First Second Date

One week ago. A week later – a Thursday in town. CC the Argentine. We’ve had good texts -moved from Tinder to WhatsApp – but nothing long or intimate.

Was last week an aberration? A drunken fumble, meaningless, some kind of dissapative behaviour, not a special to her as it was to me, what?

The gallery.

I’m late but I don’t know it. She doesn’t even let me know it. A half an hour in the difference, my mistake. I feel stupid and struggle not to let it annoy me. I bungle the greeting – a clumsy face mash of a cheek kiss. “A great start…”

A coffee? A coffee.

She is in jeans today. A blue T. She looks less amazing than before – but how could she not. Her eyes are still smiling and her voice is still sexy as hell. She is curvaceous and buxom. I struggle not to get caught looking. We talk a little bit about art. Dali and Bosch.

The Spanish Master of Light.

We have opinions and share them. A few more “exactly!”s. She knows her stuff, and I know enough to make her think the same of me.

On to the permanent collection. We’re having fun now – critics that we are.

At some point, somehow, she drops into conversation the possibility of going to hers… tonight? Seriously? We are agreed that we won’t do what we did last time – that was too late, too drunken. I don’t quite take her seriously.

Tacos are the plan… we wander across town. Chats are good and free flowing.

But the taco place is booked solid – a hour wait. No way.

We pop across the road for sushi. She orders a bottle of white, we share two big platters, she doesn’t like kim-chi.

I can’t remember what we talked about…

…but we are heading back to hers.

A bus to B’aalsbridge. A short walk, now in the dark, a little tipsy, but it’s not late.

In her one bedroom flat – most of her possessions are boxed or in suitcases – we have a coffee and make slightly awkward conversation. She is waiting for me to make the move… I’m too afraid, and pretend to be too much of a gentleman. But we kiss. She asks when I was last tested.

We move to the bedroom. She takes off her clothes. I do the same.

We fuck, all night, in most of the way. I eat her pussy, hairless and tight tight tight. She sucks my dick, and she does it well. I flip her over and fuck her deep while rubbing her clit. “Her new favourite thing”. I do the same with my thumb deep in her ass.

She comes, hard, two or three times and again in the morning.

I don’t.

It’s embarrassing, but maybe not an issue yet.

My insensitivity, with all of its links to porn-addiction, onanism, and anti-depressant use haunts me. How much did it hurt my relationship with G? A woman wants to satisfy, and no one is comfortable being the only one having fun, no matter my reassurances.

But we use all the condoms, and eventually after a late morning are forced to go out and get more. We get breakfast too – Rolies…

We are close to enemy territory here. Haunted houses.

But the full oirish is needed, and slowly dispatched as we chat. The double-bagged condoms are on the table beside me. We are not done.

So we head back to hers again. Undress, fuck, chat, and cuddle. We stroke each others skin and the sensual pleasure of it is amazing.

All of this feels unreal.

I learn so much about her… and the asymmetry is growing and becoming harder to ignore. I try to tell her some (highly edited) highlights… it’s uncomfortable. The tone is relationshippy… pleasantly so. But so quick? So real? So soon?

Eventually, at about 4 or 5 pm I manage to leave. All fucked out.

I have to go to the wesht to meet my gbf and his beau. She has to get on with moving and then go to a work thing.

Maybe that is for the best. It creates the illusion that I have a life. And maybe I do.

I go to get the same bus I used to get from G’s. From the same fucking stop… reality is merciless. But I have to run to catch it, and the danger of crossing paths is minimised. I sit there, sweaty, smelly, sore and tired, in yesterday’s clothes, feeling amazed at the world.

Could she be the one?

We have plans. Next time: my place.

First Date #3

Three dates in a week? Who the fuck dso I think I am.

Nervous. Nauseated. Lemon Zest, no Jelly.

Early.

She arrives. Dark eyed and exotic but pale skinned and almost local. She has my full attention. I blather. Kids and Summer Camp. Project management and the jetset life of the high achiever.

We have coffee. Chit. She shows me her shin. As pale and hairless as her arm. Her skirt rises. I am caught looking.

Move on to the Feral Pig’s Bonce. Things feel good. No food and the barrier between us. But chat continues apace.

On again to The Bonsai BBQ. She demolishes me. Her childhood. Her brilliance. Her oddness and and interest and fight. Her parents. Her grandfather. Her school Her sisters. Rugby. Hyperhydrosis. Scoliosis. Migraines. Isthmus. Peninsula. Island. Pedagogical. I barely need to say a word. I bask in her. Her complexity and brilliance and singularity. I feel lucky just to be here.

The pub. Not Hogaan’s – further down. Beers. Rain. Metallica. Outside. My arm behind her. I touch. I ask. Ok? Yeah, I’d say if not… More rain.

Inside. We talk. We touch.

We go.

Rain.

I’d like to kiss you…

And we do.

A taxi home. I literally skip and jig with happiness.

The one. The fucking one.

Closure?

A familiar ding, unheard for weeks, once the sound of someone who cared, now shocking and upsetting. Acid fills my veins.

A text:

Hi Shame,
I dropped off your stuff at the door.
Take care

A couple of hours, anticipating a plastic bag…

Will it be there? What will it contain? Everything I left there? More? A returned gift? Those toys? A note???

What am I feeling? Fear? Hope?

What do I want? An end? Or an opening?

All the scabbing over of the last few weeks feels undone – every wound is fresh again.

I get home. It’s there. The same bag I left her.

T-shirts, underwear and socks – immaculately laundered and folded. A book.

That’s it.

That’s it.

That. Is. It.

Second first date…

Tapas in town with tall C.

Sent the required sorry-but-no text to the Brazilian. Perhaps a bit earnest, but her no-caps response was what I deserved. Shinawill.

Serious anxiety on the way in. 6.30pm on a school night.

We had good banter by text. Jokey, emoji-heavy, clever. Good signs.

What to wear? The exact same thing I wore for the Brazilian – to further the elimination of extraneous variables.

Arrived a little early, ordered a pint and a prosecco, as requested by text. Stood. Waited.

Her silhouette. Tall, elegant, athletic. Black sleeveless top, silk leopard print skirt, polar watch, thick chestnut hair styled high. Not classically beautiful, but very attractive. Lean and tanned, strong, with beautiful downy forearms. Big eyes. A little intimidating.

We sit in a booth. Overlit. Slightly stilted. Hard to get the body language right. But we chat. Adventure races and gym. Early intervention.

Across the road for tapas. Waiting outside to be seated. She talks of base camp and exes.

We sit inside, a hole in the wall, dark and private. Too dark, and too separate with the table between us. But we eat and drink and chat. Of our families, our experiences on Bumbl3. It’s fun, we can chat, we have things in common and she is a great communicator.

But is there any heat?

We kill the bottle, pay the bill and she agrees to another drink. We sit outside, chat more, people watch, get accosted by George.

She shows me her paintings. I like them, especially the first – a stunted tree, mossy but alive.

I ask her, so, how are we? How are we doing? She’s taken aback. Perhaps it’s frowned upon to seek this kind of clarification in the midst of the date. Ok. I think she agrees that we should see each other again… but I think she may have been being polite.

I have a second pint and she runs for a bus.

First Date…

At the age of 39 I went on my first date.

My second, by the by, is scheduled for tomorrow. With another Bee, and one that I have had better message banter with. I was looking forward to that more, and maybe this one didn’t have my full attention. It had the ring of a trial run, a low-stakes, what’s-the-worst-that-could-happen stress test of my ability.

A drive to the High Rock, a swim, at the lowest of low tides. Much dithering about how to get in. But down the ladder and onto the sand, a wade, more dithering, and in.

I knew that I could not begin the evening with an act of cowardice.

Malahyde, mega-myos, sitting at back, surrounded by fourteen TVs. She’ll be late – walking her dog. Partly relieved, partly irked.

I’m doing this sober.

She arrives. She looks good. Not too young, womanly, sexy sensible. Brazilian.

Her body language is great – facing, talking, accidentally brushing thighs. All good.

Conversation flows, fairly naturally. She is direct, open, confident, sassy, inquisitive, interesting and interested. She smart too. That pink bra.

We move to the smoking section, Vogue, and she tells me of her complicated life. Two kids, a dog, a sad ex, a mum who visits, a place in her community, a busy dating life with successes and failures – but all manageable drama. So direct, and unashamed, and willing to say what she has to say. She talks easily about sex, without prudishness. I admire her.

I tell her, haltingly, a little about myself. Abstract, mostly. Nothing too specific or self-critical. Broad brush strokes. I’m clever, thoughtful, inexperienced and tentative. But I’m working on it. Trying to grow. Embrace the uncertainty. I meditate. I worry I may be boring her.

We move, again, to another part of the mega-myos. Upstairs. A little more talk, this time of our families, of absent fathers, of mental health in families, of depression. I admit a tiny portion of my own “struggles”. She seems only slightly disappointed.

Let’s go dancing.

This girl is energetic. I worry I won’t keep up. I’m really missing the power of dutch courage. This would be easier half-cut.

We move, again, to another places. Rights. Full of dads with hair gel and paisley shirts. Jeans, brown shoes, brown belt. And lads, white Ts, skinny jeans, bad moves. Birds, all done up, young and old, but mostly old.

Mambo Number 5.

We dance. I do my best. Fuck it.

The Gypsy Kings.

We dance. I loosen up. Still doing my painful best to be game.

“Let’s get a drink”… Really I need a break. I feel awkward and conspicuous. But I’m impressing. The bar is low, admittedly, but I’m clearing it.

She has a white wine… I have a water.

Back to dancing.

Despacito.

We dance, it’s sexy now. Much touching.

We sit. She, bashfully, says she would kiss me. I don’t hear her. WHAT? She would kiss me. And she does. Forcefully. Hungrily. Deeply and with clumsy need.

I feel her body, in a pub-compatible way. The top of her ass. Her soft waist. Her neck, her throat, her hair. It’s fun.

We dance some more.

We go outside to smoke.

We kiss some more. On the dance floor. She is passionate. I am eager.

Thoughts of sex, tonight, at hers. Take me home? How would I feel about that? Is that on the cards? She’s local…

But I’m flagging. Overwhelmed, tired, overstimulated, and so so sober. I feel a little sadness in the excitement. And she notices it.

But we talk of NEXT TIME. We’ll walk her dog. We’ll meet in town. I’ll be able to drink and we can dance again. I’m good, she tells me.

Eventually, it’s time to go.

I walk her to her mom-car. We kiss, we reassure each other that we had a good time. We agree to see each other again.

I walk to my car and drive home, feeling strange. Drunk almost. Not myself.

Could it really be that easy?

Could I really be that impressive to a woman with so much going for her? I mean, she did kiss me, and did talk of doing so again.

And why did I not feel more excited? About her, about what she saw in me, about my ability to perform adequately?

Maybe because it was a performance.

I pleased.

I told her I was a people pleaser and then I pleased her. I gave her what she wanted, or at least my best attempt at it, there and then, given what I have to work with.

Can I do better?

Better than her? Or can I do better – be better? Be more authentic, more myself, more able to impose my own nature onto the world?

As a proof of concept it was a resounding success. Now it’s time to figure out what I’ve learned.

Can I be a “contented mediocrity”?

Draft 3

Hi,

I’m sorry, but no. I can’t do that.

I have to put my own well-being first right now, and seeing you again would not be helpful for me.

Best wishes,

S.

THIS WAS WHAT WAS SENT.

Now… Is it over?

“Closure” Draft 2

Look, I get it. The alure of “closure”. But still, no.

OK, so you need more. Fair enough. That’s not your fault and it’s not mine. But seeing you again would be painful and possibly damaging to me.

I’m torn between magnanimity and malice. I want to be the man I want to me, but I also want to hurt you. Even if that hurts me to. Cut my nose off to spite your face etc.

Listening to you try to let me down easy would be more lastingly damaging than forcing you to leave those (well intended) things unsaid. So do us both a favour and imagine that what you have to say has been said, and been accepted, and let the slow process of moving on continue.

OK?

And I know that I should respect the courage and prescience it took for you to call it when you did, the decisiveness, the self-knowledge, the ability to avoid the sunk-cost fallacy and see that for you (and even for me) the situation had to end. I should admire that. I should be grateful for it.

But I can’t. Not yet. I’m still trapped in the acrimony. Petty, wounded, irrational and vindictive. That’s just where I am. And it’s where I’m trying to get away from – but that will take time, and that clock is running, second by tedious second.

Seeing you again would be to set that clock back to zero.

And that’s why I will not do it.

Be well,

T

“Closure”

A request to meet up.

No.

You don’t get to casually discard me and then summon me to make me say something that will make you feel better about it. That’s not fair.

There is no such thing as “closure”. It’s a fucking myth. A unicorn.

And even if it were a thing, I would deny you it.

I’ve learned the power of doing nothing. Of letting you stew. The power of silence. Making you wait, in pain, silently saying to yourself all the things I’m not smart enough to know how to say to you: the most precisely cutting and cruel words there are for you.

I was taught that power. Because it was used on me, a long time ago. It was indescribable agony, and it lasted forever. It has never really gone away. I still say those words to myself most nights, because she never gave me the satisfaction of saying anything at all to me.

And now I want a version of that for you.

When will that pain end? When you’ve had enough of it. As will mine.

Tinder

Mediocre sadsack nearing end of tether seeks forgiving female with low self-esteem for mutual immiseration and netflix.

Bald nonentity, lost and adrift. Enjoys nothing, sad beers and ruminating alone in the dark. Lonely but picky. Willing to settle in exchange for not dying alone.

Man-baby dadbod with issues available for mansplaining, sulking and eventual ghosting. No timewasters.