Readers I am wounded in action. I am writing to you in the throes of yet another post-date hangover and with yet another serious case of rejection. I have therefore decided it’s time for a tactical temporary retirement – otherwise known as the MAN BAN. My Soulmates subscription expires on 25th April and after that the Man Ban will be in force until the 1st June. Hopefully this will give me time to heave my self esteem back off the floor, make peace with my liver and patch the hole in my wallet.
In the meantime I might as well go nuts which means I will be sending the totally inappropriate text I have drafted to last night’s date even though I’m 99.9% sure he’s not interested. After all I have literally no pride left to lose.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Monday 4 April 2011
Full Frontal Frottage
Today's post comes courtesy of an anonymous guest blogger. Enjoy!
Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.
Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.
Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.
The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).
Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”
Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?
*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina
Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.
Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.
Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.
The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).
Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”
Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?
*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina
Friday 1 April 2011
mmmm, chalky
I was feeling left out of today's posting frenzy so thought I'd share a little story told to me by a friend last night.
Said friend is in foreign country, alone, and has managed to hook up with a gang of impossibly cool and good looking guys, one of whom she has bagged the night before. She is heading out to meet said crowd in a little restaurant and as she exits her hotel she spies them walking up ahead. It's too far to run (this is a hot country) but she speeds up a little bit to try and catch up with them. Gaining on them rapidly, she realises she ought to freshen up a bit and starts to attempt make-up application - this goes reasonably well. The next task is to freshen breath - but reaching into her handbag she realises she is out of chewing gum. However, further rummaging produces gum shaped results, and, only metres away from the impossibly gorgeous man whose face she has been kissing only hours previously, she pops her findings in her mouth and chews vigourously.
Only to realise that although one of the items she has put in her mouth is definitely chewing gum (albeit a little fluffy), the other would more accurately be described as ibuprofen.
The two substances combine to form a gluey sticky chalky horrifying mess in her mouth, but for some reason this does not prompt her to slow down and deal with the problem elegantly. No, she keeps pace. She is gaining on them fast, all the while spitting and gagging and dribbling a viscose white goo from her mouth . . . You'll be pleased to know she managed to wipe the spaff-like substance from her face before the gorgeous boy turned round, but it was a bloody close thing.
The lesson? Clean out your handbag ladies, or, at the very least, don't put anything in your mouth unless you've had a good look at it first.
Said friend is in foreign country, alone, and has managed to hook up with a gang of impossibly cool and good looking guys, one of whom she has bagged the night before. She is heading out to meet said crowd in a little restaurant and as she exits her hotel she spies them walking up ahead. It's too far to run (this is a hot country) but she speeds up a little bit to try and catch up with them. Gaining on them rapidly, she realises she ought to freshen up a bit and starts to attempt make-up application - this goes reasonably well. The next task is to freshen breath - but reaching into her handbag she realises she is out of chewing gum. However, further rummaging produces gum shaped results, and, only metres away from the impossibly gorgeous man whose face she has been kissing only hours previously, she pops her findings in her mouth and chews vigourously.
Only to realise that although one of the items she has put in her mouth is definitely chewing gum (albeit a little fluffy), the other would more accurately be described as ibuprofen.
The two substances combine to form a gluey sticky chalky horrifying mess in her mouth, but for some reason this does not prompt her to slow down and deal with the problem elegantly. No, she keeps pace. She is gaining on them fast, all the while spitting and gagging and dribbling a viscose white goo from her mouth . . . You'll be pleased to know she managed to wipe the spaff-like substance from her face before the gorgeous boy turned round, but it was a bloody close thing.
The lesson? Clean out your handbag ladies, or, at the very least, don't put anything in your mouth unless you've had a good look at it first.
GINGER CHEST HAIR
The world’s gone topsy turvy all of a sudden. This week I have moved into a shed, faced my ultimate fear and seen my former stalker rise up into the Soulmates ‘popular’ charts. What on earth is going on?
The shed has absolutely nothing to do with dating (and given it’s at the bottom of someone’s garden and has no curtains I really think it should stay that way) but I just thought I’d mention it. The former stalker I can only put down to a major glitch in the Soulmates website revamp, and the facing of the ultimate fear came about as a result of this . . .
Last Saturday. 2nd date with a man I’d met the weekend before with a stomping hangover and only 3 hours sleep. My judgement was a little impaired. I was due to meet him at a pub but instead he was waiting for me at the bus stop. And he was wearing jeans and a blazer with a white scoop neck t-shirt underneath exposing a vast swathe of ginger chest hair. Lunch (thai curry) arrived and he picked up his napkin and tucked it in to the top of said t-shirt. My face must have been a picture because he rapidly untucked it and put it on his lap. So far, so definitely don’t fancy him but he knew I'd come all the way from the other side of London and had to go to a party nearby at 8pm (we met at 2) so I couldn't see how to escape. So, in an attempt to deflect attention from myself somehow I ended up inviting a long-suffering friend to join us. Obviously this was his cue to quietly slip away but then my friend’s boyfriend rocked up to join the party and suggested we all go out for dinner. The next thing you know he’d cancelled his evening plans and we were off on some kind of crazy double date!
Now, bear in mind that this marathon date lasted for 8 whole hours. 8 hours made bearable by lakes of highly alcoholic Weston’s cider. There was, therefore, and I’m ashamed to say it but none of you will be surprised to hear, an inevitable amount of passion kissing. So, in summary, 8 hours, met my friends, lots of snogging. I had totally given him the wrong impression.
He texted me the next day. I brushed it off.
He texted again.
And again the following day saying, and I quote: "What's your surname; I want to facebook stalk you?"
And so unless I was to let my cowardice dictate my choice of future husband my fear of fears had to be faced. It was my mission, and I had to accept it, to write down in cold, hard words: I do not fancy you.
The result? He took it exceptionally well. Why have I been being such a baby about this? So that’s it – my days as a procrastinator par excellence are behind me, and anyway I spent hours crafting that text so it would be a shame not to use it again.
The shed has absolutely nothing to do with dating (and given it’s at the bottom of someone’s garden and has no curtains I really think it should stay that way) but I just thought I’d mention it. The former stalker I can only put down to a major glitch in the Soulmates website revamp, and the facing of the ultimate fear came about as a result of this . . .
Last Saturday. 2nd date with a man I’d met the weekend before with a stomping hangover and only 3 hours sleep. My judgement was a little impaired. I was due to meet him at a pub but instead he was waiting for me at the bus stop. And he was wearing jeans and a blazer with a white scoop neck t-shirt underneath exposing a vast swathe of ginger chest hair. Lunch (thai curry) arrived and he picked up his napkin and tucked it in to the top of said t-shirt. My face must have been a picture because he rapidly untucked it and put it on his lap. So far, so definitely don’t fancy him but he knew I'd come all the way from the other side of London and had to go to a party nearby at 8pm (we met at 2) so I couldn't see how to escape. So, in an attempt to deflect attention from myself somehow I ended up inviting a long-suffering friend to join us. Obviously this was his cue to quietly slip away but then my friend’s boyfriend rocked up to join the party and suggested we all go out for dinner. The next thing you know he’d cancelled his evening plans and we were off on some kind of crazy double date!
Now, bear in mind that this marathon date lasted for 8 whole hours. 8 hours made bearable by lakes of highly alcoholic Weston’s cider. There was, therefore, and I’m ashamed to say it but none of you will be surprised to hear, an inevitable amount of passion kissing. So, in summary, 8 hours, met my friends, lots of snogging. I had totally given him the wrong impression.
He texted me the next day. I brushed it off.
He texted again.
And again the following day saying, and I quote: "What's your surname; I want to facebook stalk you?"
And so unless I was to let my cowardice dictate my choice of future husband my fear of fears had to be faced. It was my mission, and I had to accept it, to write down in cold, hard words: I do not fancy you.
The result? He took it exceptionally well. Why have I been being such a baby about this? So that’s it – my days as a procrastinator par excellence are behind me, and anyway I spent hours crafting that text so it would be a shame not to use it again.
box-ticking...
Hello and greetings to you all. I am a friend of hackneygirl's and thanks to unmitigated peer pressure from her and others, I have just this minute taken the leap into the world of INTERNET DATING after a year of the single life. I am rather terrified and embarrassed by the whole thing (my mother's first reaction to the news was 'Are you LOOKING for a pervert?') and the experience of ticking phrases to describe my personality was nothing short of traumatic. We agreed it was OK to admit to 'home-lover' as long as I was also a 'pub-lover' - to stress that I wasn't a fat agoraphobic nobody. It is true that I occasionally venture down the road to neck a bottle of red before trolling back home (to the home I love) via the chipshop. It was OK to put 'successful' (though that didn't make the final ten - for if we're talking salary, I *do* work in publishing) but we quibbled over 'intelligent'. After all, you don't want to scare a man off before he's even met you. Men are THREATENED by intelligence. I insisted on it in the end though, partly because I'm not sure how true that is and partly because I don't want to be with a man who is embarrassed/ bored/ scared by the fact that I like books and that. 'Fun-lover' was dismissed with a universal chorus of 'lame - who DOESN'T love fun'? And as for 'build' - we plumped for 'curvaceous' in the end. That gives me room for error if I stack on a few pounds through sheer stress. As for the photo selection process - don't get me started... Anyway, the profile is up there... and I'll be checking in here with the occasional update. That's assuming any dates are forthcoming. I did also specify 'doesn't suffer fools' so perhaps that's weeded out a large number. (Cynical about men? Moi?) Please hold my hand and offer me guidance along the way. Apparently I need to steer clear of some chap named Brian! Love, The Curvaceous Home-Lover Who Doesn't Suffer Fools
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