Date 3: O is for 'Oh, awkward'

You have to start somewhere and previous experience in the world of app dating has taught me that the quicker you meet people, the quicker you can rule them out and stop imagining them to be Prince Charming or more accurately Bradley Cooper. The first bumble date had not been a disaster, so this never-ending supply of swipe rights might be worth pursuing.

‘Oh’ looked fairly normal by all accounts. He had taken a lot of pictures in sunglasses, but maybe he has sensitive eyes. Conversationally, my word count was making me feel like Jane Austen in comparison. I can see that where English is an Additional Language, to use an education term, making sentences can be really hard. My sympathies have limits however, and generally I am of the view that where there’s a will there is a way. I once chatted up a guy in Istanbul for two days on Tinder. And I don’t speech a word of Turkish. Google translate is great!

‘Oh’ sent me a selfie at 1am that he had claimed he had just taken. He was looking remarkably fresh faced on a school night for someone who doesn’t work shifts. Benefit of the doubt though, his jumper was rubbish. Exactly the sort of thing you would only wear to bed. Several days later when he sends the exactly the same photo with the message, "I just took this for you" I do inform him that he is clearly lying. ‘Oh’ hadn’t read the manual on how to be a player. He is so bad, he’d be really easy to keep in check and maybe this would be the start of something beautiful. 

I meet him at Sloane Square, a region of London known for stockbrokers and £35 mains dishes in restaurants so dark you can't see the food. The locally sourced Sussex sausages in miniature portions, with accompanying mouse de mash potato, apparently tastes better in a 1914 style blackout; much better than going to a pub in Sussex and paying £12. I wasn't embracing the disregard for the value of the pound, and caught public transport. Taxis just to ‘look the part’ would have me taking out a payday loan in no time, if there is going to be another 96 dates. Besides, you can’t apply nail varnish to your toes in a taxi. On a bus, you could quietly pluck a goose without too much reaction. Nail varnish was fine.

When I reached the actual square at Sloane Square, and the Hugo Boss store facing the square, the location he suggested, ‘Oh’ claimed he was there but was not. It transpired he was at the other entrance. As a Sloane Square Hugo Boss virgin, this was very annoying since he would have known the shop had two entrances. Communication is going to be an issue. Take a breath. When he eventually appeared he had a big smile and very white straight teeth, and he even had eyes. A smile and eyes, that’s two surprises in one, a third and he’s reached Kinder egg status. My internal stress crescendo has plateaued, I’m settling down to more of a pianissimo.

We walk along the high street to a very pleasant pub. It’s small, light, sells decent draught ales and would be totally suitable for bringing your mother to. ‘Oh’ is Lebanese. He is wearing the classic black shoes, blue jeans and pressed white shirt with slightly oversized collar. He is tall (5’11”), has a strong frame and a little bit of the belly tub Middle Eastern men seem to get from too much Baklava. Tasty, and so is Baklava.

I meet a fair few guys from the Middle East with work, and the general consensus is that the Lebanese are hot, with the Syrians coming a close second. I can’t help feel some of the British sympathies for the Syrian refugees are heightened because of how attractive they are. In a culture where the value of human life is synonymous with how well your picture sells, you don’t need to be handsome in a humanitarian crisis, but it helps.

We talk more. The small table has one side against a partition, he is on the open side, and I am on the side of the long bench running the wall of the pub. I’m fairly blocked in. He works as a stockbroker with his father, has been in the UK for 12 years and finds dating hard because many of the women who go to bars in the area are more interested in men with money, than men as individuals. He seems lacking in self-confidence, has verbal tick, and has no idea he is good looking. This all make him very human.

I pity his struggle, though am secretly envious of the gold-diggers he speaks of. They are being smarter about using their physical assets than ever I was in my 20’s. If in 2016, women are still being objectified and limited in their aspirations because of the body they were born with, they might as well also benefit because of the body they were born with. In my 20’s, I was naively focused on developing in my career, not realizing how many doors were closed because of stereotypes of the sexes. White guys would never knock on closed doors that long. If I’d embraced the Barbie mould, there would have been considerably more Raspberry Champagne Bellinis in the company of affluent older men. Looking back at my age 27 priorities, gel nails and hair extensions would not have combined well with a typical spare time activity such as trekking up Ben Lomond with my girlie mates. A day battling the elements of the Highland would have transformed Barbie into an extra from Night of the Living Dead.

This date is actually going quite well. All of a sudden ‘Oh’ decides the lighting is wrong where he is sitting, and he wants to sit next to me. He stands up and practically sits so close he might as well be on top of me. This is very claustrophobic, but I’ve been assigned Seat 25A of a Ryan Air flight before, so I know I can get through this. He puts his hand on my leg, in such a way to suggest ownership. The fingers were extended slightly to my inside leg and the pressure had all the confidence of someone who you’ve spent the last 6 months romping with. He then goes in for the kiss. It might be good, but this is a type of pub Auntie Lillian and Uncle Geoff frequent. It’s not Buffalo Bills. The kiss is good, but it’s time to stop. The level of kissing in such an establishment should be limited to a 12 certificate. This is approaching a 15. He keeps going in for another one. I pull back. He goes in again. I pull back. Decoy conservation required. I’m hungry and this place does good food. “Shall we stay here and have food, or move to another pub”, I ask. He seems to know another pub. So we leave the yummy food behind. He’s Lebanese, maybe he knows a really good Kebab place? My kebab diet last year left me with less body fat than most of the guys at work, and I didn’t even combine it with a regular exercise regime, apart from walking to the kebab shop. I’m a big fan of the Lebanese inspired food.

Walking down the road, he mentions that we are walking past his flat. It’s no Kebab, but as the daughter of a Chartered Surveyor, I can’t resist the sexy talk of real estate. Where some girls are reminded of the love of their father when they think of family holidays by the sea, I like to think of lift shaft access and flat roofs for my comfort blanket. I’m the sort of person that books a flat viewing for fun, and gets excited by a south facing aspect. My inner curious cat wants to know what the inside of a Lebanese Stockbroker’s flat in Sloane Square looks like. Would all the money I could ever earn in my principled average salaried job, if I work forever, ever buy somewhere I could grow in London?

In short – no.

The flat had one bedroom with en-suite bathroom, a box kitchen and a lounge with a TV so large it was hard to work out whether you would be watching it, or it would be watching you. He had some nice bit and bobs out, and pictures on the walls, which made the place seem more homely. He poured some orange juice for me. Just for me. Not for him. The one drink scenario only happens in Bond movies, when the orange juice has been spiked with a radioactive isotope and the villain wants to cause a slow and painful death to the spy. I don’t work for MI5, but I won’t drink it so fast. He now becomes very occupied with getting me on the sofa. There’s not much choice unless I were to hover over the inappropriately large glass coffee table in the centre of the room. Once seated, he then becomes very occupied with prising the orange juice he has just given me out of my hands. He’s either having regrets about the Rohypnol, or he’s an enthusiastic kisser. Gratefully it was the later. I pick up the orange juice. I loose the orange juice. Yes, I’ve got it. This time, I’m going to drink some. I’m focused. And it’s gone again, Oh, along with something else. ‘‘Oh’, where’s your shirt gone?’

I’m keeping my clothes on. I make an excuse to go to the toilet. Maybe he’ll chill out a bit. Obviously, I have a look in the cupboards on the way back. Who wouldn’t right? All of his cosmetics are on show. None are in the cupboards. I look in his bedside cupboards. Is this pattern repeated in the other rooms? Again, all of them are empty. Nothing. Everything is on show. It’s like he doesn’t even live there. Weird.

He continues to amorously take all his clothes off, whilst I keep mine on, before watching him self masturbate into the bathroom sink. Him, ‘Oh’, Oh, this is awkward. He’s kept me close by through this activity, so my involvement must have been absolutely titillating. Turns out I don’t even need to open my bag of inner Sex Goddess for a happy ending.

He walks me to the station and is concerned that I should get home Ok. As I eat my honey on toast, I text him to say I’m back. After dropping me off he only went for a bloody Kebab. We did talk after the date, but I explained that he made me feel like an escort so it wasn’t for me. He seemed genuinely confused.