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…