Why You Should Date Around

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CC image courtesy of debsilver on FlickrI met Tom on Bumble, though he thought we’d matched on Tinder. This, combined with the fact he revamped his entire dating profile on the eve of our first date, rang alarm bells. I was also his first date after five years in a relationship.

When his communication slowed and his dating profile changed again in the days leading up to date #2 (supper at his), I ran scared. I was looking for a relationship; he appeared to be looking to get laid. So I did something I’ve never done before: I lied to get out of the date.

‘Could we rearrange?’ I wound up.

It was a test. I was 99% sure he wouldn’t reschedule.

He did.

In the days that followed, his bio underwent several rewrites. My favourite of his tag lines was ‘Not a complete dickhead’. I badly wanted to believe it.

Read the full article at Singles Warehouse.

CC image courtesy of clarestoker on Flickr

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Sister Act

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CC Image courtesy of Indigo Skies Photography on FlickrI look up to see Tristan approaching.

‘Are you busy?’ he says.

I think of my post-holiday to-do list: twelve tasks and counting.

‘Err why?’

‘Could you witness the signing of a contract – if you’re not too busy?’

I glance in the direction of my boss.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s fine.’

I start to rise.

‘I’ll come and get you when my sister’s here,’ he says, ‘in about five minutes.’

‘Your sister? OK.’

 

I turn back to my computer screen. He could have asked any number of people: Tobias, Ryan, Harriet who sits opposite him…. I glance again at my boss, before bending to root around in my bag for a tube of lip gloss. Lucky I put on make-up this morning. It wouldn’t do to look sleep-deprived when meeting my future sis– oh for fuck’s sake. Frowning, I focus on the screen.

The minutes slip by.

I’ll say something really daft probably, offend her. ‘Hi!’ and a smile. That’s safe. I can’t say ‘I’ve heard so much about you’, because I haven’t really. I must remember not to say her name.

It’s definitely been more than five minutes.

I mutter words under my breath, looking for the best phrase for an email. This is good. I should be working when she sees me for the first time.

More like ten.

He rounds the corner. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘it’s fine. Harriet witnessed it.’

‘Oh, OK.’

He walks away.

I really need to get over this.

CC Image courtesy of HooverStreetStudios on Flickr

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Friendly Fire

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CC Image courtesy of DavidMartynHunt on Flickr

My message to Tom goes through several drafts. My mother writes half of it.

‘This, I could send this?’

‘Much better,’ she sends back.

 

Tom is nice about it.

Let’s just go for friends then,’ he writes. ‘Go for a pint sometime.’

I stare at the words for a while. Somewhere in my addled brain, this doesn’t seem like an entirely daft idea.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘I’d like that.’

No I wouldn’t.

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Joking Aside

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CC Image courtesy of Triple L. on Flickr

(Continued from Size Matters)

Tristan‘s section is deserted except for him. I double back, lunch in hand, and take the swivel chair next to his. We talk about the singular form of ravioli (my lunch), his recent illness (particularly common in women over 40 apparently), sky-diving as a potential cure.

‘How have you been?’ he says.

‘Good. Been dancing a bit more these last few weeks. Yeah, things have been good.’

‘Any dates?’

‘A few… but I think it’s nearly at an end.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t think we want the same thing.’

In a ‘sourcing free condoms on my lunch break because he’s not interested in being exclusive‘ kind of a way.

‘We’re not on the same page,’ I add.

‘Is he a slow reader?’ Tristan says. ‘Did you meet at your book club?’

I laugh. Tom would never make a joke like that, which makes me feel slightly better about the whole thing.

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Size Matters

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CC Image courtesy of princess toadie on FlickrI push open the door and approach the desk.

‘How can I help?’

‘Er I’m looking for free condoms…’

Yes I am that tight.

‘Do you have any preference?’

The kind that stop you getting pregnant/catching STIs?

‘What are the options?’

‘Regular, large, just different sizes.’

‘Err… erm…’

And there, in the foyer of Soho’s express sexual health clinic, I find myself contemplating the size of Tom‘s manhood.

‘Large? No maybe…’

Are condoms one of those things it’s best to buy on the small side? I look round. There’s a guy – staff I think – hovering nearby. But this really isn’t one of those things where you can ask for a second opinion. I wonder fleetingly what you’re supposed to do if you need condoms before you’ve seen someone naked.

‘… regular?’ I wind up. ‘Or… can I have some of both?’

He must think I’m planning a quickie back at the office. Actually, judging by his expression, he’s not thinking anything at all.

‘It’s one pack per person,’ he says.

‘Erm… I don’t really know how this works. I mean, I do, but… this is surreal!’

He looks mildly bored. Hosiery sizing charts swim into my mind. For a mad moment I consider asking him how condom sizing works.

‘Then… large?’

Five minutes later I leave with my allotted pack and walk back in the direction of the office.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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