I remember an advert, years ago, where a woman is knocked down by a bus. A handsome doctor rushes to her aid, removes her clothing and finds…(Lord, give us strength) mismatching underwear. Naturally, the horrified woman and her disgraced boobs rush out to buy a new wardrobe of matching scanties in lace, frill, bows, satin, velvet and meringue.
Frankly, I think it’s a miracle she was in underwear at all. These days, when it’s a particularly dry spell on the dating front, I’m tempted to just strap a couple of empty crisp packets to my buttocks and hope for the best. I stop shaving, plucking, tweaking and tweazing. I let my lady garden blossom the way nature intended. When Else sang, ‘let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore’, I believe she was talking about a wildly out of control muff.
Alas, it’s my fourth date with the Blond tonight, which means I need to get my act together. I spend 10 minutes in the shower attacking my fanny with a razor, have a little lie down and then squish my lady giblets into scratchy, black lace. If I don’t get laid tonight I’m going to demand my pubes back.
We do the classic date night – dinner and a movie – and it’s fine. The movie is fine. Dinner is fine. Drinks are fine. The whole thing is completely inoffensive, tasteful, a crowd-pleaser: it’s a scoop of vanilla, a side of chips or a week in Europe. It’s Ant and Dec, Britain’s Got Talent or a mild cheddar on white (no pickle).
I have absolutely no complaints and yet I hunger for a spark, for proper belly laughs and butterflies. I want a boozy knickerbocker glory, gorilla-hunting in Rwanda, Black Mirror and a filthy baked camembert with confit garlic. At the very least, I want her to make a sodding move. In four hours she doesn’t try to kiss me once.
I make a decision to head home alone. Somewhere along the way we’ve lost our sizzle and I’m too tired and pissed to find it again. We head to the underground together and briefly get on the same tube. When we alight I pause to consider my next move, thinking my options aloud, and she pipes up:
“You’re the boss, I’m just following you.”
“Wait, you’re…coming back to mine?”
“Errr, yeah. Is that okay?”
Is it okay? On the one hand, I have removed large quantities of body hair for this woman. On the other hand, following someone home without saying anything is just…creepy.
“Seriously, I can jump on the Northern line…”
“No, no it’s fine,” I say, thinking a late night drink might give this night the sauce it sorely needs.
Back at mine, we take rough and tumblers of whiskey to bed. We start making out but I’m too nervous of taking it further after how she reacted. I need her to lead, to let me know that it’s okay to get down and dirty, but she doesn’t. Eventually I give up trying to coax a rise out of my stone cold knickers and suggest we call it a night, tossing her a t-shirt before I hit the lights.
The next morning we wake up and I totter downstairs for coffees. I crawl back into bed for the obligatory 45 minutes of small talk but I get this weird feeling that she wants something to happen. She starts eyeing me up like I’m a fat worm, wriggling closer and closer until I’m perched desperately on the edge of my own bed like a fugitive.
Her desire is so strong it hangs between us like a heavy, heady velvet curtain and yet still she doesn’t make a move. I feel bad but after all the fumbly awkwardness and worry I just can’t get it up for her. I wait her out, resisting her looks and wriggles and little sighs. When she finally leaves I send her a text cutting her loose.
Clearly the Blond wants to have sex, but chasing someone home – or across a bed – isn’t the way to do it. Just because a woman says she’s up for fun doesn’t mean you can silently follow her home and then lollop around waiting for something to happen. If it takes two to tango then I want a dance partner who can occasionally take the lead.
I’ll keep looking for a confident woman who gives me shivers both in and out of the bedroom. But in the meantime…*reaches down and gives muff a little ruffle*…welcome back old friend.