#6 - discovering how unsatisfactory being shallow can be...

I've been getting a lot of abuse recently from friends who are unsatisfied with the amount I have written on my blog in recent weeks. I was delighted to discover that they don't think I am writing enough, instead of wishing I would stop clogging their news feed with tales of my lack-lustre love life! A lot of my friends are in long term relationships, or married, or avec enfants, and have admitted enjoying living vicariously through my increasingly tragic attempts to form a lasting connection with another human being (other than my mother).

I've been a little preoccupied in recent weeks (see #8 - a French romance...) but have finally gotten around to recounting yet more wisdom acquired via the medium of online dating. So far I have taken great lengths to select only the most amusing and hilarious stories for this blog, to ensure I gain a small but dedicated following and maintain my current 8 hits per day. However, these stories alone are not a true reflection of my overall experience of online dating, and in sharing these stores I am doing some people a great disservice. I refer of course to all the men I have been on dates with who, for whatever reason, did not make a good/terrible first impression (as both work well as a springboard for comedy blogging).

My ideal man...

In the months leading up to my current period of inactivity I went on a lot of fairly nice, fairly ordinary dates, none of which made a particularly good impression on me. At the time I was frustrated by the complete lack of interesting people to pursue, or horrendous people to write about - why did they all have to be so....nice?! I've spent many years writing for shows, or for blogs, or simply for my own amusement, and have rarely (ok, never) felt even the slightest urge to tell anyone about the perfectly ordinary nice men I met for coffee/dinner/roller skating once but didn't feel a 'spark'* with. The uncomfortable truth of the matter is, deep down, I am quite shallow. My friends have long despaired of my taste in male companions, failing completely to understand why I am so driven by physical attraction. My best friend refers to some of my particularly spectacular conquests as California boys. I initially objected until she reminded me of the man whose abs are imprinted on my memory, but whose name I can't remember, and so refer to as Hercules...she may have a point...

*bugger the spark! see #3 - Buying my own drinks...

I am now approaching my 6 month online dating anniversary (we're very happy together, I'm so lucky I found the internet etc...) and thought it was about time I reflected on some of the men who, for want of a better (nicer) phrase, didn't make the cut. Because if I'm completely honest with myself, I could have been a bit friendlier to some of the guys who sent me messages, not to mention the men who took me out on nice first dates, only for me to forget to ever call them back. I make an effort from time to time to reply to people even if I have no interest in them romantically, especially if they have sent a particularly nice or thoughtful opening message. This is in theory a good thing, as it allows you to exchange pleasantries and form an idea of someones personality if their opening message though perfectly nice, didn't exactly ignite the lustbox. 

Unfortunately, the practical implementation of courtesy messaging often falls flat on it's arse. One of the first messages I sent after joining OkCupid was to a man whose profile made me laugh out loud so much that I had to message him and tell him so. We exchanged messages for a few days before he suggested we meet, which I was happy to do, as he turned out to be every bit as witty, charming and nice as his profile suggested. I had looked through his picture album and knew that I wasn't particularly attracted to him, but was confident that his personality was sufficiently fantastic that once we met it wouldn't matter very much at all. Unfortunately our schedules clashed for a couple of weeks, and so we continued to exchange messages for nearly a month before finally settling on a date to meet up for the first time. In was very excited before the date - of all the men I had been on dates with up until that point he was by far the most interesting and fun person to message, and I hoped that when we met we would get on as well as we did in our messages.

As with the best laid plans, things did not run entirely to plan. We spent a very nice evening drinking and chatting in a pub whilst listening to live music, followed by a wander to my favourite ice cream shop for balsamic vinegar gelato, He made me laugh a lot, and he appeared to be having a very nice time with me. I had a very nice time with him, which was all the more difficult considering I knew the second I laid eyes on him that I was not remotely attracted to him, and would not be engaging in any romantic activity with him. Ever. I felt horrendous - was I really that shallow? I've been on dates before where I haven't been that enamoured with a person, either because of their appearance or their personality, but the added pressure of liking this man's messages so much before meeting made the night all the more difficult. I really wanted to fancy him. I even had a couple of drinks to calm my nerves a little (and look at him from a slightly less judgemental angle) but it simply wasn't to be. I could not find him attractive, an as a result could not consider another date with him.

The repercussions of this date were far reaching. Firstly I realised that I didn't know how to tell him I wasn't interested. I spent nearly two weeks replying to a couple of his messages before finally ignoring the last thing he said to me. He obviously took the hint, and was kind enough not to send me a shitty message, which I expected and thoroughly deserved. How dare I treat someone like that? It was downright rude (my Father would have been ashamed!) and I should not have gotten off so lightly.

How did I get off so lightly, I hear you ask? Because this is the nature of online dating. Five years ago I had a pay-as-you-go mobile phone with less that 30 contacts. I met people by belonging to clubs and societies at university (or by getting very drunk at a bar and waking up with a random phone number scrawled on my arm in eyeliner...). This was the beginning and end of my social networking, and I had to make an effort to stay in tough with my 30 (and some of them didn't like me very much)  friends, in case they found someone more reliable, interesting or fun. Today I have two different facebook accounts, twitter, linkedin, a smartphone, various email accounts and a plethora of 'friends' across a plethora of different social mediums, all of which serve to make me feel like I am not alone. Because there is always someone available to chat, or 'like' my thoughts, or share my stories/pictures/blog (thanks guys), I have been lulled into thinking that I can ignore a person's message to me, because there are literally hundreds of other people out there to fall back on if they decided that my behaviour indicates that I am, to put it bluntly, an asshole.

Clearly something has gone wrong here. I would never ignore someone asking me a question to my face , so why on earth do I think it's acceptable to do so over the internet? I decided to put a stop to it right away. If someone thinks I'm worth sending a message to, then dash it all, I'm going to send one back. It's a question of good manners, after all...

#5 - Being a considerate....

Recently I was having lunch with two friends - a couple - who live in my home town, and are fans of my blog and associated antics. After the customary catch up chat about life, jobs, pets etc, we moved onto our favourite subject - men. Luckily A, the man shaped half of the partnership, is a fantastic gossip when required, and they wasted no time in sharing a story of their recent woes in their new house share. After separately inviting friends to stay for a few days the couple in question were surprised to find the friends getting...friendly in the spare room. Often. Loudly. For extended periods of time.

"And it's not like a I'm a prude Fanny" said G, the female of the couple, "but the thing is, when we have sex, we make sure other people don't have to listen to us doing it. Because we're considerate fuckers."

I choked on my chocolate cake. Considerate Fucking? What a wonderful concept! Since my teenage years I have been acutely aware of the problems associated with other people knowing your business, sex wise. At the age of 14 my older brother caught me kissing a boy who was slowly but determinedly trying to unhook my bra. I don't know what my brother said to him but I never saw him again. From that day forward I learnt to keep certain bits of information, and ALL men I was remotely interested in, away from him, lest he scare them away!

It's not just interfering siblings/parents/cinema ushers* you have to watch out for either - the general rule of thumb for any kind of sexy time is for as few people as possible to be aware that you are in fact doing it. I learnt many valuable** things at University, but one of the first really useful lessons was in the art of having sex really really quietly, because the walls in your hall of residence building might as well be made of cereal boxes, for all the sound proofing they achieve. I'm not sure I ever really got the hang of quiet sex, but after a few months my boyfriend and I had put together a fairly basic but nonetheless effective sex timetable, to limit the amount of time we spent having sex near other people. This involved finding some truly impressive sites to conduct carnal pursuits, including the back seats of his car, the front seats of his car, the breakfast bar in his kitchen (during the holidays - we weren't quite that brave) his Student Union office (a particularly proud moment for both of us) and finally, our own flat, that we did not share with other people.

*I don't see what all the fuss was about - it's not like we were missing a good movie...
**For instance, I know that Exmouth Town Centre has the highest people:pub ratio in the UK.

Clearly, the best place to have sex is somewhere where no one else is likely to hear you, walk in on you, shamelessly watch you through an open window (otherwise known as my neighbour - I've nicknamed him Merv the Perv) or otherwise prevent you from being a truly considerate fucker. There are exceptions to every rule though, and sometimes you just have to make do with what's available. Recently I was out with some friends after a gig when I got chatting to a couple of chaps who were asking me about my act (they, like so many before, were wondering where I hid the riding crop). After a while my friends came over to let me know they were heading home, and was I coming with them? Under normal circumstances I would have left with them, but as one of my girlfriends wanted to stay too I decided to stay out a bit longer and have a dance with the man who had been chatting me up for the past hour while his friend butted in every few minutes to let me know that, despite his protestations to the contrary, said friend was definitely gay. I ignored this lack of developed sense of humour and had a nice dance (and a nice kiss) with the possibly gay man. When we finally got kicked out at closing time the boys suggested we go for drinks somewhere else, as they had missed their last train anyway so would be getting a taxi home regardless. We agreed, and went in search of a humble tavern to have a nightcap before retiring home. I should mention that I had three friends staying in my room that night - this will become important later. 

Our search did not go well - every bar we found was either closed or about to close. We didn't let this get us down though, and instead enjoyed chatting to a lovely homeless man, took a ride in a rickshaw* and finally wound up standing outside a Travelodge, debating the pros and cons of paying for a room, rather than an expensive taxi home. They tried to invite themselves back to my flat, where I had just enough sense and sobriety left to point out that they would be sharing my bed with at least three other people (and I firmly believe that sex is not a spectator sport). So after some sound and logical thinking, and an in-depth discussion of options ("Shall we then? "Yeah, why not?") the boys got their wallet out and paid for a room, before inviting me and my friend in with them to share a bottle of wine. We agreed ("how civilised!", we said) and settled into the charming 'standard double' room with the boys, and started on our wine (in handy plastic glasses - Travelodge know how to throw a good party).

*I can state with absolute certainty that no one should ever attempt to have sex on a rickshaw.

By this point, my friend and her chosen gentleman had made it clear that they were planning on putting the bed to good use. This was not an ideal situation (mostly because I was kicking myself for not shotgunning the bed). I have been in this position once before, and my refusal to pull a Gavin and Stacey resulted in me never getting to shag a man with a bona fide superhero name. 

Never Again. 

We looked at each other, nodded, and proceeded to the bathroom...

I didn't hear from him again. I think this is for the best. No matter how attractive interesting or lovely he was, he would always be the man I shagged in a Travelodge bathroom. However, I did take with me the knowledge that, for one night at least, I was a considerate fucker!