I’m childfree this weekend, I could be out doing all manner of things, but I’m sat on my sofa writing my blog, smoking a joint, and eating sushi (not all at the same time). Earlier I derma-rollered my face and lips, so I look like I got stuck on a sun bed for 3 hours and then got hit in the face with a hot frying pan, but it’ll all be worth it in a couple of weeks when my collagen is popping. I exfoliated my whole body, spent about an hour using a Scholl Pedi machine on my feet, covered them in thick cream and stuck on some socks, cleaned my house, went to the gym, had a nap, and now I’m all fresh and buff and relaxed. I’ve taken care of myself and I feel really good. This is one of the many ways to help yourself to achieve self-love, look after you (but don’t start thinking ooh, I’m all buff and smooth, somebody needs to feel this).
Fuckboy Kieron messaged me on Snapchat this morning in response to my latest snap (me with that buff glasses filter) and we were messaging back and forth all day. He really is extraordinarily sexy, in the most tattooed, light skin, curly haired, one gold tooth having, Mercedes driving, gym snapchatting, narcissistic fuckboy way. The type who you just know is no good and he’s not even trying to hide it. I went on 2 dates with him but we never slept together. I just keep getting compelled to speak to him every time he contacts me and I’m frequently torn between thinking:
‘Fuck it, just bang him, sit on his face and then politely leave’
‘Do not go anywhere near him, you will regret this, you are so fresh and man free, don’t ruin that for the sake of this clown’.
The latter has always won so far, and it won tonight. Even though I did actually get as far as asking him for his postcode. He gave it to me and then I remembered to masturbate, 8 minutes later I text him to tell him that something had come up. This story is becoming a regular theme in my blogs, you are probably bored of this ongoing battle between my mind and my vagina over Fuckboy Kieron. I just have no other excitement to fill you in on.
I feel good at the moment, I want to go on a date. I want to meet someone new who I really fancy and I want to flirt and get excited about what might happen next. I love getting dressed up for a date, I love the whole process, the lead up to it, the anxiety about whether they will text you after and the joy when they do. It’s fun. I like the thrill of the chase. Although having said that, first dates are not always fun. Sometimes they are quite far from fun, I have really had some terrible first dates.
When I first joined POF I went on a date to Pizza Express with a guy who had massively photoshopped his pictures and catfished the shit out of me. I thought I was going on a date with Rio Ferdinand but I ended up with a mixed race Rod Stewart. From that I learnt that you should never have dinner as a first date unless you are very certain that you are going to like them because sitting through 3 courses having to stare up at this man’s gargantuan nostrils with no reasonable excuse to leave was more than I could bear. He was actually very sweet and I think he had mild learning difficulties and so I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by leaving. By the end I really wanted to cry though. That was a pretty bad date.
Another bad date was with a guy who I had been chatting to for a while from Plenty Of Fish, the date was going really well until half way through when he casually said ‘Your hair is the exact same colour as my girlfriend’s!’ I was in shock. I questioned what the fuck he was saying and he confirmed that yes, he had a long term girlfriend. I asked him why he hadn’t told me and he said ‘Because you never asked.’ I downed my drink, shouted at him about making me waste make up and a baby sitter, and left. Since then I always ask them directly before we meet whether they are single, and a few times they have said no. Some of them really will use the fact that you never asked as their excuse. This is a real thing. Don’t give them any excuses, always ask from the outset.
Bad dates don’t always start online. I once met a guy at Lovebox (I feel like a lot of my bad date stories start with that line). I was walking between stages with my friend and this group of certified roadmen walked past us. There were about 5 of them, all with Gucci man bags across their chests, tattoos and woolly hats, despite the weather. When roadmen walk past me I tend to pretend I haven’t seen or heard them, I keep my eyes straight forward and I just keep walking. I don’t want a road man, and I’m not looking to deal with the aggressive response that they give to rejection, so pretending to be deaf is the best policy. Unfortunately one of the roadmen was one of the most beautiful men I had ever laid eyes on (I was buzzing though), and I’m a sucker for a pretty face, so when he stared into my eyes and touched my hand I was compelled to stop for a quick chat.
Tyrone was a few years younger than me, he was wearing all black, a tight vest and nicely fitted jeans. He was covered in tattoos, he was 6ft 3, he had one long finger nail on each hand, a diamond chain and watch, a big beard, and the face of a supermodel. This roadman’s bone structure was phenomenal. I love a man with long lashes and a defined jaw and cheek bones, he had it all, and a lovely skin tone. I was lusting. My friend thought I had lost my mind and asked me if I was really serious. Tyrone introduced himself and I told him that I thought that he was beautiful but that he was far too road for me. He said:
‘It really saddens me that you would cast such an instant and negative judgement upon me just purely based on my outward appearance alone. I pride myself on being a hardworking gentlemen and that enables me to dress how I please. I try to withhold making judgement’s about people until I have had an opportunity to get to know them, not everyone is like that I guess.’
And I said:
‘What’s your number?’
My friend had already started walking off and I didn’t want to lose her, but that well-articulated statement, coupled with his sexy face, was enough to seal the number exchanging deal. I don’t know what was wrong with me, I must have been so desperate back then, because as I am recalling the details to write this I’m seeing that there were multiple, MUTIPLE, huge red flags, and I chose to literally ignore every single one of them because he was good looking and he could string a sentence together. I was a fucking idiot.
Tyrone rang me the next day and we spoke for 3 hours. Tyrone told me that he had recently come out of prison (RED FLAG), he has 3 kids who he does not see at the moment (RED FLAG), because his ex has stopped him from seeing them (RED FLAG), because she’s a psycho (RED FLAG). Tyrone told me everything about his troubled childhood, selling crack for his older brother from the age of 9, stints in and out of prison, and the terribly unfair and psychotic way that his baby mother had behaved with him. I love a vulnerable man who needs fixing. He told me all of his crazy stories with the deepest, sexiest voice, with only a hint of a hood accent, and I think that must have hypontised me, because I ignored every single red flag and decided to go on a date with him.
He picked me up (several roads away from mine – never show them where you live) in an expensive Audi and we smoked a spliff in his car before going to a restaurant near mine for dinner. It was midweek and the restaurant was relatively empty with only about 10 other diners in there. The place was tiled and there were lots of metal features and so it was quite loud and echoic and even quiet conversations could be heard. Tyrone attracted a lot of attention anyway, being that he was 6ft 3 and looked as though he was going to stab people and then walk down a cat-walk, but his voice attracted even more attention, it was big and booming. With the way that the acoustics were in that restaurant Tyrone sounded like he was coming through the speakers.
Tyrone decided to tell me a story about his ex-girlfriend and how she had been a rich girl from the countryside, he was working up there and they fell in love really quickly and he moved into hers almost straight away. He said that it all fell apart because she was really scummy. He said that he would come to the house with all his mates while she was at work (he was clearly using this girl’s place as a trap house but that didn’t occur to me at the time) and he would be really embarrassed because:
‘My girl would leave her dirty knickers out all over the floor facing up with all dirty marks in, white and yellow marks, sometimes with period stains on them’
Tyrone was going into great detail and I could see the man at the table next to us making eye signals to his partner about Tyrone’s delightful tale. I told Tyrone that the whole thing was rank and I suggested that we change the subject. Tyrone’s next subject was how he was North London’s most wanted man. He literally said that, at the top of his voice.
‘……so because I worked as a porter in the hospital, sometimes wheeling dead bodies around, the feds decided to pin it on me when there was a shooting and the weapon was found under one of the bodies I had wheeled. Did they find my prints no? So that’s just a coincidence innit, they’ve told me time and time again that I’m top of this area’s most wanted list but can they get man?? NO, because I’m clean. There’s nothing on me.’
Every diner and member of staff in the place was listening in by now. They all looked quite frightened and so I tried to catch their eyes and make an ‘oh isn’t he a silly billy with all his jokes’ kind of face but it didn’t work. They all spoke in hushed tones and I felt like the world’s biggest dickhead for being seen in public with this lunatic. I kept trying to make him speak more quietly but old Barry White just didn’t seem capable. So I tried to steer the conversation on to less disturbing topics but Tyrone was incapable of not saying unbelievably outstanding hood shit every 3.9 seconds.
I did really want some fudge brownie and ice-cream, especially because I’d smoked some of Tyrone’s massive roadman spliff on the way there, but I did not want to risk staying there any longer in case armed police decided to swoop in and arrest us, so I declined dessert (that’s how you know it was bad). I had been very offish and cold with him from fairly early on in the date (since the discharge story) and so I thought that I had quite clearly given him the message that there was not going to be a second date, I still wanted a lift home though.
We stopped outside my fake house and Tyrone told me that he had really enjoyed himself and that he had been waiting to kiss me all night. He then pounced on me like a caged animal being released from the zoo and started basically biting my face off. Hard. I was pushing him off me but that seemed to spur him on. It took him a good minute to figure out that I really was not up for this. I was a bit scared of him, after all of those bonkers stories about guns and bodies I was mindful about not wanting to piss this guy off, so I didn’t go mad, but I was honest with him and told him that he was definitely too road for me, and that although he was intelligent and had his sweet side, I just didn’t think we were compatible. He was very upset that I thought that he was road, but he accepted what I said, not before one final attempt at biting my cheek though. It was fucking awkward.
Tyrone and I stayed friends on social media but I never saw him again. He messages me every now and then and I always tell him that he’s still too road. I can tell from this social media that he hasn’t changed yet. In fact, he’s been quiet on social media for a long time now come to think of it. I wonder where he could be….?
One of my worst dates of all time was with a guy who I had met on Tinder. Same old story, Jack was half Black, half white, 6ft something, blah, blah, blah. We bonded over the fact that we had studied at the same University doing a similar course and that we had a similar career, although he wanted to pack it all in to become an actor. We had a lot in common and our What’s App banter flowed. We exchanged Instagrams and Jack appeared to be legit, no sign of a girlfriend, or any other worrying indicators, although his fashion sense appeared to be a bit confused, his style would swing between country farmer, city gent, and Dalston hipster from picture to picture and so I couldn’t get a sense of who he really was.
He lived in Shoreditch and so it made sense to meet near him as there are plenty of bars and restaurants to choose from round there. I got an Uber from mine and agreed to pick him up on the way, the plan was for him to then direct the cab to wherever we were going to go. It was his area so I left it down to him to choose the venue.
He was standing in the road when I pulled up and this guy had definitely lied about his height, he was nowhere near 6 foot, more like 5ft 6, but the jacket he was wearing clearly belonged to someone who was 6ft 2. He looked like a child wearing his Dad’s coat. It was a beige, camel haired Armani coat with a big collar and black buttons. It was like a Mafia coat and it would have looked great on a big, tall, broad man, but it completely swamped Jack and his hands barely reached out the end of the sleeves. He did have a very handsome face though.
He got in the cab and said to the driver ‘Garfunkels Leicester Square please mate.’ Now if you know London then you will know what an absolutely preposterous suggestion this was. The man lived in Shoreditch, a place with a whole host of great places to eat and hang out, and he wanted to get a cab all the way to Central London to eat at a slightly more dimly lit and comfortable version of McDonald’s. He wasn’t even joking. I told him that I thought his suggestion was ridiculous and that I wanted to stay local. He told me that he knew a great Turkish restaurant around the corner and so we headed there.
I should have just cut and run when we pulled up at the kebab shop next to Aquarium (seriously, if you know the area it’s the one basically opposite the fire station, the one where you go on the way home from drinking in Shoreditch to get some chips). There was seating at the back and Jack led us to our table. He felt like a big man because the staff knew him by name. I had made an effort that night, and so had he, with his gangster coat, and so we both looked wildly out of place sitting in this kebab shop, but I was hungry and I didn’t want to waste my Uber fare and so I stayed.
We sat opposite each other and behind me there was a mirror, I knew this because Jack spent the entire evening staring at himself, only momentarily glancing at me before taking his gaze back to his own reflection. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, a few times he even gave himself a little wink. We ordered our food, and luckily it came quickly, but before we were allowed to start eating Jack requested that I take a few pictures of him with his meal. I’d take 5 and then he’d check them and hand his phone back to me so that I could take a few more. It was only a chicken Shish, nothing spectacular, but this was obviously a special moment for him.
I’m not a big drinker but I ordered a double rum and coke, and then another, and another, I needed help from Barcardi to get through this date. Jack was quite good at making conversation and so there were no awkward silences, but he kept doing this thing where he would break into monologues in a variety of accents. At one point he spent at least four and a half minutes putting on an Alabama accent and pretending to be an elderly woman. He literally said :
‘……I’m an old lady, but old does not mean finished. As I sit on my rocker, sipping my iced tea, and thinking about the men in my past, I feel rejuvenated. Just the memory of them lifts this old libido and reminds me that I am the woman I am today because of the men that have been before……’
The speech went on for ages and I was left completely speechless. I was sitting in a kebab shop in Old Street with a little mixed race man pretending to be an elderly American woman. You know when you don’t know what to do with your face. Like when people are singing happy birthday to you and you don’t know whether to make eye contact or sing along so you just kind of smile and hope that they don’t follow it up with ‘for she’s a jolly good fellow’. When he was finished I told him that I was finding the monologues quite hard to deal with, and that although he was clearly a great actor, I found it a bit awkward.
Jack did a patronising laugh and head shake and said ‘Oh but my dear, I am an actor, you cannot switch that off.’ I explained that I actually know some really successful actors, household names, and that they can manage to contain themselves and stick to only speaking in their own accent during social situations but he wasn’t having it and the monologues continued. I adopted a policy of checking my phone every time he started, but that did not put him off.
When Jack wasn’t doing badly acted speeches he would ask me very intense questions, like ‘What do you think it is about yourself that has led to you being single for so long?’ and ‘Do you think that you have any huge personality flaws that would put men off’? Normally I would have got up and left this kind of date but I was getting drunker by the second and I had just sort of got stuck there. I was out and I’d done my hair and make-up. I should have just gone home and taken 116 selfies but he was giving me a lot of positive attention and, in between the madness, he was making me feel like I was the sexiest woman in Shoreditch. To be fair, he was punching well above his weight and so I don’t think he was lying.
The bill came and we went halves. Don’t even get me started on that one please. But to be fair, I had no intention of seeing him again and so I didn’t make a fuss. He told me that he had a pre-rolled joint in his pocket and he suggested that we take a walk and have a smoke before we part ways. Obviously that appealed to my stoner nature and so I agreed. I don’t know how much he had put in that joint but after a few pulls I was so stoned that I was on the verge of a whitie (a weed OD) and tragically my battery had died and so I could not Uber myself out of there. We had managed to wander into the back streets of Hoxton and I was just about capable of walking. I was in fits of hysterical laughter over nothing and I really needed something sweet to bring me back to normal.
Jack suggested that I head back to his to get a cab and I was just desperate to get my overly stoned/drunk arse off the streets and so I agreed, but I made it clear that I wasn’t going to do anything with him. Jack had been showering me with compliments all night and so it seemed reasonable for me to have to make the ‘No tings’ disclaimer before agreeing to go to his but Jack did not react well to it and said ‘Oi, you’re not Beyonce you know, I can control myself.’ Despite this, we walked the short journey back to his together, he told me that he had some biscuits and juice at his and I was fucking desperate to get my hands on the sugar. I was not stoned in a good way.
When we arrived at his block of flats I just expected to walk straight in, but when we got to his front door he told me I had to wait on his balcony for a minute while he went inside. I assumed that he was just having a quick tidy up, but no, he was asking his brother if his Mum was in bed yet. Now I am not judgmental of men who live with their Mothers at all (there are conditions to that though, there’s got to be a future plan, like he’s there because he’s saving for a mortgage or whatever, he can’t just be there with no motive if he’s over the age of 25 and especially if he’s got no kids) but I would hope that there is some kind of agreement with Mum about bringing friends home. Jack clearly did not have an agreement in place and so his intention was to sneak me in quietly like some 14 year old.
He told me to take my boots off and leave them on the balcony. I was wearing a pair of thigh high leather Kurt Geiger boots that cost £275 and I was not about to leave them on the balcony of an East London estate and so I told him this. He said that I was acting prestige and so I kicked him off the balcony with my Kurt Geiger boot and he died. Actually, that’s not true, that’s what happened in my head but I really wanted to do that.
We had a mini argument and I won, I just needed to get into the house, get some sugar inside me and get a cab. Quite frankly I was in a mess. We had to sneak into his house quietly, which was hard for me in the state that I was in. Doing anything quietly is quite hard for me, even when I am stone cold sober, so this was like a mega challenge. I just about managed it but then I got into his room and my phone rang, the sound rang out through the house like a church bell. I could hear his Mum pounding down the stairs shouting and I heard a young female voice reply ‘Jack’s got some girl in his room’. I was shitting myself. I was in no fit state to see a Mum, especially not an angry Mum.
He was terrified and he glared at me to be quiet, holding his finger to his lips rigidly. He was stood up by the door like a shushing statue in a big stupid over-sized coat and the image of him sent me into hysterical fits of laughter. I was literally rolling on his bed with tears coming out, trying and failing to be quiet. He thought I was laughing at his Mum and I kept trying to explain that I was laughing at him but I couldn’t get the words out. Anyway, he left the room and I composed myself. When he returned he had some hula hoops and a capri sun and he told me, in a German accent (because this acting thing was still ongoing), that he’d had a word with his Mum and she was cool.
And so we chilled on his bed, eating our packed lunch style snacks and I slowly felt myself coming back to life, and then he rolled another spliff and of course, me being me, I decided to have a few pulls before calling my cab. This took me back to being completely incapacitated and so when he told me that the cab was going to be 20 minutes I laid back on the bed and zoned out to the glare of the TV. He started running his fingers his fingers up and down my side, over my hips and waist and it felt fucking fantastic, I’m really sensitive around my sides and I started to get the fanny throb. I knew in my head that I didn’t want Jack the crazy weirdo to touch me, but I was also really enjoying the feeling and so to absolve myself of any moral responsibility I just pretended to be asleep.
After a few minutes Jack moved his hands between my legs and the fanny throb had increased to that point where it was literally pounding through my whole body. I didn’t want to reveal that I was awake or actively complicit in any of this but I wanted to move my leg so that he could get a better reach so I faked a little sleep roll/move thing and got into a better position. I was so turned on. Jack managed to get his hands down my jeggings and he started to poke around like he was aggressively typing an angry letter on a typewriter with one hand. It was quite bizarre and my vagina was beyond disappointed. With all that fluttering she was expecting an intense experience but she basically got mildly stabbed by a pokey finger in areas that have no erogenous zones.
I woke up suddenly (ahem) and told Jack to stop. Luckily my cab arrived at that moment and so I got my boots on and left (quietly). When I got in the cab I sat in the back, the driver didn’t try to talk which suited me fine. My fanny was wet but I felt creepy, like I could still feel his creepy fingers creeping on me. I felt really angry with myself. I had reneged on my own standards all night. I knew from the start that he was not the man for me, I knew once dinner had finished that he was not the man for me, I knew for the whole night that he was not the man for me, so why did I end up back at his house? He was lovely looking but he was a massive weirdo and the whole night had been a joke, so how did it end with his fingers in my knickers?
The cab driver was listening to Magic FM and a tune came on Pure by The Lightening Seeds I hadn’t heard it for years, the tune reminds me of an end of year school disco when I was in primary school. It wasn’t a song that I ever particularly loved, it’s like the kind of song that white people from the countryside have as their first wedding song, but when I heard it in that cab, fuck me, it hit me like a bullet. It’s a song about love, it’s a man describing being in real, pure, deep, all consuming love with a woman. It’s a happy song but he’s also saying this is so perfect that I worry that it can’t last, this love is just too good. And here I was on my way back from being fingered by a guy who I didn’t even want to touch me sobbing my heart out in a cab. I really hated myself.
I got home and showered, still crying, and I blocked Jack on everything I could possibly block him on. I didn’t want to have any way of being reminded of that night ever again. I felt like shit, mainly because it wasn’t the first time that I had pulled a self-destructive stunt like that and so I was pissed off at myself for repeating it. I’m obviously over it now, getting touched up by some little fraggle is really no big deal, he didn’t assault me, but it wasn’t even the whole act that was the problem. It was more the realisation that I was just so lonely and desperate that I would put my standards to one side for the sake of smoking a joint with a man who was giving me attention.
That song reminded me of what it is to feel love, and to hear a man articulate it so clearly in his lyrics reminded me that there are amazing men out there, who love deep and hard and who are on my wavelength, they really are out there. And so I made a promise to myself that I will end dates or conversations immediately once I have seen any red flags or decided that the man just isn’t my cup of tea. It saves a lot of drama, regret, and self-hate. Although that wasn’t my last bad date, but I’ll save that for another blog…….x