Last night (Saturday) was the third of three dates this week. My first date this week was great, the second one I haven’t written about yet (but suffice to say, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started to make love to his phone mid date,) and this post is about last night’s internet date.
B was originally from near to where I live (the rougher part IMHO,) but was one of a handful of people who have managed to get out and he now lives in London.
So B was 26 – yes, younger than me again, (I know I know,) but we got on well and what with me only looking 26 myself, figured it would be OK to meet.
(WHAT? I DO!)
He asked at the beginning of the week if I’d like to go out on Saturday night but I couldn’t get a babysitter so I asked if he wouldn’t mind just coming round to mine. Weirdly enough, he jumped at the chance. I could hear him quickly shoving his money back in his wallet from here.
If I’m really honest, I wasn’t that bothered if he came round or not. We’d got on when we spoke on the phone but there wasn’t a lot of texting during the week and, and I know how odd this sounds even before I’ve said it, but I found his over politeness a little …. peculiar. (NB: To all the men reading this thinking, “We can’t win!” … You’re right. You can’t. Get used to it.)
He texted me on Saturday morning to see if I was still available and I said I was. His keenness really wasn’t sexy and I didn’t think about the date all day, which should have been a sign that I really shouldn’t have met him if I was that laissez fair about him coming round.
9pm came and sure enough, he was bang on time.
As I opened the door, my heart sank.
He had a lovely face, which is really all I’d seen in the photos he had sent, but he was the size of an eleven year old boy.
He kissed me on the cheek (probably whilst on tip toe,) and I showed him to the lounge. I then repeated the following mantra to myself:
“IGNORE THE STONE WASH JEANS. IGNORE THE STONE WASH JEANS.”
“I brought you a bottle of wine,” he said as he sat down.
A bottle of red. Which I never drink. But it’s the thought that counts, right? (No. No it’s not. It’s the wine. The wine counts.)
I thanked him and promptly poured myself a large vodka.
By now I just wanted to watch X Factor and eat white chocolate in bed. I was meant to be doing a boot fair the next morning and had to be up at 6am. Why the bloody, buggery, bollocks had I invited him round!?
The TV was paused and actually, thankfully, he was really good company. He was more mature that I originally thought he would be and we were on the same wavelength sense of humour wise. And the reason I know this … is because we ended up watching the Gay Network channel together.
I should probably explain.
I’d checked in with my best friend to let her know I was safe. I mean, let’s be honest, I could have just sat on B and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.
Me: “He’s here. Ummmm …..”
Her: “Good ummmmm?”
Me: “So so.”
Her: “Oh. Might have a monster cock tucked away though ….”
Her: “If you wanna fuck him off, put channel 872 on, all nonchalant like, and just carry on talking like normal.”
Me: “I’m SO doing it.”
So I did. My best friend and I have spent many an evening listening to guys ring into the Gay Network channel … it’s weird we’re still single.
If B found it funny, at least some semblance of a decent evening could be salvaged.
So I just put channel 872 on, sat back, and watched what happened.
Thankfully, he found the funny side and we were creasing up with laughter at the voicemails men were leaving. Seriously, if ever you’re in need of a laugh, it’s fricking hilarious. At one point, when Barry from Newcastle rang in and just left a message saying, “I’m Barry. I’m hungry,” I thought we were both going to wet ourselves.
After I turned it off and we resumed ‘normal’ conversation, B turned to me and said:
“I think this is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.”
Oh B, you’re VERY welcome!
I’m not quite sure how he managed to wangle his way over to my sofa, but I’d caught him eyeing up my legs whenever he thought I wasn’t looking so knew he was having a mass debate about how to make a move. Thought the poor bloke was going to have a coronary when I bent over to pick my drink up.
It was getting late and I was conscious he needed to bugger off soon so I figured him coming over to me meant that we could just cut to the chase, have a nice ‘goodnight’ kiss and he’d be gone.
Sweet Jesus Holy mother of Mary and God.
The man child mounted me. Actually hopped onto my lap like a toddler, and kissed me.
Granted, he had big shoes to fill after Wednesday’s hot date, (not difficult seeing as he wore Size 4,) but how can you ever get kissing SO wrong?
And boy, did he get it wrong.
Oh. My. God.
Now, as a singleton, when your lips meet with a new person’s lips you have that split second, stomach churning feeling of ‘this is either going to be totally hot’ or ‘oh crap, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ And you never know until you actually kiss them.
Our lips met. So far so good. The first bit was ok. I was trying to ignore the fact he was actually sitting on my lap. Believe me, it’s trickier than you think. Because he was kissing me from above it was harder for me to control the kissing.
And then the washing machine effect started.
Just take a minute to remember your first ever kiss. Got it? Now, remember how crap it was, what with you being eight years old and having no clue what you were doing. Well this kiss was worse than that.
Think of the shittest kiss you’ve ever had … now triple it. That was his kiss.
I damn near choked on his tongue and I couldn’t subtly pull back because by now, my head was damn near wedged into the corner of the sofa.
So a drastic situation called for drastic measures.
I pushed him off.
He weighed about three stones so it was easy enough but I really don’t think I’ve ever been less turned on.
I pulled the ‘Boot Fair’ card out again which, as a point of reference, is a great way of getting rid of someone, and said he had to go. I offered to call him a cab but he said he’d try and catch the last train back because he didn’t have enough pocket money for a cab. Ok, he didn’t say that last bit, but it was probably true.
And I know I don’t drink red wine, but the bugger left with the wine still in his rucksack/school bag!
I feel robbed. Robbed of the promise of a decent snog and, more importantly, robbed of free alcohol.
Bad times people. Bad times.