleasingly playful bite. Our conversation scampers along merrily like a pair of tumbling retrievers and as the night draws in, I start to think I could really like this woman.
“I’ll go get another round in,” she says.
I get my phone out and find a message from my flatmate asking how it’s going.
“Good but we haven’t kissed yet and my last train leaves in an hour! Help!”
“Just do it!” he fires back.
When she comes back from the bar I take a hefty swig of my drink: now or never honey.
“Would it, err, be okay if I kissed you?” I ask crisply, like I’m a polite neighbour asking if I could borrow her ladder. Jesus, I have the sex appeal of a trout.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night,” she replies, brushing her lips softly against mine and threading her arms round my waist. She suggests going back to hers and I agree, butterflies ricocheting wildly in my tummy at the thought that I’m going to sleep with a woman for the first time.
At her flat she leads me by the hand into her bedroom, the floor of which is littered with clothes whilst dirty glasses and tissues wrestle for space on the chest of drawers.
Dear god, please let her sheets be clean.
We have sex and I’m so nervous and fumbly and awkward that I feel about as turned on as I do getting a smear test. I go down on her and am stunned and delighted when I feel the shiver of her climax. Even though I don’t orgasm I’m on cloud nine as she wraps her arms around me and drifts off spooning me.
I wake in the night needing the loo. As I’m washing my hands I see…wait…no…surely it can’t be…an army of tiny insects marching up the wall. There must be a nest. I had sex with a woman who has a nest of insects in her bathroom. I wheel around like I’m in a horror film, half expecting the Blair Witch or the Grudge or Piers Morgan to leer up at me from the mirror.
The next morning I wake early, unsnuggle from the duvet and making a beeline for the door. I kiss the Italian goodbye before striding into dazzling sunshine, safe in the knowledge that I’ll never see her flat again.
“So is that it with her?” my friends gape after I’ve relayed my horror story.
“Oh no, I really like her,” I say her. “But from now on, she’s coming back to mine.”