Last week I had 2 dates. Two! I’m like the Hoff. I’m like the Heff. My pecs were positively quivering with anticipation. It feels good to get back into the swing of things. Sometimes when you’re busy, the search for love can get rudely shoved to the back of the queue. It’s time to shove it back up front again.
The first date is all curls and soft cheeks and a laugh as naughty as a wet thigh. I take her to a Spanish bar where we drink wine at pre-Brexit prices that tastes like piss and bludgeons the back of my head the next day. “Sorry,” I say mournfully and she laughs.
She’s a bit posh and well-to-do and buttoned up, but in a way where if you undid all the buttons you wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of nipple tassels leering up at you. She likes “the penis museum in Iceland,” and “the sex museum in Naples,” and when I head to the bathroom her eyes cling to the curves of my dress. Something about her makes me wonder if she’s a first-timer and I get a pang of nostalgia for when my eyes clung to women’s dresses. At the end of the night we kiss shyly in the shadows of London Bridge station.
My second date is with a lawyer who thinks and speaks and lives at speed. She sends me a stream of photos of her clutching her face tiredly on the tube or at work or in bed, which makes me smile. One day she complains about being too hot: “Look how sweaty my pits are!” she comments on a photo, which only makes me like her more.
It starts in the way all good things start – with candles and scotch – but at some point our conversation snags on the sharp end of a disagreement and comes loose as the night wears on. We get on but we’re just so…different. She likes sport – hockey and football and cycling and squealing in photos with Jessica Ennis – and I’m a bit disappointed until I remember that most of my ex-boyfriends loved sport, and then I feel like a hypocrite and a gender traitor.
More problematic is that she doesn’t watch films (“I can’t seem to sit through them) or read (“I don’t have the time”) and when she says she finds museums boring I gasp like she’s done something shocking. She’s also a party animal – she likes shots and LOUD MUSIC and staggering home at 6am. These days, I like wine and quiet pleasures and peeling back the duvet at 6am. We’re literally as different as night and day. What’s worse is I feel boring with her, like a big, old, dusty tomb of a human that no one wants to read. At the end of the night she gives me a big hug and I never hear from her again.
But hey, one out of two aint bad. I’ve made plans to see Curly Sue – and possibly her nipple tassels – next week. And then, out of the blue, my mate asks if I fancy a date with a mutual friend, bagging me my third date.
There go my pecs again.