Not a member to remember...

I call him the Politico. And I'll tell you this, if he ever ends up running the country, then I shall remove this post, and you (yes you!) will know exactly who it is. But I think we're a way off that.

I met him in the trendiest of London bars. Where the boys mostly wear guyliner and if you're not wearing something asymmetric (regardless of your gender), you're not properly welcome. Well, he wasn't wearing guyliner. And my frock had two sleeves, so really we stuck out like sore thumbs. He was a friend of a friend. He was the same height as me. He was over-eager. But he was cute. And... the clincher... he was smarter than me.

There is nothing as sexy as a bright man. I mean, really. Someone who keeps up with your banter, and delivers it back tenfold? HOT. And let's not forget, I've dated some pretty fucking stupid men in the past (The Chef, who I talk about below, for example, or The Married Man who I'll talk about one day, who I'm pretty sure couldn't actually read). So anyway, it was refreshing to date the Politico.

He turned up at my birthday about a week later. And pounced on me. I had been drinking for 4 hours when he arrived, so I let the pounce happen. Then proper date #1 was another week after that. So we'd met twice, drunk, and done kissing. Frankly, I barely remembered anything about him. My opening line "Great to see you. In daylight. I, um, don't remember what we've talked about. We should probably start from scratch". He laughed. I laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

So, I said. Where are we going?

Reader, he had no plan. No plan at all. Call me cynical. Call me demanding. Call me Obama-obsessed. Call me what you will. But I believe a man should have a plan. The kind of man who wants to run the country ought CERTAINLY to have a plan.

We wandered. We found a bar. We found a restaurant. We found his bedroom. Yes, these things are all true. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

But date #2 was the same. Met at a tube station. Wandered again. Ended up standing in a crowded bar. You'll remember, he wasn't terribly tall. This was not a good angle for him.

Date #3, ditto.

And date #4, he had a plan. But that plan involved me paying for supper.

Of course. I think by this stage it's ok to ask a girl to pay for her supper. I'm old fashioned but not that conservative. Still. If I'd known I was paying, I'd have had dessert too. And perhaps would have chosen a cheaper restaurant (budget considerations in this time of recession, obviously). Still, I had sex with him again (didn't plan on losing out on that part of the evening too. Yes, WE CAN do that.). And it was... fine. Maybe not a labour of love, but he was relatively liberal in his affections...

But, rubbish puns aside, by this point I had pretty much decided didn't want to see him again. I'd kind of met someone else. And regardless, there were far too many other things wrong with him. He rarely called, and he didn't like dogs, marmite, the countryside, or posh people. I like all these things. FFS, some of my best friends are posh people who live in the countryside withdogs! And pretty much all of my family are too. Was a disaster waiting to happen.

Of course, as soon as I decided this, he started calling. A lot. He ad'ministered a lot of attention. Ha. But I brushed him off politely. He was a decent candidate, but a girl's got to have (parliamentary) standards. And, at the end of the day, he just didn't get my vote.

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen...

One of the nicest internet dating experiences I had was with a boy who I simply think of as The Chef. We met at the ICA bar for our first date. And we had almost nothing in common. Oh, except just one thing... utter, insane lust.

It was completely unlike any other internet date I've ever had. Because generally it's the other way around - you think you'll have lots in common, then you actually meet each other and realise there is absolutely no chemistry there at all. With this one, we realised the chemistry right off. And it was explosive.

When I walked in, I clocked him immediately. Totally my type, I thought. Though I'm not sure whose type isn't tall, utterly gorgeous, feline boys with strong arms and melty eyes. But the good news was that he clearly dug curvy little blondes with big blue eyes, so we were on, baby, on. I have no idea what was talked about - because about 5 minutes into the date he started idly running his fingers up my arm. He was a chef by profession, so had burn marks on his arms, but - oh - those arms, just strong and muscled and utterly gorgeous.

We left the bar eventually, to find it was torrential rain outside. Neither of us had an umbrella, so he just grabbed me, and started passionately kissing me against the wall, ostensibly to keep us dry. Reader, I got wet... No, not like that, you filthy-minded wretches, just that the rain was driving at an angle. Honestly.

With the kiss, the strong arms came into their own and he almost crushed me - something that shouldn't have been sexy, but just was. I refused to go home with him, mainly because I think I had a big meeting the next day or something tedious. But saw him again a couple of times afterwards, and eventually went over to his and got naked. May I just say that naked this man was even hotter than clothed? No? Well, let me tell you now... he was.

Can I just add, too, that he had The Lines. (If you don't know what that means, you've not been meeting the right men. The sex lines are those jutting hip bones that just beg you to touch them, inviting you down to what is beneath the trouser line. Mmm hmmm). Wasn't disappointed there either: huge cock. Shame was... he had no idea what to do with it, and the whole thing was over in minutes. Yawn.

Then, afterwards, he confidently said 'You came.'

I replied 'Not this evening, I didn't.'

He looked very put out. I suggested we had supper. He said he had no food in the house. I exclaimed 'But you're a chef!' He looked even more put out, shocked almost, like I'd just asked for him to don a gimp suit or something equally inappropriate. So I went to sleep, woke up hungry, and still horny, so slunk off and never saw him again. Well, you can't date someone who's rubbish in bed, whose chat is basically appalling and - worst of all - who knows how to make incredible food but doesn't make it for you, can you?

Some of the best kissing of my life though. Fact.

And just as a postscript, I still avoid the {insert name of fabulously fashionable gastropub here} too. Would just be weird to pay a man to cook for you whose coq (au vin, ha!) you've already sampled, don't you think?

Your Sunday sermon: Claridges with a Clergymen

I consider myself a very unjudgemental person. OK, so I hate people who overuse exclamation marks, and people who use the word 'literally' wrongly and in fact the word 'anniversary' (it's only an anniversary once a year, people - you can't have a 'one month anniversary' - it just doesn't make sense). Actually while we're on the subject, I judge boring people, vegetarians, people who refer to their cats as their 'babies', men with girlfriends half their age, goths, emos, most people who use the N29 bus, and the woman who lives upstairs who has screaming rows with her boyfriend at all hours, when she's not playing pumping house music.

But in all other respects I'm deeply unjudgemental. Because, let's be honest, I'm a champagne socialist left-wing media professional and so there are some things I pride myself in being a fan of. Like freedom of speech, equal rights, freedom of religion, feminism - those sorts of things. I'm open-minded. Honest.

So when I was asked out by a chap online not so long ago, I said yes. I was still in the 'trying out lots of dating' phase. And he seemed nice, good looking, definitely funny, wrote a brilliantly engaging email to me. Email banter had been great. But then I asked what he did... "Ah," came his reply "I'll quite understand if this means you don't want to go out with me, but I'm a vicar"...

Oh dear God, I thought. Literally. 

It threw me into a quandary. If I said I didn't want to date him, then would I be someone who judged a man just because of his vocation? Because of his faith? Would that make me some sort of religious HATER? Would God (if He exists, and I'm a lasped Christian, so I still deep-down suspect He might) be narked at me for this sort of attitude? What if He punished me for it by making sure I never had sex again?

The only thing I could do was to go. And my reward for agreeing was an enthusiastic "Excellent. Shall we meet in the bar at Claridges at 7pm?" Well, I do like a man who takes you somewhere impressive. 

I got to the Claridges bar and waited. He wasn't wearing his dog-collar, and was not as good-looking as his photographs suggested, so I didn't quite recognise him at first. But when we settled down with martinis of great strength, I thought to myself - ok, see how this goes. And indeed, conversation was excellent. He was super-smart and very witty. But all the time I was thinking 'It's a relief I don't fancy this man. Because - why didn't I realise this before? - there is no long-term possibility with a vicar. I couldn't be a vicar's wife. Nor would I want to be. Nor, arguably, would anyone allow me to be if a whiff of my saucy reputation got anywhere near the community. But also, there is no short-term possibility with a vicar either. You can't have a onenightstand with a vicar. I don't know where it says that in the Bible. But I bet it does somewhere (probably 'Judges'. Ha). And however great an anecdate it'd be, I don't think I could just sleep with someone to say I've done it with a vicar. Won't lie though - it did cross my mind. 

But I crossed it back out again, because that'd just be the most wrong thing I'd ever done, and eventually I made my excuses and left. Would love to go back to Claridges sometime. And he was nice and interesting, so it wasn't a wasted evening. But maybe know myself a bit better now to recognise that I'm probably simply more sinner than saint. I'll pray for my soul, of course. Just not every time I'm on my knees.

Poetry Boy part II

So there I was, in a bar on the other side of the world, specifically in Dubai. The wind was blowing through the gauze in the pink-lit pool bar, where we were sipping pink champagne. I'd love you to imagine this is what my life is like All The Time. But frankly, must confess, it was pretty unusual. Anyway, my pal, the Redhead, who I was holidaying with, had invited her friend C (a Dubai resident) and C's twin who was out there visiting, like us. And in they walk. To this perfect bar. C, and her brother. Who immediately says 'We've met'...

I look nonplussed. He prompts 'At that wedding, last summer?' Reader, that didn't narrow it down. All my friends are merrily trotting down the aisle at the moment. I couldn't place him AT ALL. Immediate thought was naturally that he was someone I'd shagged who I couldn't remember. Then reasoned this couldn't be the case as I'm pretty sure I've never forgotten a shag, but you know how it is... keeping track of the shags is one thing - but the Naked Friends - way trickier.

Anyway, at that moment, we decided to move venue, across town to a free event run by Hendricks gin. (For anyone who hasn't tried it, may I add, YUM.) We went in two cars, thankfully, and he with his twin and the Redhead, leaving me the time to try and work out who the hell he was. And it was in the cab that it dawned on me...

Me: Oh god

Brunette: What?

Me: Oh god. It's Poetry Boy. [brief explanation of below]

Everyone in our cab: Ha ha ha ha ha

Me: No, this isn't funny

Platonic Male Friend: It really is. It's poetry in motion

Brunette: It's poetic justice

PMF: There's no rhyme nor reason

Brunette: Are you a-verse to meeting him again?

Me: OK, you can shut up now.

Rest of the evening was spent drinking gin (good) listening to him witter on (bad), with much reference to our previous banter from him, bemoaning the fact that we'd "lost touch". The girlfriend now apparently "on her way out". I'm like - oh, so it took you 9 months to realise what I think I realised, as soon as it became clear that he'd been emailing me sonnetry whilst still with his girlfriend. Save the poems for the one you're with, buddy. Because, quite frankly, I prefer men who don't flirt with people who aren't their girlfriend. Especially those who justify it as 'not unfaithful', just because they haven't got naked. There's more than one way to cheat, boys.

Anyway, he texted several times the next day. But eventually, with a tiny bit of regret, I wrote 'I am no longer interested in poetry. It's all about prose for me now'. 

I wonder if that's true? Either way, poetry, prose, or random esoteric nonsense, I'm pretty sure he's not The One. I don't think I need verse to seduce me. Just wit, and decency will do. Kthxbye for now...

Poetry Boy

This is probably one of my favourite dating stories ever. Even though it never actually involved a date... It is true though. Start to finish.

It was a warm, summer's night and I'd been at a wedding in Richmond. The bride had looked divine, my table had been awesome, I was half a stone lighter than normal and as such had been filled with confidence and had spent most of the evening being whirled around the dancefloor, and I was brimming with enthusiasm (and champagne). You might think that being the cynical sort of creature who can't meet Mr Right herself, and blogs about it, that weddings wouldn't be my thing, but you'd be wrong. I love them. I love the happiness and the hope and the dresses and the speeches and the flirting potential. But ultimately I love that they make me uncynical, just for a bit. 

Anyway, the breakdown in my cynicism was probably what led to it. There was a bus back to London, full of the groom's drunk Irish family, and a few of the bride's friends, myself included. I found myself sitting next to a handsome boy who'd been on my table. The bride's ex-boyfriend, no less. But I didn't really think anything of it. I was, by this point, a little dishevelled and drunk, if I'm honest. Anyway, so were the raucous Irish, and before we even left Surrey they were singing ditties and reciting poetry, all for the dead relatives, to be sure, to be sure...  I got the giggles and said to my seat neighbour, 'This is brilliant. I wish I could remember a poem to recite. But really, I'm only good at limericks'...

Thus began the banter between Poetry Boy and me. We exchanged email addresses and promised each other limericks for Monday morning. When we got off the bus in central London, such was our bond already that he asked if I needed somewhere to stay as he was living with his parents nearby while his place was renovated. This was moving too fast, even for me - we hadn't even kissed yet - so I said no, pecked him on the lips, and ran away for my connecting night bus.

On Monday, I sent a limerick. He responded in kind. Twice. Then I sent a haiku. He responded again, with his own. I wrote a set of comedy rhyming couplets, I got a set back. I decided to up the ante. I wrote a sonnet.... Silence. For several days. Then I got a sonnet back. I don't know about anyone else out there, but no one had EVER written me a sonnet before. I was amazed, and delighted. Nothing hotter than a hot boy who is also smart enough to out-write me, right?

Wrong. My next email to him was not a rhyme. It just said 'Enough with the sonnets, shall we go for a drink?' I had decided enough was enough. It was, by this stage, nearly 3 weeks since the wedding. And I wanted to actually meet Poetry Boy, sober. And kiss him. Probably.

But silence. Again. And then a message... 'I don't think my girlfriend would appreciate me going for drinks with another girl'.

WTF? I thought. Out loud. Girlfriend? In all the wedding, our coach trip, our poetic endeavours (which had real emails attached about what we were up to as well), and indeed his offer to me to stay at his house... in all this time he'd never mentioned so much as a friend who was a girl, let alone a GIRLFRIEND. So I dashed off a speedy reply 'Gosh. Does she mind you writing poetry to other women?'

His reply 'I'm sure she wouldn't.'

Riiiiiight. Reader, I deleted his emails. I forgot about him. Or at least, I did until our paths crossed in the most unexpected place in the world... Which you can read about in Poetry Boy, part II. Coming later this week...

Guardian soulhates part II - you're the One that I don't want...

Now, sometimes with internet dating, you can end up swamped. Especially if you've had the sense to put up your hottest photo (always do this, ladies, because men are sometimes a *bit* shallow...) so it was with that week. Then it was Easter, which is a 3-line whip in my family, so I was down in the country. Then there was some 3 day work thing that I had to go to every night, and so it happened that I ended up with nearly three week's gap between first suggestion to meet (after some witty email banter) and the actual date, with an internet boy. 

So, I gave him my number. Missed the first call. Got the wittest, most charming voicemail. Called back. Spent 2 hours on the phone. From that point on, we spoke almost every day, interspersed by more witty emails. The day before we were due to meet, he uttered the fateful words "I think this might be something really special. I've waited a long time to meet The One." [long pause]. "I mean. Well, I just think there's potential there."

Okaaaay. I thought. But heck, I'm not dating if not to meet someone special either, right? (I hadn't thought of blogging then, obv). So the next day I turn up for our date. We have a glass of wine, and then he looks at me, grins, and says "I took the liberty of booking a table at Wild Honey" (which had opened just days before to rave reviews). As we walked to the restaurant, he slipped his hand into mine, swung me towards him, and kissed me. It was great. The real life chat was nearly as good as it had been on the phone. Maybe not quite as good, though. And he was shorter in real life than I expected. But on we went. Dinner was delicious. I slightly ignored him being rude to the waiter. After all, he thought I was The One. He was probably just showing off, right?

The next date, he took me for oysters. And I took him home (I'd never tested the idea of whether oysters make you horny. I think they do. But then, almost everything makes me horny, so it's slightly hard to tell). He was filthy in the sack. Which was fun, obviously. He told me he was having the best sex of his life (what can I say? I'm good). But I just wasn't sure I was as into the whole thing as he was. In fact, I wasn't sure I even liked him that much. I worried about how I would tell him this. I literally fretted for DAYS. 

Until it occurred to me... it had been days since I had heard from him. More days passed. I got a text, asking me to meet him. Alright, I thought. Then he stood me up, claiming to have fallen asleep on his sofa, and turned up on my doorstep 2 hours later. Despite my misgivings, we went for a late supper, then fell into bed again. And the next more, he uttered the fateful words ... "I've been thinking, would you... would you like to be... f*ckbuddies?"

Well, I was about as underwhelmed as any girl ever has been with an offer like that. I thought back. He was short, aggressive, rude to waiters, and had stood me up. I wasn't that keen on him at all. But, in spite of this, I had to know... what had happened between our phone chats and this request to change his outlook? He blithely replied "Oh, as soon as I met you, I realised you wouldn't be The One. But it's nice to have someOne to sleep with while the search continues, right?"

Er. No. That way to the door, buddy. I need a shower. Stat. 

Guardian soulhates Part 1 - Anenome Man

When I first dipped my perfectly pedicured toe into the murky waters of internet dating over a year ago, I suspected it really wasn't for me. I'm not entirely swayed by romantic novels, but I'd always suspected that the way I'd actually meet someone would be for our eyes to meet across a crowded room, for passion to take over, and for us to re-emerge from the bedroom, bow-legged and starry-eyed and declaring eternal love about 4 days later. But it wasn't happening. In fact, I was barely meeting any new men. And those I did meet either didn't want to ravish me, or I didn't want to ravish them, or there'd be ravishing and then a hasty retreat backed by one or both parties, never to see again. 

So, eventually swayed by a lovely friend, who'd found love herself that way, I got into it. I opted for Guardian, on the basis that it would be filled with people who were Like Me, i.e. educated, potentially quite attractive, and maybe even quite fun. Well...

There are some upsides to internet dating, there is no doubt. Mainly that it gives you great confidence in getting out of awkward social situations. I also, honestly, think it made me better at work, for this very reason.

But as a way of dating? Not for me. I decide (like most people, I guess?) very quickly whether I fancy someone or not. Lust is important to me. And when you put aside a whole evening, just to meet one of these creatures, but you know within 20 seconds that you never, ever want to see them nekkid, it just feels like time wasted. Like going for a job interview where you have no interest in the job itself, but not having any way of getting out of it without looking like a total bitch. Ahem, I mean, unprofessional person.

Anyway, probably the worst date I ever went on was through Guardian soulmates. We'd been corresponding by email for some time. Not wildly interesting, but he looked cute in the photo - had a full head of hair, a slight closed-mouth smile that suggested there might be dimples...  He boldly marked himself up as 'attractive'. And I thought, yes ok. 

Still, he failed right away really, by arranging to meet at a bar I just knew would be unbearably crowded and refused to be persuaded otherwise. But, boys, you can't go for a first date to a bar you can't sit down at. It just doesn't work. However, we met, but the crowdedness meant didn't have a chance for proper look at one another right at the start. So then we wandered a bit aimlessly, and eventually found a pub where there were seats (mainly because the pub was grim. Of course). Anyway, during this wandering time, I kept furtively glancing over to him. Oh dear. I thought. Oh deary me. There will be no chemistry with this one. Nil by dimples for starters. Then we sat down to drink, and ... Reader... he smiled.

Now, I don't like to mock people for their appearances. I'm hardly Miss Perfect. But I can barely even begin to tell you how horrific it was. His front teeth were at right angles to where they were meant to be. As if they'd been put in his mouth sideways by mistake. As a result, the inside of his top lip was so scarred up that bits of skin hung downwards. It was like one of the Oods from Dr Who. Or like looking at a toothy sea anenome. I actually gasped.

Worse still, he was spectacularly boring. As he told me (with some inevitable spittle landing on my face as he spoke) about his engineering job and how he thinks people with creative jobs are just "wasting time", and ALL I could think was "Do you also think orthodontists are wasting time? Why didn't your parents love you enough to sort this out? How the hell can I leave?"

Anyway, I don't go to press parties for nothing. I downed my drink, like a seasoned alcoholic, and gazed at the glass balefully. He spluttered (literally) "Can I get you another drink?" to which I replied calmly "I'm terribly sorry. I have a train to catch." I don't know where the train idea came from, but he seemed to buy it. Well, until I walked off in the opposite direction of the station I claimed to be aiming for...

Anyway, to this day, I don't know what was worse. My (lack of) excuse. Or his (lack of) dental work. But I just had to leave. Apart from anything, I needed to wash my face. And my hands of internet dating. At least for a little bit...

But I did go back to it. And met a man who thought I was The One. That was, until we actually met. Yet another true story from the dating frontline... I'll tell it to you soon.

xoxo.

Datiquette

Because, boys, there really ARE rules. As listed here:

1) Make a plan. No girl (specifically, me) likes to arrive at, e.g., London Bridge, only to be taken to a bar where there is nowhere to sit, and then to a restaurant where the lack of booking means you end up dragging around all the other restaurants in the area, only to end up at a chain restaurant across town.  If you are in doubt of a plan, ask one of your female friends, for godssakes.  Or, if in London, try www.squaremeal.co.uk, www.london-eating.co.uk, and/or www.viewlondon.co.uk

2) Be original. There's nothing wrong with dinner and drinks, but you might want to try and be memorable. For good reasons. Though perhaps a little background work too - don't take her to a funfair if she's scared of large teacups, etc. For decent ideas of where to go, try the city blogs - www.metrotwin.com, www.londonist.com etc

3) Old-fashioned charm goes a long way. Hold the door open, pull her chair back for her so she can sit down, compliment her on her outfit. In short, make her feel feminine. And if it's a first date, then for heaven's sake, pay. You can go halves next time around, but otherwise it looks like you're a cheapskate. Sorry, but it does. Plus you probably earn more than her - the glass ceiling does still exist after all. So suck it up. She'll think you're generous. And generous in public suggests generous in the sack, boys. (On which note, if you're not generous in the sack, you have even more work to do at this stage). If she insists on going half, or indeed paying for the whole first date, it's a firm indication that she does not want to sleep with you.

4) Kiss her. If she lets you pay, you get on well, and there is flirting, then do swoop in and kiss her. Nothing worse than a brilliant date followed by an awkward pat on the shoulder. Also, on this note, it is actually OK to sleep together on the first date. Categorically. You can then resort to a bit more restraint if you like, but first date night - anything goes. This could be the springboard to something special. Make it memorable. And by memorable, of course, I mean orgasmic.

5) Call her. And by call, I don't mean TEXT. Just pick up the phone and damn well tell her you want to see her again. Because otherwise she already thinks you don't. Most girls don't like game-playing. But the thing they like even less? Laziness. Oh, and cowardice. You can pre-game your call with a text, I'll allow that. But just call her within 3 days. If she likes you, and you like her, it'll be worth it.

And there we have it. Five simple rules to dating success. It seems so obvious. But at the risk of ranting... WHY THE F*CK DO SO FEW GET IT RIGHT? Sigh. Point 5 causing me the most issues this week. Though said boy (who we shall call the Politico) was also responsible for the date scenario laid out in Point 1, so perhaps it's not the end of the world... Also had to explain this info to The Ex, who is currently on the market again. He seemed genuinely surprised. Which spurred me on. These rules need to be laid out somewhere. For the Good Of Womankind.

Greek myths disbanded

To quote my pal Rachel 'You've got to have a date to find a date' and indeed that has often proved to be the case for me. One example was a matter of weeks after I'd been out with the "you're not funny" bloke, I found myself at a dinner party, regaling everyone with that same story in salacious detail (see below).

Anyway, the room loved the anecdate. I was working it. People were laughing. I was back "on form" as any number of the posh kids in the room would have said. But the person who seemed most interested was a stunningly handsome Greek. When I say Greek, I just mean an English public schoolboy with the longest eyelashes in the world and a rather unpronounceable name. He insisted on sitting next to me at supper to hear more, but I promise I was so dazzled was I by his utter beauty that it didn't even occur to me that he was flirting. And so my wit didn't dry up at all, as is so often the case around such extremely pretty boys. Honestly, when he pounced in the hideous nightclub (complete with £15 vodka tonics, sweat on the walls, and gaudily-dressed Eurotrash types), I was utterly surprised. My wit then departed me for good. In fact, I think my response was: "Oh. Wow."

But even this didn't put him off, and we went back to his place, and he dazzled me further with some expert kissing and a couple of very pleasant orgasms. He kept telling me how I was just incredibly sexy. Always nice to hear. Until I realised the Europop had deafened me slightly and he was actually saying "You are so sexual". [sidepoint, I am listening to music as I type this and SWEAR DOWN that Marvin Gaye's "sexual healing" just came onto the radio. Amazing.] Anyway, I ignored this, but was unable to ignore his prolonged description of how his ex-girlfriend really hadn't been sexual at all. Again, not much you can say to that. I believe I opted for "Um."

But the next morning, again, utterly adoring, gazing from under those eyelashes, and popping out to the farmer's market to buy the wherewithal to make me a smoked salmon and organic scrambled egg breakfast. "Stay here," he insisted. "Use any of the products in the bathroom." Well, my oh my. He had more products than me and my 2 sisters combined. Standing in the shower, I realised what I'd done. I'd not pulled some Greek Alpha Male type. On the contrary, I'd found me a metrosexual. It explained why he was sensitive about his ex, and surprised to meet a woman who actually enjoyed sex, etc etc. 

It was utterly novel. For the time we dated, I was in the company of someone who ALWAYS smelled good; who appreciated arthouse cinema (I pretended I did too), who thought of me and called when he did; who made sure I came first, whose sheets had a higher thread-count than my own. For a brief little moment there, I thought I was onto a winner.

But, as Socrates said [(c) Wikipedia] 'people who take the sun-lit world of the senses to be good and real are living pitifully in a den of evil and ignorance'... And so the cracks began to show. Most notably when he came out of my bathroom complaining that none of my moisturiser was suitable for his sensitive skin. The chatter about his girlfriend held up. Indeed all the chatter seemed to be mostly about him: his work, his family, his Greekness, his skincare regime, etc. I started to wonder if I was nothing but a sounding-board for this personal ego-massage.

So, lying in bed (after generously giving some pretty spectacular head... and fyi metro-sperm does actually taste better), I leant over and tested my theory, purring "Isn't it your birthday next week?" Even in spite of having suspected the basic result, I don't think I could have been more surprised when he replied blithely "Yes. It is. And I'm having a party. And you're not invited."

Turns out he was desperately worried about how he would introduce me to his pals, since we weren't properly a couple, and it was still early days, and it was just a small event, and how could he possibly not invite old friends, but invite me? As he wittered on about this personal concern of his and how very tough it had been coming to this decision, I came to one too. It was fun mounting the Olympus, but Eros hadn't shown up. So it was time to let that ship sail...

Getting back in 'The Game'

Now, it was in the aftermath of months of the retrosex I was blogging about below, that I stumbled back into the dating scene. Blinking in the sunlight of this decision, I determined, this time, to be open to all suggestions. (Except the suggestion to do The Bad Thing with someone who I’d already seen naked. Obviously.)

Which was what led me to say yes to Mr A. We met at a party on a Sunday just before Christmas. It was my fourth party of the weekend and, reader, I was jaded. And for ‘jaded’, you may as well just read ‘drunk’. You know what the festive season is like. All that is keeping you going is mulled wine, mince pies, and the heady thought of a few days rest in the not-too-distant future. Well, that was the stage I was at. Wearing this excellent vintage white wool dress (think Dynasty does Aspen). Anyway, when someone thrust a pint of port into my hand my options were throwing up, or drinking up. So of course, I chose the latter. As the evening descended into its usual Christmassy debauchery, I found myself on the edge of a sofa next a boy. He sort of leant against me. And thence we chatted a bit. But, quite simply, I was plastered. And at midnight, did my Cinderella act, and headed back towards North London.

I doubt Cinders awoke with port stains on her frock, but that’s by the by. Because Mr A contacted me on Facebook the next day, asking for my number. Then he texted me solidly throughout the festive period. At 12.01am on New Year’s Day, he sent me a message wishing me a Happy New Year. And we arranged a date for the following week. By text.

[As an aside, I’m an old-fashioned girl. So I don’t really consider text and/or facebook suitable tools for ‘asking out’. I want to judge your voice, goddarnit. But I remembered my resolution and set out to meet him.]

Now, remember, I had spoken to this bloke for all of a few minutes. But when we met, it was immediately apparent that he had read MUCH more into this interchange than I had. He’d booked places for dinner, then drinks, and talked at length about the build-up to this Exciting Date. I looked at him and felt underwhelmed. Still, prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, we sat down for dinner and we chatted amicably. But lord, from my p.o.v., there wasn’t much to say. You know that panic where you find yourself lining up questions to ask next? Well, I eventually resorted to ‘If you went on Mastermind, what would your specialist subject be?’ (fyi, mine would be the Works of Jilly Cooper).

Anyway, he looked thoughtful, then Mr A proved himself to be Mr A-quarius. ‘It would DEFINITELY be star signs’ he replied. Despite his assurance that his job was – would you believe it? – in science, he claimed he wholeheartedly believed in Sun and Moon signs. He told me at length why I was cynical (a product of being on the cusp or something like that) and I told him at length why he was NUTS. He then glared at me and said ‘You know, you’re not as funny as I thought you’d be.’

I repeat, just to give you a sense of how aghast I was ‘You’re not as funny as I thought you’d be’… I just sat there. Mouth open. Mainly because, perhaps vainly, but I pride myself in being funny. And honestly, hearing that was somehow worse than being told I was ugly. It was a total kick in the teeth. Maybe I'd lost the ability to date? Maybe it was me who'd caused it to go so wrong?

He blithely continued to eat, seemingly oblivious of the hurt he'd just just caused. And I just sat there. Trying, remembering my resolution - to give him, and other men, the benefit of the doubt. But the niggling insults kept feeding through. Until eventually my pride got the better of me and I thought ‘Heck. I’ve got to get out of here’.

At which point, as if reading my mind (and reading it wrong) he practically crawled around the banquette, gazed deep into my eyes and said ‘I think we’ve got A Connection’. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I thought not. He replied ‘No, I don’t think you understand. I mean A CONNECTION’, grasping my hand between his sweaty palms and swooping in for a kiss.

I thought not. And so scooted out the other side of said banquette, grabbed my coat and scarpered. I could make no sense of the whole evening. How did I go from unfunny to ‘connected’? It was all very mysterious. That was, until I discussed the whole conversation with Richard, a male friend and occasional dawg. He roared with laughter and told me that this was classic behaviour of a man who has read ‘The Game’. Apparently it’s Neil Strauss we have to thank for men who insult us, hoping to knock our confidence until we agree to Let Them Put It In Us.

Well, Strauss. I have news for you. It doesn’t work. Or, at least, not on this Blonde. Because I left whistling, giggling and thinking that at least I knew what I categorically didn’t want in the men I date. Because I’ve no time for men with stupid insults and dumb supposed beliefs in star signs. If you want to get me in bed – charm, intelligence and margaritas go a much longer way…

My name is The Blonde. And I am a retrosexual…

The nice thing about having ex-boyfriends is… Heck, answers on a postcard, people. Because I can’t find a reason.

Luckily, most of mine have handily disappeared (remember, ladies, for this option, aim for boys with No Mutual Friends). But others seem to loiter. On the corners of your life. At the parties you go to. Glowering from the corner when you talk to someone else mostly. Regardless of the fact that They Broke Your Heart.

I’m talking, in fact, specifically about The Ex. You know the one. You weren’t in love with him, but you thought you were. And the reason you thought it is because the sex was more mindblowing than skydiving after a double mochaccino (oh, and do remind me to tell you *that* story at some point). You cried for weeks after breaking up. Because The Ex is one of the only people who you’ve secretly imagined yourself ending up with. Not least because you might never have sex that good again. So you quietly imagine scenarios in which he might fall in love with you too one day. You do all this to justify the fact that, months after breaking up, you’re still shagging whenever you are drunk/tired/in the vicinity of one another’s house.

But I decided to stop all this. I went cold turkey. Well, not exactly cold turkey. I just decided to sample other… ahem… meat. And gradually we became friends. But ladies, ladies, ladies. If there’s one piece of advice I can give you. HE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. HE IS YOUR EX. Which was why, 2 years after my initial resolution, we ended up in bed together again. Drunk, naked, and still as mindblowing as ever. Just once more, I said to myself. But without feeling…

Weird logic then kicked in. I desperately didn’t want him to be the last person I slept with, lest the lust-driven part of my brain would start thinking it was in love with him once more. So the next day I arranged a drink with The Colleague. Who had also been a fling several months before. Ended up in bed with him too. Then later that week, got a call from The Agent, who’d also been a fling about a year before. And ended up in bed with him too. But had forgotten how hopeless the Agent was in bed. So two weeks later was back in bed with The Ex.

It was retrosexuality in the extreme. But my abiding memory from that week? Really? Truly? Was actually just that I was doing laundry. All the time…

There is nothing like a date...

Just like the fruit they're named after (n.b. Check fact), dates can be wonderful things. Sweet, sticky, moreish... a delicious morsel to savour for far longer than the initial experience. Or, you know, if the quality isn't there, just dry and slightly unappetising. And we won't go into the ones that give you food poisoning...

Oh no. Hang on. That's basically the point of this blog.

In short (and you may have noticed), it is the 21st century. An era that has brought us the iPhone, the Amazon Kindle, and Barack Obama. All fantastic US imports of recent invention (n.b. I accept that the sainted 44th wasn't 'invented', per se, but you know what I mean). However, way before they got their politics right, the Yanks had been doing something for years that we over here openly admired. No, not HBO dramas (though, obviously, those at well). But my point (I'm getting to it) they had a dating culture. People, usually of the opposite sex, met and went for coffee, for drinks, for walks in the park. This all before bumping uglies. We gazed on, perplexed, and wished we had it too.

Jealousy eventually got the better of us though. So FINALLY, right here in merry old England, it seems this dating malarky is really happening. Speed-dating. Internet dating. Double dating. Good old fashioned dinner-and-a-shag dating. It's all there. And everyone has a story. I think/suspect/fear I have more than many...

And there is no anecdote more amusing than an anecdate.

Enjoy, my strangers. And do add your own. I know I'm not alone...