Language of love

18 Nov 2017

I use a dating app called Bumble which makes the girls message first within 24 hours, or else your ‘matched’ person disappears off the app forever. I suppose the idea is to put a rocket up the arses of all those who just swipe and never get around to messaging. And to put women in control of the opening gambit.

I started off carefully crafting opening messages personal to the guys I matched with. But it was really time consuming and ultimately I’m just trying to elicit a response to find out if they can spell/don’t use too many emojis and aren’t a fuck wit, sex pest or weirdo, so I can judge whether it’s worth me persevering. Guys do this too by the way. I’m sure they have similar rules. One guy even tried to put me through a general knowledge quiz but I told him to sod off.

So I was lazy and moved to a more generic message that I could send to lots of guys. Something a bit more than just a lame ‘hi’.

This one seemed to work best. Although I did occasionally get this sort of response:

This made me feel like a kid who does a nice drawing and gives it to the boy they fancy at school and he draws a dick and balls on it. So thanks for that buddy. I’m not on this app to get laid – I want to find a partner in crime, so this sort of approach won’t get him anywhere.

So going back to the message. This ping pong focused message approach gives them an inkling of my competitiveness which is no bad thing. If we do end up playing wiff waff they’ll get to know the real, rather competitive me.

If I win I’ll get to gauge how gracious they are about losing to a girl. Which is a helpful character trait around me and many of my sporty female friends.

If I lose I’ll try desperately hard to  not care  but if they show the merest hint of weakness I won’t be able to help myself but go for the kill with an over ambitious forward smash. Usually in their face.

Which is clearly a bit of a flaw in this cunning plan for a boyfriend. So maybe I ought to focus on something a bit less… competitive. Maybe something which reigns in the killer instinct and doesn’t channel my inner Wonder Woman. Instead, I think I’m going to focus on my inner Nigella and talk about my culinary attempts in the kitchen. Everyone likes taking about food right? There are plenty of jokes about chunky nuts, icing your buns and soggy bottoms. What could possibly go wrong with this tactic?

I’ll let you know…

Show offs v limelight dodgers

04 Nov 2017

So…. Remind me not to go on a date after a seriously stressful few days of trying to remortgage/ update my lease/ manage air bnb bookings/ book a group trip away for my birthday. I was wired. My chaotic lifestyle was entirely opposed to my date’s ‘how do I get through life with the least amount of effort possible. Which is commendable. It’s just not my way. I went to the date turbo charged with the adrenaline needed to survive an ambush and talked like I’d done enough red bull to kill a horse.

I knew then it wasn’t going to work. He was as laid back as a stoned sloth and I need someone who likes a challenge. I also didn’t fancy him.

(I didn’t think he fancied me either but he went to kiss me on the mouth at the end of the night but l’d already turned my cheek! Super awkward!)!

It occurred to me that I have no clue what kind of guy me and other turbo charged woman should go for. Ambition, confidence and energy draw us in but would they make a good boyfriend? Would someone laid back and less willing to hog the limelight be better and be a good foil? And would they want to be with someone like us or would they just prefer other laid back women?

Lots of friends have extolled the virtues of the limelight dodger or quieter man. Limelight dodger, (or Beta man) is apparently very trustworthy and more in touch with his emotions. He’s also a giver. He puts the needs of others first in life.

I can’t help but be drawn to big show offs. But it might be time I ditch Alpha men and give their more measured side-kicks a go.

I’ll let you know how I get on..

Lost in Translation

29 Oct 2017

In the absence of any recent dates i’ll tell you about one from a few weeks ago. Never fear I have a date lined up this week, so you’ll hear about it soon enough.

So the last date was with a promising sounding fellow but it didn’t begin well. For a start the pub he’d chosen had closed down. I loitered outside for 5 minutes before getting a text from him saying he was going to be another 15 mins late. Given the pub wasn’t in the most salubrious of surroundings (under a bridge and next to a grotty tattoo parlour) and the fact I was wearing killer heels, I went and found a nearby bar to avoid being mistaken for a prostitute. I was not impressed.

Frankly things didn’t get any better when he showed up.

I suppose it’s inevitable that I would come across someone I’ve already spoken to online and dismissed before getting to the date stage. This guy appeared to have a photographic memory and remember every detail of our previous conversation. Which wouldn’t necessarily have been a problem, if it’s wasn’t for my monumentally shit memory.

He asked me if I remembered him. Do I fess up and say no? Surely this either suggests that he’s so dull and uninteresting to be unmemorable. Or that I’m a massive hussy who speaks to so many guys I’m unable to differentiate between them all.

I fudged it. ‘You sure?’ He explained he never forgot a face and there are some rather distinctive things in my online profile. Shit. Busted….

The date went downhill from there. As a musician he had this annoying habit of singing along to the bar’s playlist out loud. The problem was the music had been turned up really loud so I could barely hear what he was saying. When I leaned in I was never sure whether he was answering my question or crooning along to the music (you want to do what to me tonight?!).

As if that wasn’t confusing enough he then claimed to have an utterly knockout story, that could kick the arse of any of my stories (well that’s what I think he said. It was something about stories and arses).

He proceeded to talk at me for about 20 minutes, gesticulating for emphasis. The loud music really didn’t help and I admit most of the time I sat there thinking ‘did he really just say ‘Hasselhoff’ and ‘erection’ in the same sentence?’

He finished and peered at me, no doubt expecting a standing ovation. ‘Excellent story’. ‘Well done’ I said. Not knowing whether to appear amused or horrified. I stared at him and realised he had particularly hairy nostrils.

He looked disappointed, muttered something about me being hard work and disappeared towards the bar.

I cut my losses. On his return I said I had to go and I made a quick escape after finishing my drink. I’m sure there’s someone out there for him but i’m saving the killer heels for someone else. (This week’s date!) stay tuned to hear how it went…

Eyebrow wars

14 Oct 2017

It seemed like a match made in heaven.

After matching on bumble and exchanging texts, he asked to talk on the phone. I explained that he hadn’t yet quite passed my usual basic assessment in order to get a date (no sex pests, weirdos, men who can’t spell or who use too many emojis). He understood the rules. He pointed out his spelling was amazing. I naturally assumed that he was going to make a joke about being a sex pest when he phoned. Lo and behold his voice was the most comically sexy voice you ever heard. As low as Barry White on twenty a day. I told him his sex pest voice was hilarious. He said he’s Glaswegian and that’s his actual voice. I died a little inside.

Thankfully he thought this was brilliantly funny and we ended up chatting for an hour about all kind of shit. Turns out he’s an ex-Mexican wrestler! (extra brownie points from me). We agreed to meet. When he showed up I was totally intrigued by his appearance. Like a cross between Brian Blessed and a young Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, he had the kind of expressive, beardy face that looks like it could be made up of a number of small furry animals, each trying to escape. He was also a veritable man mountain at six foot five.

It was soon clear he was a massive show off. Within five minutes he was showing me the perfect slut drop (it’s all in the wrists) and talking about how he was going to take me down at ping pong. We drank pints and then tequila, discussed Mexican wrestling moves and I showed him my infamous wrist lock learned from my days as a jujitsu instructor. We finished with an eyebrow war over the table – he won. (It’s like thumb war but about who has the best eyebrow moves). It was going very well.

He grabbed my arse at the end of the night when we kissed goodbye but I didn’t mind. He’d won me over with his eyebrows.

So it’s with a real sense of sadness that I tell you it didn’t work out. On our third date it was like all the energy and chemistry of the first date had just melted away. He showed up in yoga pants from that morning’s class. He fell asleep in the film. He stopped asking questions. We agreed to stay in touch.

Its times like these I pick myself up, dust myself off and carry on. Because there’s no point dwelling on what might have been. And there are plenty more frogs out there willing to be shown a wrist lock.