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. I know she’s a virgin but if she can’t even give me a snog then what’s the point? 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 sizzle it sorely needs.
Back at mine, we take rough and tumblers of whiskey to bed. We start making out for a bit, but the kissing’s all a bit pokey and sloppy and I can taste dinner on her breath and the whole thing is distinctly meh. 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 sexual desire is so strong it hangs between us like a heavy, heady velvet curtain and yet still she can’t make a move. It’s so odd and unsexy, my desire hits rock bottom. 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.