So, here I am. In Soho, waiting at a fondue restaurant. My date is called Simon. He is a buyer for Mulberry. Mmm, now I’m no shallow man but this instantly excites me. He must have a rather decently sized….bank account! Not that finances is an instant winner for me. But it does help. I can’t have anyone wanting to feed from my bank account.
As he enters, I find he is rather pleasing on the eye. A bonus point in his favour. I know people say that looks aren’t everything but I really couldn’t imagine sh*gging someone who looks like the back end of the N7. All red and fumes squirting from every orifice. That is definitely no turn on for moi.
We spark instantly. He talks of mulberry handbags. I have a rather sparse knowledge of mulberry handbags. My friend is a manager for one of their stores at Heathrow. She hardly talks about the brand but I know enough to engage in the conversation. This reminds me of a funny moment we once shared in Mexico. She was talking about handbags but mishearing, she thought we were taking the p*ss out of her. My manager friend turned her head and said, “I know my f***ing materials!”
My mouth, open wide, dropping to my sun lounger, said “what?” Realising we weren’t taking the piss, she continued her conversation. To this day, I have no recollection of why she thought we were being detrimental to her career.
After realising that he failed to find this conversation amusing, I thought I should leave the restaurant. But my mother always taught me, “if you start something, you must see it through.” I could hear her London accent echo through my ears. She was my inspiration to carry on.
We shared a cheese fondue. It was all sticky and gooey. We were dipping bread sticks in like it was a euphemism for what was to come later. And at this point, I really did think the euphemism would come to fruition. We finished our main and we had had a few belly laughs. Belly laughs? Surely that means a second date is on the cards. We ordered a desert. If you stay for dessert, you are bound to be invited for coffee. And one hopes the coffee ain’t going to be at the restaurant table.
Desert of chocolate fondue with marshmallows finished, I suggest we frequent G-A-Y late for a cocktail and a dance. Praying it’s not a cliche, he accepts. As we enter the bar, he goes up and orders me a sex on the beach. Yes, I admit, that is my cocktail of choice. Yes, I admit, I am a slut and hope this engages my date’s brain to adopt this thought process. Unlucky for me, it fails and he doesn’t decide to whisk me off to Brighton beach for a quickie.
As I get over the fact he isn’t going to whisk me off to the beach, I remember that I have purchased brand new UGG boots! Excited to show off my new purchase, I cock my leg up. Well, the bastard doesn’t believe they are real. At his disbelief, I cock my leg higher to show off the UGG logo. One too many sex on the beach and I lose my balance. My hand lands directly in his genitalia region. If it wasn’t for my fake tan, you would be able to see my red-faced embarrassment. I apologise but the frigid kn*b thinks it’s a come on. “That’s a bit forward!” He proclaims. “It was an accident.” I protest. He gets up and leaves the club. Yes, leaving me all on my todd in this club. He obviously isn’t the man for me. Is any man? God only knows.
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