#8 - Expecting the expected...

And so it begins...

After yet another disastrous date with an unsuitable man (see #7 - Making and exception that leads to a date with a sex pest...) I was beginning to wonder if online dating was going to work out for me. I had persevered through bad dates, boring dates, dates that didn't happen, dates that my date didn't turn up for and dates that, though perfectly acceptable ways to spend an evening, did nothing to my lustbox to indicate that I would want to spend another four hours of coffee and cake with them. I was running out of enthusiasm for the whole dating shebang, and so decided that, after completion of my already arranged dates for the month, I would take a well deserved rest from the London dating scene (and start cruising animal shelters for particularly large, evil looking cats).

I had two dates arranged for the following week: one with a man who was taking me salsa dancing, and one with a man who was taking me to Trafalgar Square to play twister. Both dates had made first contact with me on okcupid, and were almost polar opposites in terms of personality, looks and background. Both date nights were suitably interesting and different to maintain my interest, and I was looking forward to the chance to finally play twister on a London landmark (after being cruelly disappointed when the man who offered to play twister on the underground with me never called). I was also impressed by the offer of a salsa dance lesson, as after two years of swing dancing classes I had failed to meet even one single eligible man who was taller than me. Overall the week looked fairly promising, even if the men themselves turned out to be as disappointing as previous fare (see #6 - discovering how unsatisfactory being shallow can be....)

Salsa dancer was a french engineering student on the verge of completing his Masters at London Imperial, with a penchant for asian food, cheese, chocolate and dancing. His profile also told me that he spoke French and English fluently, and was learning Mandarin with considerable enthusiasm. I could tell from first glance that he wasn't really my type, in both looks and personality. Although very attractive in all his pictures, and certainly more than a match for me intellectually (I suspected he was in fact much more intelligent than me, a slight problem for someone who plays scrabble as an extreme sport) I couldn't work out why he had contacted me? It was obvious to me that we were not very well suited, but I figured we should at least try a date before I wrote him off as yet another failure to communicate.

Twister man on the other hand was a winner from the word go - he had a creative background, and a lovely smiling bearded face. He was a little taller than me, and his profile was full to the brim with acerbic wit and snappy one liners that sold him to me from first contact. When we exchanged messages there was sparkle with every reply, and I was thoroughly excited about going on a date with him, to the point where I was considering cancelling with my date with the french man, as it was starting to look like a fruitless activity.

My manners got the better of me in the end, and I turned up to meet l'homme francais the following week outside Bar Salsa, which is less than a minutes walk from my flat (thus ensuring I wouldn't have far to walk if I wanted to bail on the date). When he turned up I was initially a little surprised at how quiet he was - from his clothing to his conversation he was very reserved, and in the 20 minutes we spent chatting before our dance class I got the impression he found me very unimpressive, boring even. When we took to the dance floor to begin I was grateful to get the chance to dance with other people for a while, as they all seemed slightly more pleased to talk to me than my date!

After being passed around the dance floor in the circle I finally made it back to my date, who seemed a lot friendlier than 20 minutes previously (possibly because he had spent 20 minutes dancing with all the other women in the room?) This rather unfair thought aside, he also seemed a lot more relaxed, and by the time we finished the dance class and were dancing by ourselves I was starting to enjoy the date. I discovered that although his English was very good, we didn't quite understand each other all the time, especially when trying to talk over the salsa music blaring out all around us. I began to appreciate how difficult it must be for him to talk to someone if he has to concentrate hard just to work out what they're saying, but I had a solution... 

We ordered a couple of cocktails (the caiprinha is one of my favourites, as it is almost impossible to fuck up...and when in Brazil...) and settled on a table to continue to attempt to get to know each other. Then it hit me, like a ton of cachaca flavoured bricks. The man in front of me was, in fact, really rather sexy. A very good dancer and extremely confident after a drink, he took me for a spontaneous spin by the bar, nearly sending me flying as I attempted to keep up with him (something I would struggle to do even with sober feet). By this point I was breaking the rule I had set myself about not getting drunk on dates, lest I lose my powers of reasoned judgement, but I was having a really good time! It was a very good date so far (one I suspect he had used on previous occasions to ensure success) and despite my initial presumptions that we would have nothing in common, and that I would not find him attractive, I found him utterly charming, from his accent, to his dancing, to his excellent kissing technique (ok, so it was an extremely good date!) When he asked if he could see my roof terrace, I found myself agreeing instinctively as I chatted about how I found the flat, and the girls I lived with, and how we were just going to see the roof terrace - nothing more - ok buddy?

When I woke up the next morning, I was initially a little concerned that upon our return to sobriety he would resume his reluctance to answer questions with full sentences. Thankfully, this was not the case. I have often argued that sex is an excellent ice breaker for the more shy and/or anxious among us (I do not include myself in this description...I'm more of an ice-breaking facilitator...) and this certainly seemed to be true of my french man. We went for a late breakfast at the coffee shop next to my flat, where I demonstrated my knowledge of the overpriced coffee machine making our drink (it's beautiful, but I have it on good authority that they are a bugger to repair) and he made himself look even more gorgeous by ordering a hot chocolate and a muffin for breakfast, while I drank my black coffee and stealthily ate the banana I had secreted in my handbag.

As he walked me to work he seemed a little uncomfortable - we were arranging to meet up later that week (YES!! Second date!! I knew sex would work eventually!) when he stopped and told me in a most matter-of-fact way that he was leaving the country in two months, and couldn't get into anything serious. I blanked for a moment, as I had not considered him to be long term dating material up until that point anyway. I told him I too was not interested in anything serious at that point, and we should just see how it goes...no pressure. He brightened up considerably, and as we said goodbye I felt for the first time in a very long time, that I met someone worth knowing.

I cancelled the second date.

#7 - Making an exception that leads to a date with a sex pest...

It may come as a surprise to some of you to discover that, despite a deep rooted appreciation of really really ridiculously good looking men, I have a fairly straightforward selection criteria for potential dates. I've shared the criteria many times with anybody bored enough to ask me about it, as I feel it's important to show that despite being terribly shallow, I'm also fairly realistic (and increasingly concerned about the prospect of getting a cat to keep me company).

An artist's impression of my love life

Up until a few weeks months ago my deal breakers for dating were the following:

1. Taller than me

2. Own teeth1

I've always felt that my criteria is both practical and inoffensive to the majority of men (and should the situation ever become really dire, women too). Moreover, it gives me a lot of raw material to work with. After several years of experimentation, including the discovery that I definitely need to run out of men with teeth before I go gay, I settled on these two specific but broad criterion in order to give myself a fighting chance of being in another serious relationship before gravity finally takes over the more entertaining parts of my body. To say I have been unlucky in love is somewhat of an understatement², and so as I've grown older I've tried to keep an open mind about who my potential future partner could be. This does of course occasionally mean I spend too long eyeing up men on the tube wondering whether their charming woolly hat is hiding male pattern baldness, but that's my particular brand of crazy. At least I don't have a cat. Yet.

1 I don't bother specifying where they keep their teeth; as long as they know where they are I'm happy
2 see #9 - Flogging a dead cheval...

I get sent a lot of random messages on okcupid, some of which make me laugh out loud and reply immediately (these messages make up for the ones that make me feel sad to be part of the human race). I always look forward to receiving messages, as it's a nice confirmation that the profile I took great pains to make as enticing as possible is working. However, my favourite messages to receive are those asking me if I would like to go on a date. Because after my disastrous encounters with people I only liked until I saw them close up, I tried to get the awkward first meeting over before I had time to discover their interesting or otherwise personality and subsequently feel shallow for not wanting to shag them, despite their excellent culinary skills, or knowledge of Australasian bugs3. A lot of the guys I have exchanged messages with have been of the all talk-no trousers variety4, but occasionally a genuine offer comes up.

3 I dated an Entomologist once
4 I'm still waiting for Possibly Dave5 to take me to play twister in Trafalgar Square
5 So maybe I'm not exactly committed to the twister either...

I received a message asking me, very bluntly, whether or not I would like to go for a date with him, citing his knowledge of good pubs and anecdotes as reason to accept. I had nothing else going on that week so I said yes, and we arranged our date for the following week. I wasn't too excited about the prospect, as after checking out his profile I discovered that he was in fact a little bit shorter than me (strike one) and we didn't have a huge amount in common. Imagine then my pleasant surprise when, upon meeting him face to face I discovered he was actually quite attractive, with a very good sense of humour (including the promised anecdotes of some dates almost bad enough to make it onto this blog) and a chilled out attitude towards online dating6 that further supported the burgeoning thought in my head that maybe it was worth ignoring the fact that his hands are smaller than mine (as I suspect are his feet) and consider making an exception to my height rule, just this once. After all, he definitely had most of his teeth. And in his mouth too.

6 see # 4 - Trusting the profile picture...

We parted on a coy cheek kiss, with tentative plans to maybe arrange to see each other again. I was fairly pleased with the date overall, and very proud of myself for not being a shallow minx who rejects men out of hand for being vertically challenged. I sent him a text message the following day thanking him for a great date, and suggesting we meet up again. I then waited patiently for a reply for the next two days, whilst maintaining a calm and controlled attitude and telling myself that I didn't care either way if he replied or not. After all, he did have very small hands.

After two days of silence I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I has unrealistic expectations of the date - it wouldn't be the first time I had misinterpreted polite conversation for genuine interest in the contents of my underwear. I was visiting friends in Brighton for the weekend, and hadn't given the matter too much thought when on the Sunday, three days after our date, I finally received a reply. Up until this point I had envisaged two possible scenarios arising from a reply message:

a) he asks me out on another date, where he explains a hilarious comedy of errors that led him to ignore my message for two days, such as falling off his bike into an open manhole
b) he politely rejects my advances, citing my abnormally large hands and feet, and an aversion to women taller than him

Neither of these happened.

I was browsing a small jewellery shop at the time when my phone went off. I retrieved it from my bag as I examined a rather lovely necklace with an rather offensive price tag. I opened the message, and froze. The message outlined, in a very straight-forward, impossible to misinterpret way, that the man in question had no particular desire to go on a date with me, but would very much like to have angry, meaningless sex with me, then show his appreciation upon my bosom. 

I did not speak for nearly five minutes. I have always considered myself to be a very outgoing, open minded gal, with an adventurous attitude towards dating, sex and other extreme pursuits. Unfortunately for the gentleman in question, these qualities somehow eluded me that day. I attempted to compose a reply several times, but felt that somehow a polite 'no thank you' would not suffice. Moreover, I was very annoyed that he deemed it acceptable to send me such a crass, unimaginative message. In the quest for answers (and to give the poor man a fair trial) I showed the message to several friends, male and female. Most of the women were as baffled as I was, which rather nicely balanced out all the men who read it, chuckled and said 'lad', as if this was reason enough. One friend said he thought it was probably a genuine offer of free sex, made in the hope that I would find him charming in a vulgar sort of way. 

In case anyone is still wondering, I did not find him charming in a vulgar sort of way. I thought he was a prick. Which is why I re-saved his telephone number as 'Sex Pest' and made a concerted effort to believe that his height and freakishly small hands are not directly related to his sex pest behaviour. Because I know deep down that, despite my very short list of criteria, and my attempts to be less shallow, I keep looking for the same type of man to date, and therefore keep dating men who are not actually that nice. My friends have long despaired of my terrible man choices, and after the most recent cock-up I had to face the facts - I need some new criteria. Maybe I would benefit from being a little more choosy, or from simply thinking outside the lustbox a bit more?

I decided it was time for a change, and arranged a date with someone completely different from my usual fare. He seemed fairly normal and non-descript on his okcupid profile, and is a little younger and more French than I normally go for, but I was intrigued by his bold assertion that his favourite foods were chocolate and cheese...7

7 I've dated a few lactose intolerants too...well, it's a start...

Watch this space...