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Dick pix, location requests and way too much information.
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Sweaty palms, a pocket full of jonnies and probably far too much hair gel.
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You may remember that a little while ago I wrote an article on speed dating, and then another on gay dating apps. Now, with these powerful tools and a sense of decency about me (apparently) you’d think by now I’d be snapped up and happily taking soppy photos for Instagram. Well surprise, I’m not! That’s not through a lack of trying mind you but I am quickly coming to a conclusion that to know your own mind is to have a lonely mind.
Dating really is a mine field if you have your wits about you and know what you are looking for (within reason). I see countless examples where people who aren’t that fussy who they land with so long as they land with someone that go on these awkward (and from the outside appear to be utterly dull) dates and claim to have a whale of a time. Now while I don’t want to steal from their enjoyment, awkward dates usually mean chemistry and rapport issues. The two things that, if gotten right, usually lead to bigger and brighter things.
So a date I went on once, the lead up to it was perfectly normal, seemed nice and chatty, we appeared to have a lot in common and eventually decided to go for a few drinks in Shoreditch – somewhere a bit different! Well, the person who turned up was not the person I had been speaking to. Now I accept that people get nervous, so being the outward person I am, I try to put them at ease with what I know they’ve said they enjoy. And I give it a little time, as time often relieves nerves. But this guy was just not out going by any stretch of the imagination, confidence levels through the floor and appeared to have abandoned any common interests we had. After the first bar I thought it would naturally be a good point to end but he wanted to continue. So, as I’m a game bird I ran with it. But the night just got worse not better.
After about three hours of an utter car crash of a date we parted ways and while I was sat on the train home wondering about what stiff drink I could have when I got in, he text me saying what a wonderful time he’d had and that we should do it again? I thought it was a wrong number at first as he clearly wasn’t at the same date I was at. I politely outlined that there was no connection there and thanked him for his time but seriously? I know I can be away on other planets some days but this was just something else.
That click that you have with someone, to me is of major importance. So if you don’t even click when talking online then why on earth would I travel half way across London just to put a face to a tinder profile? It’s just not going to happen. But when you try and outline that, suddenly you’re the bad guy for ‘leading them on’. When did conversation to try and establish rapport become ‘leading someone on’?
Sometimes too much rapport can even be a deal breaker. Another date I went on involved a guy that was far too eager. Was terribly interested in everything I did and was about, probed far deeper than the level of small talk into my life and history. But when I wanted to know about his, the answers were often vague or very high level. For me, personally, while it’s nice that someone takes a keen interest in you (doesn’t happen often these days) if they have no substance behind it for themselves then what or who are you dating? Just an empty shell that wants to fill their own lives with yours. Am I that far out there by wanting someone who has their own world and we have a mutual wish to enter each other’s worlds?
On the flip side of that I appreciate that people can be too picky after a while. Small things like how you think they’ll get on with friends, or if they can be presented to work colleagues become deal breakers and let’s be honest they aren’t really deal breakers in the grand scheme of things. But after a few car crashes you do start to look at these things and seriously wonder when talking to them online “can I take you to the work winter social…. Hmmmmm maybe not…. NEXT!”.
I may or may not be guilty of doing that.
Friends certainly accuse you of it. The amount of times I get told that I’m being too picky and that I’m still single because of it drives me up the wall. A string of bad dates does not equal picky. Getting rid of dates for small reasons (a hair out of place for example) is being picky. As someone who is so very far away from perfect I don’t reject people on that basis. But if there is no connection, no rapport and their idea of a good date is awkward silence then sorry peeps, I’ll be as picky as the Australian immigration system. If you haven’t got the skills, you aren’t coming in.
Dating is generally a bit of a minefield but to my fellow single pringles I say this, there is nothing wrong with knowing what you will and won’t accept. But be realistic, keep yourself firmly in the practical world and something will come along. And if you haven’t already I do recommend speed dating. Even the pickiest or clingiest singles have their picky/clinginess tested with a room full of 27 other gay men. For the record I turned up to the last one looking like a scene from Bridget Jones, wet (it was raining), pale (I had a cold) and smelly (it had been a long day and a very stuff train). I wouldn’t have picked me either!!!
I suspect this will be the first of a series of posts on this. Sharing some my experiences plus some others experiences too. Seeing how we can all navigate the dating world to get the most out of it, or at the very least, get some enjoyment out of it.
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In case your memory needs jogging, the night before was when Houdini, AKA Michael twat bag wank piece, vanished from sight on our first date. Ooh, if my mum is reading this, she will wash my mouth out with fairy liquid.
I roll over and pull open the curtains. Cor, the sun hits my eyes like a slap around the chops with a wet cod. And the realisation dawns on me that the previous night’s date was not a dream. It was a harsh reality. What could have happened to him?
I suddenly become all drama queen. What if he was kidnapped? What if he’s laying in the bottom of the Thames, with bricks tied to his feet? Before my imagination runs anymore wilder than John Wayne’s stallion, my phone beeps with a text message. My jaw slaps down on my blue pillowcase like a sack of potatoes. It’s only from Michael.
My first instinct is to lob my phone out of the window. But my calm, non-drama queen side kicks in and I decide to press open on the message instead. what a novel idea.
“I’m really sorry about last night. Everyone decided to move on to another club and we couldn’t find you to tell you.”
Mmm, my mind starts ticking. It seems a plausible excuse but then I think, why didn’t you just text me last night to tell me where you were?? I quickly text him my thought and he replies,
“I was just so drunk. I didn’t think. Sorry again.”
At least I now know he’s not a captive on some pirate ship or fish food at the bottom of the Thames.
As I drag myself from my pit, he texts again.
“Do you wanna do something tonight?”
My nostrils flare like George’s dragon. The bare-faced cheek of the man. Actually, not man. Boy.
But then I suddenly think to myself, I can’t be a bitter old queen for the rest of my living days.
“I’m going to an aerobics class with my mate tonight. You’re welcome to join.”
He accepts. But how events unfold later, it’s a decision he comes to regret.
Cue my very long and dear best friend, Tullene. Hell hath no fury like this girl when her gay best friend has been scorned by a boy.
I drive to Michael’s house and he jumps in the front seat. He is very bashful but he starts talking and I decide to let bygones be bygones. As we pull up outside Tullene’s house, I see her walk towards the car abnormally and uncharacteristically fast. She throws a death glare at Michael. If looks could kill, he’d been ten foot under. I can’t work out whether it’s her protective nature or the fact that she’s had to sit in the back of the car.
The car journey to the leisure centre is rather frosty and for a girl with a gob the size of the Grand Canyon, it’s also very quiet. I break the awkward silence.
“Tullene! This is Michael.”
Her nostrils flare. And if you know Tullene, this is a very scary prospect and sight.
“So you’re Michael? That scrawny little runt who just upped and left mark in a London club.”
She barked worse than a Jack Russell.
As if the car ride wasn’t awkward enough. I look in the rear view mirror and see Tullene’s ears doing an impersonation of a kettle.
Michael seemed lost for words which didn’t help his case against Tullene. She hates to be ignored. I see her arm reach for the seat belt and she goes to tug on it. I gasp and shout, “TULLENE!”
Phew! I saved the poor boy from seat belt strangulation.
In my capacity as peace maker, I defuse the situation.
“I’ve given Michael a second chance. So I’d really love it if you did too. For me.”
Her nostrils start to deflate to a normal size and I can see her starting to calm down. She also loosens her grip of his seat belt.
As we enter the aerobics class, I start to take a dislike to Michael’s personality. He’s very cocky and he actually begins to get on my moobs.
We manage to get through the aerobics class without talking and towards the end, he gets a stitch. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.
As we dab the sweat from our brows, I decide I can’t bear to spend another minute in the presence of Michael. I feel like I might develop a rash just by breathing the same air as him. We all go to get in the car and I turn to Michael.
“There’s only enough room for me and Tullene.”
His jaw drops.
“There’s a bus stop over there!”
Tullene high fives my orange palm and we drive off, leaving Michael doing a very impressive impression of a fish.
Now that’s gay power.
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According to a new poll, one in three heterosexual people have fantasized about having a same-sex fling or hook up. The survey which was created by dating website StraightButCurious.co.uk asked 100 people who consider themselves as straight if they’d consider having a relationship with a same-sex partner.
The website launched this month and the is the only site which is exclusively targeted at bi-curious dating in the UK
Women, in general, were more open to the idea of having a same-sex relationship with 41 per cent saying they’d be open to the idea of experimenting with another woman. The men questioned, however were a little more reserved. Nearly a quarter of men polled in the survey said they’d be ready for the plunge.
Only one in six said they’d actually do anything about it. Seventeen per cent of women and 14 per cent of men said they’d actually do something about their fantasy.
Founder of the site Tara Gordon says,
“The survey shows that there being heterosexual isn’t absolute. There are lots of people open to experimenting, who would never openly come out as gay or bisexual. In real life the gay scene can be intimidating if you are new to it, so this site gives people the opportunity to experiment and go at their own pace.”
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The question is would you have a fling with someone who identified as heterosexual?
If you’re looking to find a long-term partner you’re more likely to find him brunching in New York and not in London, so says matchmaking expert Jacqueline Burns at the Vida Consultancy.
The award-winning consultant blames the lack of social spaces for gay people and London’s “hedonistic” drinking culture.
She told THEGAYUK,
“There aren’t enough places where gay men can socialise, and those that do exist, either in Soho, Vauxhall or Clapham can be quite hedonistic and are mainly party areas.”
She also warns that nighttime prowling could be damaging to your chances of finding love in London.
“The majority out and about are younger men, looking for fun, and they may still be in the early stages of exploring their sexuality. Trying to meet someone after 8pm is not the ideal environment to be your true self and meet someone whose values reflect your own.
According to the expert, New York’s dating scene is more “day focused” with an active brunch scene, weekend trips to the Hampton’s or boat trips to Statue of Liberty. London on the other hand has a Saturday night focus which revolves around boozing.
Burns also warned that as well as problems with drugs and promiscuity in most gay clubs in London, it is increasingly unsafe for gay men.
Recent studies show that around 9000 men are raped each year in the UK, that’s 12% of the national total reported, whilst in London, 307 men reported being raped to the Met Police, a 120% increase over 2012 figures. These figures may be much higher as sexual crime has a notoriously low levels of reporting, even more so among men.
She continued,
“While the Tinder revolution means there is now an endless choice of sexual partners, many gay men are actually looking for marriage and children and London’s hedonistic and fragmented social scene is not conducive to this.”
ALSO READ: London’s most gay friendly neighbourhoods revealed.
ALSO READ: Top 10 gay dating apps reviewed
So, I’ve been chatting away to this guy on gaydar. God, I’m showing my age. The days before Grindr entered the gay scene and took promiscuity to a whole new level. His name is Michael and after a fortnight of making small talk, I suggest we meet for a date. He comes over all shy and says he gets nervous of dates. I feel like giving his face a slap. Man up, I go to type but I keep the words inside my head.
He tells me his friends are throwing him a birthday bash in the village, a small bar-cum-dance floor in Soho, for you non-gay readers. He invites me along. Alarm bells should have started ringing at this point, but being the hopeless romantic that I am, I think, f*** it, I’ll go! It should take the nerves out of the first date, I reasoned.
But, as I won’t know anyone, I decide I must take a friend. Cue my university partner in crime and best friend, Thwack. Not her real name but one I coined for her on the first day our eyes met in our history of English lecture.
She’s a little unsure at first but after a gentle arm twisting, literally, (she brings out my viscous side), I persuade her. We decide to get on the night bus which takes us straight into Soho. An eventful bus ride, which still haunts us to this day.
We jump on the 207 on a dark winter’s night and opt to sit upstairs on the double decker beast. A decision we still regret to this day. As we journey through Southall and then Ealing, we are joined on the upper deck by people who I will describe as undesirable. Think Jeremy Kyle participants and you’ll be half way there. They are very loud and like to swear. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like to have a good swear as much as the next person, but they took swearing to a whole new level of Tourette’s.
As they get louder and their Tourette’s seems to get uncontrollable, our eyes widen with fear. We don’t say a word. We don’t have to. We look at each other and I know we are thinking the exact same thing. Are we going to make it to Soho alive? Nervous laughter soon kicks in which whips us into even more of a frenzy. We are holding onto each other’s hands for dear life.
As I see the bus pull into Tottenham Court Road, I jump up from my seat quicker than a fat kid whose had McDonald’s waved in front of his face. I feel like performing fellatio on the bus driver, to show my gratitude for surviving the bus ride alive.
We literally can’t get off the 207 quick enough and before you can say drag queen, we are inside the village, large vodkas in hand. Michael comes to introduce himself. My god, he wasn’t lying about being shy. We have a little dance, share a little lingering kiss and then me and Thwack decide we want another vodka. I kiss Michael and tell him, I’ll be back. Just call me Arnie!
Now, I’m not even joking you, we can’t have been gone more than five minutes, but as we turn around, Michael is nowhere to be seen. For those of you who have frequented the village, you’ll know there’s not many places to hide. We scoured the place, toilets, dance floor, smoking area. He had done a f***ing Houdini on us and vanished…
To be continued…
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Christ, that means I’ve been undateable for a total of 14 years. Yes, I hear the sound of shocked voices. That man can’t be 32! But yes readers, I am. It’s amazing what a bit of exfoliation can do for your skin. Oh, and not forgetting the needle full of Botox I regularly get pricked with. Well, I have to get a prick from somewhere. (Clears throat)
Anyway…
Back to my flashback which takes us back to the wonderful year of 2002. The year that bought us the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and Girls Aloud! The latter being my most memorable and personal favourite. But back to something else that wasn’t my particularly most favourite memory of that year, the date that was organised by my friend’s 50-year-old mum.
So, there I am this one morning, having coffee with Gwen. I mean, she isn’t the most sane of people you’ll ever meet, but I’ve had my fair share of mental institute moments over the years myself. So who am I to judge? As I take a sip on my mocha. I’m sure I would have been drinking a mocha. It’s only since I’ve hit my 30s have I become partial to an espresso. So as I sip the mocha, she announces she’s set me up on a date with this lovely man she works with on check in.
An airport worker.
Now, my dear Nan, God rest her soul, taught me I should never sit in judgement of others. But sometimes I find that piece of advice very hard to swallow. For some reason, in my sinful judgemental mind, I associate anyone working at the airport as a slag and having a man in every country. I know my face needs a slap as obviously he only works on check in, so unless he has a very long lunch break, I rationalise that he can’t make it to other countries.
After I’ve given my chops a quick swift slap, I take in the details of the date. It’s this Saturday, at 7pm and I’m to meet him at the Birdcage. Cor, the Birdcage in Chiswick, now that is showing my age. As I take the final chocolatey sip of my mocha, she throws the final, and possibly most vital, piece of information at me.
My new date is 50-years-old. My jaw slaps the ground, like a concrete slab thrown from the top of Big Ben.
As I look in the mirror at my fresh, youthful, wrinkle free face, I tell myself age is but a number. I mean, what does it matter that he’s 31 years older than me? Not a problem. He could be the man of my dreams, I shouldn’t be ageist, I tell myself. As the stark realisation dawns on me that he’s the same age as my dad, I begin to gag but a shot of vodka and a Marlboro Light soon slaps that image out of me.
I walk up to the bar of the Birdcage. I’m unfashionably early, purely because my best friend booted me out the car as she wanted to get back to see the Pop Idol final. I order a pint of Fosters. I decide beer is the best drink for me to consume this evening, it gets me less pissed and if I’m dealing with a senior citizen, I must keep my wits about me. I grab my pint and take myself to a small round table and perch myself on a bar stool.
As I finish off my first pint of Fosters, a man with a shopping bag approaches me. He asks me a question but my eyes are firmly placed on his shopping bag. Had Roy Cropper just walked in? (For those of you who have never seen Coronation Street, Google this man and you will have the image of my date).
Let’s call my date Roy from now on, as his actual name escapes me. Call it the early onset of Alzheimer’s or even just my own mind’s ability to block it out. As this is a date I have tried to forget all through my twenties. And it’s also the date that set the precedent: never let your friend’s mum set you up on date.
Now I wouldn’t have minded being on a date with a 50-year-old, had Roy not acted and looked like he was 75! I know I’m partial to being a little dramatic, but on this occasion I really don’t think I am being. I mean, the shopping bag said it all! He bought me a pint of Fosters, so that’s a point in his favour but I needed another one to block out the dull tone of his voice as he discussed trains and planes that he liked to spot. Wonderful, I’m sat with a train spotter. I really should have remembered to cross dear old Gwen off my Christmas card list. But I don’t like to think of myself as a bitter old queen.
Five pints of fosters later (all bought by Roy, may I add), and I am somewhat tipsy. I notice his body language. He starts to touch my hand, then my arm. He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. This young pretty boy sat in front of him, pissed on Fosters, who needed looking after. After the sixth pint (also bought by Roy) I started to feel myself returning his body language gestures. A metaphoric slap later and I was in the toilet, on the phone to my best friend.
“You must pick me up!” I pleaded with her.
“But the winner of Pop Idol hadn’t been announced yet.” Came her reply.
“Oh, don’t worry about your best friend, sat here, about to be taken advantage of by Roy Cropper”, I barked back.
Luckily for me, I heard Girls Aloud be announced the winners, so she left her house to rescue me. Whoever thought I’d owe Cheryl Cole for saving me from Roy Cropper?
As I returned to the table, I saw my seventh pint of fosters slammed down on the table by Roy.
Phew! I’ve made the right call by phoning my best friend, pardon the pun. I see the intentions in Roy’s eyes. They’re glistening like a magpies whose just seen a diamond ring. Just as I pick up the fosters, my best friend runs in, like the hero of the hour.
“You must come quickly! My mum’s been taken ill and I need you!” She screams.
Oh the lies and drama of the youth.
I look at Roy, feigning upset.
“I’m so sorry, but I must go!”
“Will I see you again?” Roy is like a lost puppy dog.
The lies of the youth came rolling out of my mouth like a red carpet at the Oscars.
“Of course, give me call. I’ve had a really lovely evening!”
I’m going straight to hell, I tell myself.
My best friend drags me from the Birdcage, and I notice Donna Summers has started playing. I join in on the chorus, rather loudly and as we leave, Roy is following us. I turn round and in my Fosters induced state, I sing at him,
“Enough is enough is enough, I can’t go on, I can’t go on no more, no!”
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Tonight I want tacos. You want spaghetti… Tachetti it is then… Damn compromising.
I don’t have to worry about trumping in bed. Hurrah. Trump trump trump.
Ha ha ha! Netflix and chill has a whole new meaning for me.
I know exactly what gets me off and I ain’t afraid to do it.
We’re all time poor and being alone gives me time to spend doing things that I wouldn’t otherwise get the chance to.
Nothing like a bit of date night and the expectation of that first kiss
My cat loves me unconditionally… sometimes.
Yep. Even though I’m single I see so much peen. So much peen.
Yay me.
Or deal with stolen duvet all night.
No broken hearts for me.
Thank f that ain’t me
Like picking apples from the tree. I’m out testing the orchard and having a lot of fun on the way.
and be the one to walk away
I’m literally a walking standup show with my tales.
No one is going to come in half way through my House Of Cards marathon and start blathering on about their day
“The internet is for porn”
Wednesday’s we wear vomit.
It’s a big world out there.