From famine – to feast. I’ve joined a dating website and things are finally hotting up. Well, I’m talking to three people. Maybe things are warming up. Taking the chill off? I’m wearing a light cardigan in the Arctic. Either way, this is good. It’s been 4 months since I last shared a bed with someone – time to get some flesh on these pallid bones. My favourite (favourite – what luxury!) is obviously a woman who lives in Manchester. Why date someone from your home town when you can date someone 3 hours away? I wonder how far my search for ‘the One’ should go. Coffee in Edinburgh? Dinner in Paris? A quickie in the Gambia? Maybe this is what love looks like post-globalisation. I get my T-shirts from Taiwan and my orgasms from Timbuktu.
Writing a good dating profile is hard. There’s so much pressure to cram your whole self into a couple of sentences and a photo. What if you miss off some vital bit of information that could have elevated your profile from a ‘no’ to a ‘maybe’ or even a ‘yes’? What if, off paper, you and the other person are perfect for one another but none of your words fit together as they should? You want to paint yourself in the best possible light without getting ridiculous; to not try and pass yourself off as a sumptuous Boticelli when you’re more of a scuzzy Bacon. You also just want to sound normal. I’ve tried to nail it so many times. I used all the best words. And yet, here I am – still single, still writing.
“Go on, send her a message.” “No.” “It’ll be fun! Look, she’s a pole dancer!” “No, what’s the point? I’ll be going home soon.” “That’s the point! Or what about this one? She’s cute.” “Dammit woman, no! I don’t want to have empty sex with some stranger.” “Fine.”