I had a date this week that I deliberately kept on the down-low. I only told everyone on Twitter … didn’t even mention it on Facebook. I know!
I’d specifically kept rather quiet about it because my track record with dates lately has not been great. Shocking if you will. I’ve been stood up, had to put up with (what I still perceive to be) a racist comment and basically I’ve just been dicked about far too much for my liking. So my plan of action was to say very little and try not to jinx the damn thing.
My date was Scottish (I didn’t hold it against him,) 33 years old, 6ft, funny, HOT, and, for the 24 hours I knew him before I met him (what can I say … I’m a fast worker,) we got on really well. He lives in Essex but said he’d be happy to come over (to my town, not my face (sorry) and asked if I’d agree to go out for a drink with him.
Hmmm … let me see. A date with a young, sexy, smart man – or doing the washing up, watching repeats of Traffic Cops and in bed by 10pm. Who am I kidding? 9pm.
I agreed, obviously, and we arranged to meet on Wednesday night at 7.30pm at my local.
And right up until the very second that I saw my date stood outside the pub waiting for me, I didn’t believe the date was actually going to happen. I expected it all to be a wind-up. That he had no intention at all of meeting me. That it was, in fact, just a joke. That he was married. Or bored at work. Or all of the above. That there was no way this date was actually going to happen.
How sad is that? This is what dating has become for me. Full of cynicism. Convinced that there are no decent guys left out there. Yes, we’d spoken on the phone several times. Yes, he had no problem sending me photos of himself – (mostly) fully clothed I should point out … and yet I was full of doubt.
For someone that’s generally such a positive person, it’s a rubbish feeling.
Anyway, he rang at 7.30pm on the dot, said he was already at the pub and my babysitter very kindly drove me to the pub.
And there he was. As he promised. Stood outside waiting for me.
Was he what I’d imagined? What he’d portrayed? What I’d hoped?
Yes, yes … and yes.
He was gorgeous, smart, and, most importantly, he smelt might-ty FINE.
We had a lovely evening together. He refused to even let me buy a single round. He held doors open for me. He was entertaining. He was great company (as was I, but that goes without saying.)
There was one hairy moment though (wasn’t me, I’d shaved my legs,) when he said:
“There’s something I’ve not been totally honest about.”
My heart sank. Here it comes, I thought to myself. Thought it was all too good to be true.
“For the past nine years ….” he continued.
Oh God, Oh God. WHAT????
“…. I’m a policeman, not a builder like I told you.”
I couldn’t really understand why he’d gone to the trouble of lying but, as he explained, policemen don’t have the greatest reputation and he didn’t want to put me off. To give him his dues, he told me within five minutes of our date and it really wasn’t a big deal. Could have been a WHOLE lot worse.
We had a few drinks and, as he’d been at work at 3am that morning, I called it a night at about 10.15pm. Poor bloke was knackered.
He drove me home and as we pulled up outside my house, I said he was more than welcome to come in but that he’d probably want to get home early. He agreed, we had a brief peck on the lips and he was gone.
So what next?
As great an evening as we had, I just knew he wasn’t interested in a further date. We swapped a text the next morning, each saying what a nice night we had, and that was that.
And we haven’t spoken since.
Sometimes it’s just better to leave on a high. We had a great night and I knew that as much as I’d like to have seen him again, if he was interested, he’d have got in touch. He didn’t, and that’s absolutely fine by me. (Git.)
I’m not even left wondering ‘why?’ There’s no point. Whatever it was, there’s no point dwelling on it.
His loss though, obviously.