How do you know when you’ve hit your romantic rock bottom? Is it losing your date and then finding her tongue in someone else’s mouth? Or blushing in the doctor’s room as they confirm you’ve contracted your third STD? Maybe it’s taking someone home who looks and smells and tastes like vomit and not realising until you catch their soiled scent the following morning?
So, this Pride I’m a little grumpy. Can I say that? Is that allowed? Or is someone going to come and confiscate my glitters? NO RAINBOW FOR YOU – BACK IN THE CLOSET, NAYSAYER. For one thing, every brand is jumping on the pride bandwagon to flog its wares. From Volvo (“Drive with pride”) to the Body Shop (shining a light through different coloured shower gels to create a rainbow. Caption: “let your true colours shine,”) everyone wants in on #pride – but without showing any actual gay stuff like kissing or holding hands or bumming in the back of a Volvo. Then, there was the conversation I had with a friend recently who said: “Pride isn’t really an LGBT thing anymore, is it? It’s about accepting everyone.”
After our night of passion, the genius and I part ways. No one’s hurt or angry. There are no bad feelings. But we both recognise that this isn’t and probably never will be love. There’s no point flogging a horse that, if not quite dead, is very unwell. She does leave me a parting gift though when she messages later to say: “I had fun last time so feel free to call me in an emergency 😉 x” I smile and slide the gift under the bed. Just in case. The truth is, there’s another reason this won’t work: Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Thai. At the time, I was so hung up on the Friend I never gave us a proper chance. Every time we kissed or laughed or got close I’d feel guilty and back off. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see it was the Thai who made me feel good, who treated me kindly, who left me in no doubt that I was the one she wanted.
It’s my fourth date with Blue Eyes and I’m heading to hers on a Friday night, overnight bag tucked smugly under my arm. She opens the door and she’s so bloody beautiful it takes all my willpower not to ravish her in the communal hallway.
What’s your type? People always ask me that and my response is always the same: I like femme girls. She can be tall, short or middle of the road; blond, brunette, red-head or blue-head; fair, tanned, dark or Boots’ finest; she can be a skinny little slip of a thing or a happy tumble of curves. But (insert grunt here) I like a woman to be a woman *swings club over shoulder and heads into cave*.
I’m filling my mate in on my disastrous date with the Irish: “Why are so many people so terrible at making conversation?” she laughs “it’s like it’s a dying art form. I mean, it’s not that hard to ask a few questions!” “I know! I blame the internet.”
Everyone tells me that dating is a game of numbers: 1, 3, 7, 92, 1000. It makes me wonder how anyone found love 50 years ago; were we less picky back then or does this endless swipe, swipe, swiping actually result in happier unions?